Stranger in Town

CHAPTER 20





“Where’s the rest of it?” Cade said.

I shrugged, handing him the coloring page.

“This is all he gave to me.”

Cade dangled the plastic baggie in front of me. “Paper doesn’t come in the mail without an envelope.”

“He said he’ll try to find it.”

Cade slid into the seat of his truck, started the engine, and snatched his cowboy hat from the seat next to him. He put it on and said, “It doesn’t matter. Once they get a warrant, they’ll find it, along with whatever else the man has been hiding.”

“Why don’t you bring that high horse of yours down a couple notches?” I said. “They’re suffering. Do you really want to rip their entire home apart for an envelope? Your father certainly has told you what Mrs. Tate is going through—she’s barely coherent.”

Cade whipped his head around, staring at me. “Are you done giving me advice? If I want to know how you feel, I’ll ask.”

I felt an uncomfortable pain in my stomach over a man I’d just met.

He pulled the truck door shut and sped out of the driveway, leaving me alone with his father who had taken it all in like we were shooting the main scene of an old movie.

“I guess I’ll be seeing you later, maybe,” Detective McCoy said.

The way the words came out of his mouth was awkward—like he didn’t really know what to say, but he felt compelled to say something.

“Have you told him yet?” I said.

“I don’t follow.”

“That you’re sick,” I said.

“Why would I—it’s just a nasty virus. It’ll pass.”

“But it won’t, will it?” I said.

My accusation caught him off guard.

“What makes you say that?”

“You grabbed your back when you stood up in Mr. Tate’s house. And when you came by my hotel room this morning, I noticed your eyes. Even though it was early, they looked a bit yellow to me.”

Part of me was sorry for prying—whatever he was going through wasn’t my business.

Detective McCoy walked over to where I was standing and looked at me. “You assume a lot, Miss Monroe.”

“Am I wrong?”

There was a long pause and then he said, “Do you think Cade knows?”

“I’m not sure. I don’t know your son very well. How’s he been acting since he moved back here?”

“Fine. A little on edge, maybe. But I just thought it had to do with the case, or looking after his teenage daughter. He’s got a lot of his own things he’s dealing with right now. I didn’t want to add one more thing to the list.”

“Do you mind me asking what’s wrong?” I said.

“Pancreatic cancer.”

“Are you getting treatment for it?”

He shook his head.

“Too late for that now. I felt fine at first, and by the time I realized something was wrong, the doctor told me it had spread. It’s too late to operate—too late to do anything but sit and wait to die. Doesn’t seem fair, but I suppose nothin’ ever does.”

I wanted to say something, but what could I say to a person who knew he was going to die? I was a fixer. I liked to fix things, make things whole again. I didn’t know how to be any other way.

“You won’t tell my boy, will you?” he said.

I grabbed Mr. McCoy’s hand, a gesture that shocked both of us. “Of course not. It’s not my secret to tell.”

He smiled.

“You know what? I like you, Miss Monroe. I like you a lot.”

I liked him too.