No One But You. Brenda Novak
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Both Lonnie and Larry were dead by the time police arrived to find Dawson cradling his mother in his arms. “Although that might sound like a touching act, there were no tears in his eyes,” Detective John Garbo, whom Sadie had once met at a picnic, said. “His emotion felt fake to me.”
Had Dawson been insincere? Or was it the police who had it wrong? Everyone reacted differently to grief. Maybe he’d been in shock after seeing such a horrifying thing.
Dawson agreed with everything they claimed about the night of the murders up until he left the gas station. At that point, he said he was approached by a tall, wiry man with brown eyes, dark hair and a scraggly beard, who asked for a lift to Santa Barbara. Dawson told him he wasn’t going that far. The guy indicated a friend lived much closer and climbed in, but as Dawson drove, his passenger began to act more and more irrationally and wouldn’t name a place, other than Santa Barbara. Dawson said the hitchhiker kept showing him the map of where he wanted to go on his phone, saying he had to get to a friend’s place, so Dawson told him to call that friend and ask him to come, but the hitchhiker wouldn’t. They were at the edge of town when Dawson finally insisted he get out. The man refused and an argument ensued, followed by a scuffle, during which Dawson managed to pull the guy out of his truck so that he could take off.
Because of the difficulty of dragging a grown man from the passenger seat through the driver’s-side door, the police found that part of Dawson’s story highly suspect, but Dawson looked plenty strong to Sadie. She thought the police actually made a better point when they argued that it was too much of a coincidence that some hitchhiker would be able to find Dawson’s house. Dawson had an answer for that, too, though. He said he had various documents in his truck—a couple of work orders, even a bid for solar on the house—and one must’ve fallen out during the scuffle. His guess was that after he drove off, the hitchhiker simply used the address on that lost work order to find his house.
Sadie supposed that could’ve happened. Dawson drove a work truck, likely kept various things he thought he was going to need on the dash or seat, and loose papers could easily blow out or get dragged out amid a tussle.
Either way, he never changed his story. She felt that was important, even if the police didn’t give him much credit for that. As for the rest of Dawson’s explanation of the night’s events, he said he wasn’t far from home when that disagreement occurred. Once he got the guy out, to avoid leading him right to the farm—and because he didn’t realize something with his address had already fallen out—he went back to town, where he drove around listening to music while waiting for the stranger to get wherever he was going. He even stopped at Gavin’s house, but Gavin wasn’t back from the bar.
When Dawson drove home, he didn’t see the hitchhiker along the way, and he quit worrying—until he walked into the house and noticed the back door standing open. Once he saw that and his mother’s purse dumped out on the kitchen floor, he rushed upstairs to find Angela asleep in her bed, his parents bleeding in theirs. Although he felt as if his father was already dead, his mother was making a gurgling sound. He was cradling her in his arms, trying to comfort and encourage her, when she died.
“Heartbreaking either way,” Sadie mumbled, rubbing her eyes. She wanted to continue her research. There was so much left to read. But it was one o’clock and she’d had a long day, with another one to follow.
After saving her document, she set her computer on the coffee table and slipped back into her room but still didn’t rest well. Frightening images of opening that locked door at the top of the stairs at the farmhouse and finding two mangled bodies filled her dreams—along with the sound of Sly laughing at her.
Just before her alarm went off, she startled awake on her own. She’d been having a different nightmare by then, one in which Dawson was standing over her while she slept—lifting a hatchet.
Work at the diner proved uneventful, and much slower than the day before, so Sadie was able to leave early, swing by the store for the beer Dawson had requested and the hardware store to pick up a few items and arrive at the farm on time. She got the key to the house from Dawson, who was working in the same field as yesterday, and let herself in. Then she mixed up a quick bowl of chocolate chip cookie dough. Dawson had told her he didn’t need lunch. He’d packed himself a sandwich using some of the leftover roast she’d made for last night’s dinner—he seemed to really like the roast—but she figured he’d be ready for a snack in a couple of hours. Since he was keeping her on instead of hiring someone else, she wanted him to be glad, and everyone loved her cookies. Sly still asked her to bake them for certain events. Anyway, a small treat was about all she could think of to thank Dawson—partially because that was the best she could afford.
After she cleared away the dishes he’d put on the counter since she left last night, and cleaned up her mess with the mixing bowl and beaters, she decided to vacuum and dust the downstairs and wash the windows. The place needed a good de-webbing, too. She’d purchased a brush with a long handle at the hardware store so she could reach the corners.
Throughout the house, but especially in the living room, several pictures had been taken down. The wallpaper wasn’t quite as sun-bleached where they’d once hung. She guessed they’d been destroyed by vandals, were among the bits and pieces Dawson had swept up and dumped out, and felt sad that people would do such a thing. Destroying the house and its furnishings wasn’t right even if Dawson was a murderer. Trespassing was a crime. So was the destruction of private property. What made them so confident they knew what happened here, anyway? What if he was innocent? And what if the items destroyed were treasured family heirlooms? Those items had belonged to Angela, too, who was absolutely innocent.
At least Dawson still had most of his parents’ furniture. The word murderer had been engraved in the coffee table as well as spray-painted on the front of the house. But she was going to take care of both those things. She’d purchased paint at the hardware store when she bought the de-webber, felt it was especially important she get the letters off the front of the house before she left today. Not only would having them gone make her more comfortable coming to work, she couldn’t imagine the sight of them would impress anyone who visited to make sure the house was ready for Angela.
The first batch of cookies came out as she finished sanding the top of the coffee table. She’d ruined the finish, of course, but the sight of bare wood beat what’d been there before. Who wanted to be constantly reminded of someone else’s judgment—someone who probably didn’t know one way or the other?
She’d bought some stain at the hardware store, too, so she could cover the damage. Even if it didn’t work perfectly, she was glad she’d obliterated that word. She couldn’t believe Dawson would mind.
She stopped working on the table long enough to put some cookies on a plate, pour a glass of cold milk and take them outside.
She could tell Dawson was surprised when she called out to him. Chances were he hadn’t expected to see her again until he came in for dinner. But she figured her timing was good. He was breathing hard when she reached him—sweating, too. As far as she was concerned, he was running himself ragged.
“What’s this?” he asked as she drew close.
“I baked some cookies.” She offered him the plate but kept the milk so he’d have a free hand with which to eat. “Here’s hoping you’re not opposed to having a little treat now and then.”
“I’d never turn away homemade cookies. I haven’t had anything like this since...”
When his words fell off, she guessed he’d been about to say, “Since before my mother died,” which gave her the impression he really missed Lonnie. That was another reason she didn’t think he’d killed her or his father. Although he seemed cautious when it came to revealing emotion, he seemed to be sincere in his love for them, seemed to miss them.
“Sly insisted I enter this recipe at the county fair,” she said as he took his first bite.
He