It was still too soon, but he couldn’t let it go any longer. He also wanted to check that he hadn’t left anything behind. His father used to say he’d forget his head if it wasn’t attached to his body.

Gathering his nerve, he quit pacing, unfastened the locks and opened the door. But he barely poked his head inside. A quick peek was all he could stomach.

Fortunately, he couldn’t detect anything other than the dank odor he smelled every time he went under the house. He figured that meant his father had enough dirt on top of him. He couldn’t see much of a mound, either, even when he pointed a flashlight right where he’d done the digging.

He shifted his light to the suitcase. He should’ve buried Alana at the same time, but he’d been so tired. And he kept picturing her with empty sockets and clumps of hair falling off her scalp and feared he’d have nightmares about zombies if he disturbed her. The last thing he wanted was to wake the dead.

Breathing a tentative sigh of relief, he closed up the crawl space and went back to the living room. Everything looked okay here, too. He’d returned the gun to its cupboard above the fridge and cleaned up the blood. He’d scrubbed the living room some more last night. It seemed as if every time he sat down he spotted another drop of red somewhere, but he didn’t see any now. The only thing that worried him about the living room was the bullet hole in the wall. He didn’t know how to fix it. He’d tried to cover it with a picture, but he couldn’t hang a picture so close to the ceiling. There wasn’t room.

That hole’s so small. Who’s going to notice?

Eager to escape the living room almost as much as the crawl space, he climbed the stairs. He’d never been allowed in his father’s room, not since his mother walked out on them. His father had made a habit of locking the door whenever he left, but Jeremy had known how to pick that lock since he was twelve.

Tonight, the door stood wide open. No lock-picking needed.

With the owner of the house gone for good, Jeremy was tempted to move out of the basement, away from all the things he feared. He had his own little cemetery going, just like the one in town—without the headstones and flowers. But if someone found out he’d switched bedrooms, it could give his father’s absence away.

He sat on the bed, staring at the clothes hanging in the closet, the hamper, the cast-offs on the floor, the bottle of cologne on the dresser, the messy pile of newspapers on the nightstand with the reading glasses on top. Jeremy had slept on the couch last night, but maybe he’d sleep here tonight. Just one night. He wanted to go through the photo albums hidden up in the attic above his father’s closet. One of those albums contained pictures of his mother.

But he decided to rest until he felt more like himself.

Scooting toward the pillows, he was about to curl into a ball like he’d seen Claire do so often after David’s death, when the loud jangle of the phone startled him.

He jumped off the bed, but he wasn’t sure whether or not to answer. He didn’t want to talk to anyone.

Would that make whoever it was come to the house?

That was a risk he couldn’t take…?.

Rounding the bed, he snatched up the handset. “Good evening. Salter residence.”

“Who’s this?”

“Jeremy. Who’s this?”

“No one you need to be concerned about. Where’s Don?”

This wasn’t how people normally acted when they called. Jeremy’s hands were already beginning to sweat. “Downstairs.”

“Good. Get him.”

“I c-can’t.” Jeremy wiped his free hand on his jeans. “He, um, he’s indisposed at the moment.” His father had taught him to say that if he was in the bathroom.

“You mean he’s shitfaced again?”

“Excuse me?”

“Oh, for God’s sake, is he drunk?”

Jeremy didn’t answer. He hated to actually lie…?. “He can’t come to the phone,” he repeated. “But I’d be happy to give him a message when he wakes up, if you’d like.”

There was a slight hesitation. “I’m not sure it would be worth my while.”

“Why not?”

“Because you can’t remember from one minute to the next, can you?”

That wasn’t nice. Why would anyone say that? Jeremy hadn’t done anything to make this person mad, had he? “Who is this?” Jeremy asked again.

“You don’t need to know. I’ll call back.”

But that voice. Jeremy was pretty sure he recognized it. “Deputy Clegg?”

There was no answer. A dial tone suddenly hummed in his ear.

26

Nancy Jernigan, the P.I. Isaac had hired, had discovered some interesting details about the incident in Les Weaver’s office. Most notable was the fact that the dead man’s wife, Shannon Short, claimed they’d been expecting a loan from her parents, which would’ve relieved the financial stress that had supposedly caused her husband, James, to take his own life. That, together with her insistence that Les had asked James to bring his gun to the meeting because he was interested in buying it, raised some questions. Les’s motivation in the murder wasn’t as clear, but Nancy felt James’s business partner could’ve put him up to it. Apparently, Ted Abrams blamed James for the failure of their business and was determined to collect on the life insurance set up to protect him in the event of James’s death.

“So James was worth much more to Abrams dead than alive.” Claire had lowered her window to enjoy the warm evening air while Isaac drove. The wind whipped her long curls around her face, but she didn’t mind. Despite everything, she seemed happy just to be with him, and he felt the same.

“Exactly. And Les might’ve facilitated that. For a fee, of course.”

“I’m shocked that he doesn’t have a criminal record, that he’s been able to skip out of everything he’s suspected of doing.”

“We’ll get him eventually. Nancy’s working on it.”

“What about Weaver’s wife?”

They’d been discussing what Nancy had told them almost the entire ride to Pineview. “What about her?”

“Maybe she’ll talk if she realizes what he is.”

“I bet she wouldn’t believe it. He keeps everything from her. He didn’t even want her to know I was at the door.”

“But she can tell us whether or not he was home two nights ago.”

“Let’s wait and see what else Nancy digs up. Then we’ll decide where to go next.”

They passed Trudie’s Grocery, which signaled the edge of town, but Isaac wasn’t happy to be back. It’d been good to have a respite. He figured life could be worse than having Claire all to himself for a day and a half. In another four minutes they’d reach Big Sky Diner, where they were meeting the sheriff for dinner. Laurel had suggested they come to the house so she could see Claire, too, but they didn’t want to talk about attempted murder in front of the kids, and Laurel had quickly conceded that it wouldn’t make appropriate dinnertime conversation. This wasn’t personal. They didn’t need a friend; they needed a sheriff.

“Are we going to stay at my place tonight?” Claire asked. “The bedroom’s been cleaned up.”

“We’ll be safer at a motel in Libby or Kalispell.” And, after feeling so helpless to protect her when the fire started two nights ago, he was all about an ounce of prevention.

“That’ll cost money,” she pointed out.

“I don’t mind.” The insurance would probably cover it. He had to have somewhere to live until his cabin could be rebuilt. But even if the insurance wouldn’t, he didn’t care about the expense as long as it kept Claire safe.