Saved By The Sheriff. Cindi Myers
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it. Strands of thin wire held the note in place, a single word scrawled crookedly in red marker, like an accusation made in blood.
Murderer! She had worn the label for three years, but she would never get used to it. Seeing it here, in the place she had thought of as a refuge, when she had believed her ordeal over, hurt more than she had imagined. Worse, the word hurt her parents, who had put their own lives on hold, and even mortgaged their home, to save her.
A black-and-white SUV pulled into the driveway and Lacy watched out the window as Travis Walker slid out of the vehicle and strode up the walkway to the door. Everything about him radiated competence and authority, from his muscular frame filling out the crisp lines of his brown sheriff’s uniform to the determined expression on his handsome face. When he said something was right, it must be right. So when he had said she had murdered Andy Stenson, everyone had believed him. Men like Travis didn’t make mistakes.
Except he had.
The doorbell rang and her father opened it and ushered Travis inside. Lacy steeled herself to face him. Travis hadn’t thrown the rock through her parents’ window, but as far as she was concerned, he was to blame.
“Hello, Lacy.” Ever the gentleman, Travis touched the brim of his hat and nodded to her.
She nodded and took a step back, away from the rock—and away from him. He walked over and looked down at the projectile, his gaze taking in the broken window, the shattered glass and the note. He leaned closer to study the note. “Has anything like this happened before?” he asked.
It took her a moment to realize he had addressed the question to her. She shrugged. “Not really. There were a few letters to the editor in the paper during my trial, and a few times when I would walk into a place and everyone would stop talking and stare at me.”
“But no direct threats or name calling?” he asked.
She shook her head. “No.”
“I can’t understand why anyone would do this now.” Her father joined them. Her mother was upstairs, lying down with a headache. “Lacy has been cleared. Everyone knows that.”
“Maybe not everyone.” Travis straightened. “I’ll get an evidence kit from my car. Maybe we’ll get some fingerprints off the note.”
Lacy doubted whoever threw that rock would be stupid enough to leave fingerprints, but she didn’t bother arguing. Travis went outside and stopped on the sidewalk to survey the flower bed. Maybe he was looking for footprints? Or maybe he liked flowers.
He returned a few moments later, wearing latex gloves and carrying a cardboard box. He lifted the rock and settled it in the box. “In order to hurl the rock through the window like this, whoever threw it would have to be close—either standing on the porch or in the flower beds,” he said, as he taped up the box and labeled it. “I didn’t see any footprints in the flower beds, or disturbed plants, so I’m guessing porch. Did you see or hear anyone?”
“We were all in the back of the house, preparing dinner in the kitchen,” her father said.
“I’ll talk to the neighbors, see if any of them saw anything,” Travis said. “After the window shattered, did you hear anything—anyone running away, or a car driving away?”
“No,” her father said.
Both men looked at Lacy. “No,” she said. “I didn’t hear anything.”
“Who would do something like this?” her father asked. His face sagged with weariness, and he looked years older. Guilt made a knot in Lacy’s stomach. Even though she hadn’t thrown the rock, she was the target. She had brought this intrusion into her parents’ peaceful life. Maybe moving back home had been a bad idea.
“I don’t know,” Travis said. “There are mean people in the world. Obviously, someone doesn’t believe Lacy is innocent.”
“The paper has run articles,” her father said. “It’s been on all the television stations—I don’t know what else we can do.”
“You can help me find the real murderer.”
He was addressing Lacy, not her dad, his gaze pinning her. She remembered him looking at her that way the day he arrested her, the intensity of his stare making it clear she wasn’t going to get away with not answering his questions.
“Why should I help you?” she asked.
“You worked closely with Andy,” he said. “You knew his clients. You can walk me through his records. I’m convinced he knew his murderer.”
“What if you try to pin this on the wrong person again?”
He didn’t even flinch. “I won’t make that mistake again.”
“Honey, I think maybe Travis is right,” her father said. “You probably know more about Andy’s job than anyone.”
“What about Brenda?” Lacy asked. “She was his wife. He would have told her if someone was threatening him before he told me.”
“He never said anything like that to her,” Travis said. “And she doesn’t know anything about his law practice.”
“I’m pretty sure all the files from the business are still in storage,” she said. “You don’t need my help going through them.”
“I do if I’m going to figure out what any of it means. You can help me avoid wasting time on irrelevant files and focus on anything that might be important.”
His intense gaze pinned her, making her feel trapped. She wanted to say no, to avoid having anything to do with him. But what if he was right and he needed her help to solve the case? What if, by doing nothing, she was letting the real killer get away with murder? “All right,” she said. “I’ll help you.”
“Thank you. I’ll call you tomorrow or the next day and set up a time to get together.” He picked up the box with the rock, touched the brim of his hat again and left.
Lacy sank into a nearby arm chair. This wasn’t how she had envisioned her homecoming. She had hoped to be able to put the past behind her once and for all. Now she was volunteering to dive right back into it.
* * *
TRAVIS CRUISED EAGLE MOUNTAIN’S main street, surveying the groups of tourists waiting for tables at Kate’s Kitchen or Moe’s Pub, the men filling the park benches outside the row of boutiques, chatting while they waited for their wives. He waved to Paige Riddell as he passed her bed-and-breakfast, drove past the library and post office, then turned past the Episcopal Church, the fire station and the elementary school before he turned toward his office. The rock someone had hurled through Lacy’s front window sat in the box on the passenger seat, a very ordinary chunk of iron-ore-infused granite that could have come from almost any roadside or backyard in the area.
Who would hurl such a weapon—and its hateful message—through the window of a woman who had already endured too much because of mistakes made by Travis and others? Eagle Mountain wasn’t a perfect place, but it wasn’t known for violent dissension. Disagreements tended to play themselves out in the form of letters to the editor of the local paper or the occasional shouting match after a few too many beers at one of the local taverns.
When Travis had arrested Lacy for the murder of Andy Stenson, he had received more than one angry phone call, and a few people had refused to speak to him ever since. When he had issued a public statement declaring Lacy’s innocence, most people had responded positively, if not jubilantly, to the news. He couldn’t recall hearing even a whisper from anyone that a single person believed Lacy was still a murderer.
On impulse, he drove past the police station and two blocks north, to the former Eagle Mountain Hospital, now home to the county Historical Society and Museum. As he had hoped, Brenda Stenson was just locking up for the day when Travis parked and climbed out of his SUV. “Hello, Travis,” she said as she tucked the key into her purse. A slender blonde with delicate features and a smattering of freckles