“I will.” She sat back down and sipped her own drink, hoping he’d see she was done with the encounter. Mike Bevins reminded her too much of his father, Joziah. Same build, same eyes. At least Mike felt genuinely friendly. Joziah’s attitude had always felt forced.
“If you need someone to show you around town, I’m more than happy to.” His blue eyes shone with speculation.
Uh-oh.
“Thank you. I’m good. GPS, you know.”
“That doesn’t tell you where to find a great dinner,” he pressed. He leaned closer and rested a booted foot on a stool. “I liked the way you handled Chuck.”
She wanted to sigh. “Thank you. But really . . . I’m good.” She could be polite for only so long.
He held her gaze for another long moment, a puzzled look crossing his face.
Not used to being turned down?
She forced a smile to take out the sting, showing her teeth. Why can’t women simply say no and men leave it at that? “I’m working,” she added, kicking herself for feeling the need to let him down easy and protect his ego.
Mike nodded. “As you wish. Enjoy Eagle’s Nest.” He turned and went back to where the last of the guys was paying for his drink. The men tromped out, giving her polite nods or touching their hat brims. Chuck looked straight ahead.
Levi sank back into the seat across from her. “Mike recognized you?”
“Nope. He knew I was one of the agents in town, so I assume that much has made the gossip rounds. My name will eventually follow.” How will he feel when he realizes he hit on Owen’s little sister?
“I didn’t know if you wanted me to introduce you.”
“Not yet.”
“What’d you say to Chuck?”
“I complimented his drink.”
“He’s an ass. Hasn’t been in town that long.”
“I recognized Craig Rafferty. I had a bit of a crush on him way back when.”
“No way! You were a child.”
“Old enough to be interested in my brother’s cute friends. I liked them tall and moody.”
“He’s gone nowhere in fifteen years. Has worked at the same job all this time. Good thing you didn’t hook up back then, because you’d be the wife of a ranch hand. How’s that sound, Special Agent Kilpatrick?”
“Some days that sounds good.”
“I don’t believe that. That coat you’re wearing probably costs two weeks of his salary.”
Her coat was an investment. A quality that’d last forever. “Your fashion knowledge has greatly expanded.”
“I have a teenage daughter.”
“Touché.”
Studying her sibling, Mercy finally relaxed. A bridge had spanned their fifteen years of silence, and the enormity of the long years faded away. His face was again familiar; the crinkles at the corners of his eyes felt normal. He was her brother.
Optimism filled her. She wanted to know everything about her brother and Kaylie.
His teeth flashed in a big grin. “What are you thinking?” he asked.
“For the first time, I’m glad I’m back.”
TWENTY
Truman sat at his desk, looking at the broken-mirrors photos from Ned Fahey’s and Enoch Finch’s homes. He’d memorized the photos from Uncle Jefferson’s home. Now he stared at the others, searching for something in common and wondering if he could figure out what had been used to break the mirrors.
Bullets had destroyed the mirrors in Jefferson’s home. Just as they’d destroyed his uncle.
But no bullets had been found behind the mirrors in the other two homes.
Why hadn’t anyone else connected the mirrors from the old cases yet? Surely there was a police officer or county deputy who recalled that detail. Why had it been pointed out by someone who’d been a teenager at the time?
Coincidence?
If Mercy Kilpatrick hadn’t been assigned to the murders, would those two old cases still be sitting in the file room? Waiting for Lucas to run a duster over their box?
Truman didn’t believe in coincidences. Not yet, anyway.
He laid out all the broken-mirror pictures on his desk. Five different cases. Fourteen different pictures. The glass of each small accessory mirror had fallen out of its frame, but the bathroom mirrors had stayed glued in place. Except for in one of the Vargas bathrooms, where the mirror had been a medicine cabinet door and it’d crumbled to pieces across the counter.
Did the same person cause all this destruction?
Why?
Truman wanted to bang his head on his desk. It would be as helpful as staring at pictures.
“Chief?” Royce Gibson stepped into his office. “You wanted an update on the agents?”
A pang of guilt struck Truman’s chest. “Sure.”
“Special Agent Peterson headed in the direction of Bend. I assume he’s going to the FBI office. Special Agent Kilpatrick headed out on Route Eighty-Two this morning. I didn’t follow either of them outside the city limits.”
Truman thought for a minute. “Rick Turner lives off Eighty-Two, right?”
“Yes, sir.”
Mercy had been headed toward her sister’s house. Truman wondered if she was nervous. She hadn’t said much about her sister that morning, but Truman had put enough pieces together to know it wasn’t going to be an easy visit.
“Thanks, Royce.”
The cop lingered in the doorway, shifting from one foot to another and letting his gaze roam about the room.
“Is there something else?” Suspicion prickled at the back of Truman’s neck.