Beneath Blackwater River Leslie Wolfe (me reader txt) 📖

couldn’t speak the words that came to mind, that he’d been there too, that he admired her courage withstanding those bullies and proving herself to them in the only way it mattered. That he’d never admired a woman more, nor had he seen someone so brave, not only for the way she’d knocked back those shots, but for how he’d seen her hold her own with a perp’s weapon aimed at her chest, how she relentlessly chased the truth with a completely open mind.

That’s what made Kay formidable, drunk or sober, a force to be reckoned with.

That morning, before heading out to Caldwell Farms again, he’d driven by her place to give her a lift, but no one answered the door, and Jacob’s truck wasn’t parked in its usual spot on the driveway. He then drove to Hilltop, where she’d left her SUV the night before.

It was gone.

One minute late, one dollar short; the story of his life.

He swore under his breath. Now last night’s heavy silence would linger on throughout the day, leaving marks, seeding doubt, driving a wedge between them. All because he couldn’t say a few words while he’d driven her home.

As if he’d been raised in a barn.

But hot will cool, if greedy will let it.

There would be time to catch up with her and say everything he didn’t have a chance to. Or maybe just skip through all that and redo last night, wipe the slate clean and start brand new.

He adjusted the brim on his hat and peeled off, heading to Caldwell. He drove straight to the place where Hazel had dropped Kirsten, and pulled over by the side of the road, his flashers on.

He wasn’t sure what he was looking for after all that time, but he wanted to see what she’d seen when she had waited for another ride to stop and give her a lift.

In the bright daylight, he noticed things he’d missed the night before. There was a section of about a foot where the rocks lining the edge of the road had been cleared away, leaving barren ground exposed. A partial shoe print was etched in the dry mud, a sneaker by the pattern of it, and possibly a woman’s by its size.

Maybe Kirsten had stood there, leaning against the guardrail, her feet on the ground she’d cleared because it must’ve been uncomfortable to spend so much time balancing her feet on those rounded rocks that slipped and turned under her weight.

He took a few photos of the print, first from a distance, to document its location and the section of cleared ground. Then, grabbing an L-shaped scale from his field kit, he placed it by the shoe print and took a few close-ups.

He was just about ready to leave, when a car sped by well above the limit. Seconds behind him, a patrol car with flashers and siren on passed by in pursuit, the deputy behind the wheel a familiar face.

A hint of a smile lit Elliot’s eyes when he recognized the man, the effervescence of the newly found idea energizing.

It was Deputy Leach.

He might’ve seen something the day Kirsten went missing.

28Secrets

It was a disaster of epic proportions, about to blow up in their faces and engulf her legacy in a cloud of shame and destruction so thick no speck of dirt, no patch of land, and no corn kernel would survive it unblemished.

Carole needed to get in front of this thing, to control it, smother its flames before it turned into a blazing inferno. Why had she been blessed with the mind to build an empire out of a 10-acre farm, only to be cursed with weak, selfish children? Her eldest, Bill, was a ghost living with a ghost, that mousey wife of his who just wouldn’t die already, to make room for another alliance, to grow the family assets and give Bill, that lame-stick child of hers, a few sons, to carry the name forward. He didn’t seem to care about women, since he’d been living like a monk for the past two decades. What kind of man does that? No matter how hard she tried, she just couldn’t understand her eldest son.

As for Blanche, she’d resigned herself to a lonely, loveless life, while that no-good husband of hers trolled the Dominican Republic with his latest whore on his arm, all funded by the monthly stipend he pulled from the business. Blanche could’ve divorced him years ago and found herself a good, strong, loving man. Stubborn as a mule, her daughter, refusing to divorce that sleazy, cheating bastard and blackmailing her own mother when she’d refused. How could she have threatened her with leaving the business? Why? It wasn’t like she still loved her husband, or held any hope for his return. No… She just wanted to live her life peacefully, helping her son Dylan learn the ropes of the business, managing the farms with him by her side, her face lighting up whenever he walked into the room. Carole was a mother too, but Blanche’s love for her only son wasn’t normal.

And now, Alyssa was gone, the pride of Carole’s life, her beloved heiress. Alyssa had possessed a mind like no one else’s in the family, and stamina, the drive to win, to achieve, as if her blood was on fire all the time. She’d probably inherited that from her, because her granddaughter reminded Carole of herself at that age, eager to spread her wings and fly, proving what she could do. All that greatness, gone in an instant. All the promise of what that girl could’ve done for the Caldwell legacy, turned into dust, leaving everything in Dylan’s hands.

Dylan was a good man, but she couldn’t bring herself to love him, to want him at the reins of the company, not as she’d wanted Alyssa.

Could Bill have been right? Could Alyssa’s death have been motivated by greed, by the fight for the legacy she had built? A shudder traveled through her thin body.