Bowie drove into Eden just before nine with his brothers in their separate vehicles right behind him. The convoy of Stanton Youngblood’s sons was duly noted by the citizens of Eden, and when all four vehicles headed for the Wayne estate, curiosity grew. Then news began to spread that the Youngblood brothers were parked outside the gate to the estate. Before long, a small crowd began to gather a short distance away.
Aidan glanced over his shoulder as he joined his brothers beneath the shade of a large elm near the sidewalk.
“We’re drawing a crowd,” he said.
The others turned to look.
Bowie’s eyes narrowed. “I hope the sight of those people ticks every one of them off,” he said.
“So do I. I hope they get as hot as this day is getting,” Michael said, and pulled a band from the pocket of his pants and tied his hair back in a long ponytail at the nape of his neck.
Aidan’s hair was already in a ponytail, and Samuel’s was in a long loose braid.
Only Bowie’s was still loose. His hair was so straight and so black that from a distance he could have passed for Native American, but his tan was from countless hours outside on the oil platforms, rather than genetic. He’d taken after his mother’s people. Scottish to the core. And now those people had become the enemy.
“It’s nine fifteen,” Aidan said.
Then Samuel pointed up the street. “And here they come,” he said.
The brothers turned and watched the duo of county police cars as they neared the gate. They saw the startled expression on the constable’s face as he recognized them, and then he quickly looked away.
“I guess he didn’t think you were serious, because he looks shocked that we’re here,” Michael said. “Oh, here comes one of Eden’s officers, too.”
Bowie didn’t say anything. He just kept watching as the police cars drove past them, then down the driveway, finally pulling up at the main house.
“Since it took him ’til the third day after Daddy’s murder to get here, I’ll be curious to see how long it takes to get everybody’s statements,” Bowie said, and proceeded to make himself comfortable on a bench beneath the tree.
His brothers joined him, and for a few moments they were silent, each man lost in his own thoughts about the tragedy. Then Bowie spoke.
“Tell me about what went down after the police arrived on the scene. Did any of you hear them talking about any evidence they found?”
“Well, it was Samuel who found the shell casing from the shooter’s rifle,” Aidan said.
Samuel nodded, then added, “I also found footprints. Mama asked me to trail them, which I did. They ended almost a mile down the mountain where he got on a motorcycle and rode off.” He leaned forward, his elbows resting on his knees as he stared down at an ant carrying a leaf across the grass at his feet. “Can we assume Mama isn’t in danger, too?”
The shock on his brothers’ faces was sudden.
“That never crossed my mind,” Aidan said. “Now there’s just her and Jesse at the house.”
“We need to make sure she doesn’t go rambling off in the woods until this is over,” Michael said.
“I’ll mention it to her when I get home,” Bowie said.
“It’s gonna make her mad,” Aidan said.
Bowie shrugged. “Mad is good if it keeps her safe.”
After that, conversation ended, but the crowd at the end of the street continued to grow.
While the people in the crowd were all curious to see if the constable left with a suspect in custody, the Youngblood brothers weren’t nearly that optimistic. For all they knew, the constable was letting the Wayne family run the show.
Nine
As ordered, the Waynes were present and seated in the library. Except for the ice tinkling in Fiona’s bourbon and Coke, the room was completely silent. The fact that Fiona was already drinking spoke to her anxiety.
Mad Jack sat in the chair behind the grand desk, wearing a gray Gucci suit and a pink shirt. With the shock of white hair combed into a semblance of order, he posed like a king on his throne, glaring at his subjects.
The others were all seated in separate chairs, as if no one wanted to be too close to anyone else, afraid of guilt by association.
Blake’s frown contradicted the casual style of his dark slacks and white shirt. The sleeves were rolled up a couple of turns past his wrist, and he’d left two buttons open at the collar. He had his laptop balanced on his knees, hoping he looked more at ease than he felt. His belly was churning with every keystroke as he ran through the latest figures from the New York Stock Exchange.
Justin had come down in a navy and silver robe over white silk pajamas—his silent rebellion against Mad Jack’s earlier demand to get dressed—and was pretending to read the New York Times on his iPad. He couldn’t help thinking that Leigh had orchestrated this inquisition, and he resented the hell out of his twin for that.
Charles was wearing designer sweats in a startling cardinal red, his head down, his entire attention seemingly focused on his phone and the text he was composing.