“Why do you say that, Ms. Rodriquez?”
“He didn’t hunt. He told me once. Told me he didn’t believe in it.” She shrugged. “He wasn’t from around here.”
“Maybe it wasn’t an accident?”
“Why would he want my uncle dead?”
“I can only speculate at this point, but the rifle we found at his place was a ballistics match with the weapon used to kill your uncle.”
That didn’t sound right. “August had a rifle?”
“He did. Perhaps Mr. Perez killed him to retrieve that box of trophies.”
“No.”
“What makes you so certain of that?”
She rubbed her temple, trying to remember. Something … something, just beyond her reach. “I’m so tired. I can’t think.”
“I could have Carlson get you some coffee?”
“Yes, please. And water.”
Carlson exited the room and she folded her arms and rested her head on them.
“Would you like a mint?”
She lifted her head. Rumsfeld held out a Starlight peppermint.
“Thank you.” She took it. “Horses love these, did you know that?”
“No, I didn’t.”
She unwrapped it and popped it into her mouth. The peppermint stung her tongue and cleared her head.
And she remembered the why. “The box couldn’t have been August’s.”
“Why not?”
“The initial necklace in it. An N. For ‘Nicole.’ Nicole Grace.”
She’d caught him by surprise. She saw him struggle to place the name. “The fifteen-year-old girl from Wholesome,” she said, “who was strangled to death.”
He nodded. “Back in 2005.”
“Yes.”
“So why does that eliminate Mr. Perez?”
“Because he didn’t live here then. He moved to Louisiana in 2009.”
CHAPTER SIXTY-FIVE
Friday, April 25
6:35 A.M.
“Hello, Williams.”
Billy Ray looked up at Rumsfeld through half-shut eyes. He stood beside the hospital bed, Carlson hovered just behind him. Over twenty years on the force and he’d never been shot. Until now.
With his own gun. By a woman he’d thought he could control.
She’d turned out to be smarter than he. They all had.
He closed his eyes. It hurt to breathe. To swallow. To move his head.
It hurt to be alive.
“You feel strong enough to chat a moment?”
He reopened his eyes and nodded, wincing at the slight movement.
Rumsfeld pulled over a chair and sat. “You know why we’re here.”
“Yes,” he managed, voice thick and raw. “Stephanie Rodriquez.”
“Yes. She shot you last night. We need to take your statement.”
The gig was up. Over and done. He closed his eyes again. “I’m so tired. So … damn … tired.”
“I know, man.”
He heard the squeak of the chair on the linoleum floor as Rumsfeld inched it closer to the bed.
“A couple minutes. Enough for us to move on, then we’ll leave you be.”
“No.” He shook his head, looked at him. “You won’t.”
The detective frowned slightly. “Rodriquez claims she shot you in self-defense.”
“Yes.”
“Yes, it was self-defense?”
“Yes.”
“She came to us with a wild story, Williams. One about you having killed True Abbott.”
“No.”
“You did not kill True Abbott?”
Carlson, he saw, took notes. “No.”
“Rodriquez had in her possession a wedding band. One she says belonged to the former Mrs. Abbott. One she says she recovered from your bedroom.”
“Yes.”
“Excuse me?”
“That’s the … truth.”
Rumsfeld cleared his throat. “Is True Abbott dead?”
“Yes.”
“And you know this to be a fact?”
“I do.”
Rumsfeld leaned closer. “And how do you know this to be a fact?”
“Because”—tears leaked from the corners of his eyes—“I buried her near the pond at Abbott Farm.”
Rumsfeld and Carlson both seemed to freeze. Their faces took on expressions of comic disbelief. “Bring me paper”—Billy Ray cleared his throat—“I’ll write my … statement.”
Rumsfeld looked over his shoulder at Carlson. “Paper and pen, something for him to write on. Now.”
Rumsfeld turned back around. “So, you confess to killing True Abbott?”
“No. It was an … accident. She fell. I panicked.…” He bit back a sob. “Shouldn’t have covered it up.”
“What about Nicole Grace? Did you accidentally strangle her?”
“No. Abbott—”
“What about Trista Hook? Do you know where she’s buried?”
He shook his head. “Abbott.”
“And Amanda LaPier?”
“Abbott. Logan Abbott.”
Carlson returned with the paper, pen and a clipboard. Rumsfeld motioned him to hold off. “Are you telling me you admit to being responsible for True Abbott’s death, but none of the other women’s deaths or disappearances?”
“Not … me.” Billy Ray motioned Carlson over. “Abbott. He’s the one.”
CHAPTER SIXTY-SIX
Friday, April 25
8:05 A.M.
Bailey awakened early. Beside her, Logan still slept. They had talked on and off all night. Sleeping, then waking simultaneously, as if they were so connected they were one being. Funny thing was, they hadn’t whispered of what this morning might bring, or what their next step should be, but they’d talked of the future. Their future. Children they would have and love, places they would go. Of holidays and anniversaries, weddings and the grandchildren they might have someday.
As if they had used those precious hours to live out the rest of their lives together.
Bailey watched him as he slept. So peaceful. Totally relaxed. She hadn’t seen him this way since the island. So beautiful, she thought. She reached out and trailed a finger along his cheek.
His eyes snapped open, the expression in them feral. Like an animal awakened in the wild, instantly alert and ready to attack.
With a squeak of surprise, she snatched her hand back.
His eyes cleared and he smiled sleepily. “Morning, love.”
“I woke you up. I’m sorry.”
“I’m not.” He pulled her into his arms. “You’re trembling, sweetheart. Are you cold?”
She forced the shadows away. “Not anymore.”
“What time is it?”
“After eight.”
His lips twitched. “How much after?”
“Just. Why?”
“There’s something I need to do.”