Beneath Blackwater River Leslie Wolfe (me reader txt) 📖

He’d instructed Scott to enter the house and turn on the heater. Before ending the call, the man had warned him to stay in the living room and not set foot in any of the bedrooms, and to keep his nose out of any business that did not concern him. Triple-Dollar-Sign had concluded his warning with another threat, this time telling Scott his life was hanging by a thread if he didn’t walk the line.

And Scott believed the man. He’d met him a few times, enough to know he could end his life without losing a moment’s sleep over it, one killer recognizing another without a hint of a doubt.

But he wasn’t there to watch his every move.

Entering the farmhouse, he turned on the lights, then ensured the heater had started pushing hot air through the floor vents. The house was frozen, in time as well as in temperature. It was as if he’d stepped back a few decades, the hammered copper roosters hanging on the kitchen wall making him scoff. His grandmother used to have something like that.

While the walls were cracking back to life under the flow of warm air, he wandered through the house, opening every room, turning on the lights, making sure there were no surprises waiting for him in the dark, cobwebbed corners. There was nothing; only a home frozen in time, the only things that spoke of the present day being the rolls of toilet paper in the bathroom, and the sliced cheese in the fridge he’d munched on, still good although the power had been off for who knows how long.

One of the small bedrooms caught his attention, though. It was just as frozen in time as the rest of the house, its closet filled with outdated clothes and shoes, but the bed was unmade, the wrinkled sheets wet, and a large bath towel, also wet, just as wrinkled, as if someone had gone from the shower straight to bed. The pillow felt soaked under his touch, the filling holding in the moisture that hadn’t dried in the absence of heat.

“What the hell?” he mumbled, smelling the pillow from a close distance. It smelled of fresh shampoo infused with lilac, as if someone had just slept on that bed, not minding her wet hair in that cold, creepy house.

Shrugging it off, he left the room, turning off the lights and closing the door, careful to leave everything as he’d found it. Then he fell asleep on the couch, under some blankets he found there, thrown to the side as if someone had risen from their sleep in a hurry.

The last sensation he had before slipping away into deep slumber was the smell of the old blankets, stale, moldy, laced with hints of soapy lavender.

52The Secret

Blanche led her brother into the living room. Carole followed reluctantly, an expression of dismay written on her features since she’d learned that Rose Harrelson had been raised as the heiress to the family business. Two steps behind her, Dylan ended the procession. He was an intriguing man, Blanche’s son. Dressed sharply in a charcoal suit and white shirt, he distanced himself from the family drama, keeping quiet, seemingly uninterested, occasionally checking his phone. Kay could sense by the ridges on his brow and the nervousness of his gestures he didn’t share his mother’s devotion to Bill. It would’ve been impossible to expect that, given how Bill never missed an opportunity to call the young man a bastard and a slew of other names. Seeing his mother take the side and care that much for the man who constantly insulted him must’ve been traumatic and infuriating for Dylan, yet he didn’t show it.

Kay followed the family into the living room, Elliot by her side. Her partner was following her lead, but she could tell he was aching to ask Bill about the missing girl from Oregon who’d last been seen climbing into a Lincoln just like his. How did that girl play into all this? Or was it a strange coincidence, a game fate played with people throwing them curveballs only to have them chase shadows and waste time? There were almost a thousand such vehicles registered in California.

The living room was large, with a vaulted ceiling and picture windows that welcomed the sunshine in. Decorated tastefully in white with black accents, the room reflected Carole’s personality the most, somber yet perfectly arranged, contained, calculated. The portraits on the wall were a family history from what Kay could tell, with the centerpiece above the fireplace a group photo of Carole and her husband when they were young, surrounded by their four children. Bill must’ve been about twenty years old in that picture, Blanche was a young teenager, and the other two were tweens. Something drew Kay’s attention to the image, but she couldn’t put her finger on what that was. Her gut was telling her something was off, but what? She kept looking at the photograph from a distance, wishing she could put everything on hold for a minute and approach the portrait, study it, uncover what had triggered her attention.

Overall, there were dozens of things off with the Caldwells. The list was a long and impressive one, starting with the absurd way Carole had decided to manage the estate, and ending with whatever it was that filled the air with electricity whenever Blanche entered the room.

No one sat on the white leather sectional sofa and armchairs set at the center of the living room, the Caldwells choosing to remain standing, clustered together in a tight circle as if intent to keep the two cops out of their family business. Kay approached Bill and placed a hand on his shoulder.

“Mr. Caldwell, I hope your attorney will be joining us soon. We’re placing you under arrest.”

With his face scrunched in anger, Bill Caldwell gave Kay a long stare. “I didn’t kill my daughter, and don’t know who did. If