The Last Sister (Columbia River)(49)

“That makes no sense at all.”

“I agree. I don’t think people put much stock in that one. A lot still think you’re hiding money, though.”

“That’s ridiculous. The mansion is crippling us with its upkeep, and the restaurant does okay, but it’s not making us rich. It’s how we get by.”

Anita shrugged. “That’s what I tell people. But you know how rumors are.”

“Dad was a gold digger. What else was said about him?” Madison’s muscles tensed as she braced for the answer. I know he loved my mother; I saw it many times.

The shop owner sighed and looked out the window. “He was a good ol’ boy. Thought he was funny and had no qualms about telling ugly jokes. He was a racist.”

The room went very still, the phrase from the watch ringing in Madison’s brain, and the female driver’s scared face flashed again. “Because of how he was raised.”

It wasn’t a question, but Anita nodded.

“He didn’t teach us to be like that.”

“I doubt your mother would have put up with it.”

“But he had similar-thinking friends?” She recalled Dory’s words about awful people—but she’d said they were gone now.

“People always seek out others like themselves.”

Madison wasn’t satisfied with that answer. “He hung around with other racists is what you’re saying.”

Anita gave a half smile with no warmth. “Bingo.”

The word sliced Madison’s heart wide open. She blinked rapidly.

Regret colored Anita’s expression, and she leaned forward to set a hand on Madison’s knee. “He loved you, and you have every right to love him back. There is good in everyone, and he showed you girls everything that was positive about himself. It was the outsiders—and some family—who saw the rest. With most people, what you see is what you get.” She focused hard on Madison’s eyes. “But others present themselves in ways that don’t reflect their true selves. It’s like protection for their tender souls.”

She sees me.

Her defenses leaped into place, her hands tight on her cup, and disappointment shone in Anita’s eyes.

“What did people say after he was murdered?”

Anita looked away, her mouth clamped tight. “No one wanted him murdered. They just wanted him to take his racism and white supremacist views elsewhere.”

“Who killed him?” she whispered.

Anita started. “Why, Chet Carlson, of course.” Her brows came together as she studied Madison. “That’s an odd question.”

“Chet Carlson didn’t even know him.” Madison’s brain spun in a million directions. “He wasn’t from around here. He knew nothing about how the town felt about my father. And he went through all the trouble to hang him?”

“Your father’s bloody jacket was found in his hotel room. He was convicted on the evidence.”

“Of course he was.” Madison closed her eyes, seeing her mother running in the woods and Emily standing in the backyard of their home, staring into the distance as smoke crept into the home.

What did Emily see that night? Why didn’t she tell anyone she’d gone outside?

“Now, Madison,” came the lecturing tone, “you’re letting this new information affect everything you’ve ever known about your father. It doesn’t matter. Nothing about your time with him has changed.”

Who would thirteen-year-old Emily want to protect?

Madison opened her eyes, her gaze heavy with the weight of her new knowledge. “Everything has changed. He was horrible.”

“That doesn’t change that he was your father and he cherished you girls. You are still the same person who walked in my door five minutes ago. So is he.”

Madison wasn’t listening. Emily must have a reason to carry a secret for this long.

She’d probably done it for the same reason Madison had told no one she’d seen Emily outside that night or her mother in the woods.

The reason was to protect them.

Love for my mother and sister kept me quiet all these years.

Who would Emily stay quiet for?





20

Zander slipped on the clear face shield and checked out his partner in her shield. Ava’s eyes crinkled at the corners, indicating she was grinning behind the blue mask over her mouth.

“That’s a good look for you, Zander.”

He looked down at his gown and booties, feeling slightly claustrophobic in the protective gear. Part of him wanted to rip them off and head into the hallway for fresh air.

Fresher air, he corrected himself. As soon as they’d entered the medical examiner’s building, they’d encountered its unique smell. It wasn’t like a hospital smell or a funeral-home smell—both of which he’d experienced too many times.

It was a combination of professional-strength cleanser, refrigerated meat, and an underlying hint of decomposition. His nose had already grown used to it, noting that the odor didn’t bother him as it had at first. He’d learned early in this job that he could handle most odors—death, excrement, rot—if he toughed out the first ten minutes or so. He also knew to shower afterward as soon as possible and immediately dump every scrap of clothing in the laundry. Today he’d left his coat in the car, not wanting it to soak up any odors.