“Then stop defending him. We’re in this fight to win.” He poured himself a cup of coffee and carried it with him as he left the room, saying as he went, “Leave everything to me. I know what I’m doing.”
Rather than reassuring her, that’s what worried her most.
Seeking solitude after leaving the park, Crawford drove out of town to one of his favorite spots. The natural lake was located deep in the woods, reached only by a narrow dirt road that petered out shy of the lake by thirty yards, which had to be covered on foot.
The isolated spot had been his haunt for twenty years. He’d discovered it shortly after moving back from California, where he’d lived with his mother and her new husband until he turned sixteen. Then he’d insisted on returning to Texas so he could attend and graduate high school in Prentiss with his original classmates and friends.
His mother and stepfather had put up very little resistance to the idea. He figured they were as glad to get rid of his churlish self as he was to go.
His mother’s sister had taken him in—because by then Conrad was well established as the town drunk, incapable of caring for himself, much less a teenager. As a means of trying to make up for her sister’s neglect, his single, childless aunt had lavished him with attention and affection until the day she died. By then he was an adult and appreciative of her kindness. But while living with her, he had daily tested the good-hearted lady’s patience by being not at all lovable. Along with typical teenage angst, he carried an additional chip on his shoulder. (The size of Rushmore, according to Holly.)
Because of his bad attitude, it had taken time to reestablish himself with his classmates, form new alliances, and acclimate to small-town life. Even after being accepted into the popular crowd, he remained defensive, rebellious, and angry.
On days when his mood turned particularly dark, he escaped to this spot and whiled away hours skipping stones, taking out his nameless frustration on the mirror surface of the lake. One day he threw rocks until his arm gave out from exhaustion. Sitting down on the muddy shoreline, he placed his head on his bent knees, and wept.
By the time he had cried himself out, he realized that he wasn’t angry at his aunt’s claustrophobic house and her cloying affection. It wasn’t his friends or coaches or schoolwork causing him to be persistently aggravated and annoyed.
He was angry at his parents.
Each had exed him off their to-do list, and they’d done so in permanent ink. His mother had her life, and it didn’t include him. His father had no life beyond his next drink. Crawford couldn’t fix or change the circumstances. This was a done deal. This was the hand he’d been dealt, and it was up to him how he played it.
He hadn’t buried his anger in the thick mud that day and left it there, forever forgotten. After all, real life wasn’t a fairy tale. His anger remained with him, as indelible as his palm print. But he had chosen and resolved that day not to let it destroy him.
The only time he’d violated that resolve was after Beth died, and he was still suffering the consequences of that lapse. He wouldn’t let it happen again.
He drove back to town and went straight to the courthouse, more determined than ever to get justice for Chet, even for Jorge Rodriguez, who also was a victim of a tragic chain of events perpetrated by someone.
Crawford wanted that someone. He wanted him bad.
Neal was seated at his desk. He looked up, saw Crawford, and said, “I suppose you got my voice mail.”
“No.” He sat down across from the detective. “What did it say?”
“I asked you to come in as soon as possible.”
“Sorry. I haven’t checked my phone for a while. Something come from the interviews?”
“Nothing.”
“How many more to go?”
“Done. Finished this afternoon.”
“No red flags?”
“Nope. All were folks as honest as the day is long.”
“Except the one who gunned down Chet.”
Neal looked chagrined, but didn’t say anything.
Crawford waited, then casually asked, “How’s your kid doing?”
Neal gave him a blank look, then, “Oh, he’s fine. Summer bug. Nothing serious.”
“Hmm.”
“You left the park in a hurry,” Neal said.
After sending Georgia to rejoin her grandparents, he had walked to his SUV, climbed in, and, without explaining himself or saying a word to anyone, he drove away. He raised one shoulder in a negligent shrug. “You didn’t shoot me. Nobody cuffed me, so I left. That video of Georgia scared the hell out of me. I needed some downtime.”
“Where’d you go?”
“My secret. Did the deputies turn up anything in the woods around the park?”
“No.”
Crawford hadn’t expected them to. “Lots of trees and brush to hide behind. Whoever shot the video could have come and gone without Grace and Joe seeing him.”
“Any idea who that might be?”
“If I knew, he’d be in the hospital. Or a coffin.”
“Comforting thought.”