Making It Right (Most Likely To #3)

“Getting me.”


The cabin came into view as they rounded the bend. Outside of the pictures shown to her from the ladies who volunteered to clean the place every season, she hadn’t experienced the vacation home for years.

Spring did wonderful things to the backdrop of the cabin. Wildflowers bloomed along the west side with new, bright green growth on the shrubs on the east. It sat on a knoll with less than a hundred yards that separated it from a hillside slope of dense pine trees that spilled into the forest. Her father had always said that a wildfire would take the place in a breath. He was right, but boy, the view was breathtaking.

The log construction was something her father had talked to her about every time they drove in. “Think of those Lincoln Logs you play with. Only these logs are filled in with a special mortar between them to keep us warm. Did you know that Abraham Lincoln was born in a log cabin?” She smiled into the memory. Her father was a patriot from the moment he was born. The fact that she’d been given Lincoln Logs to play with as a child instead of dolls said everything about how she was raised.

“My dad loved this place.”

“I can see why. It has everything a man needs.”

“Oh?”

Gill pulled up to the cabin and killed the engine. “A bed, a potbelly stove . . . quiet.”

“I happen to like indoor plumbing.”

“Men like to pee outside. Brings us back to our roots.”

Jo had to smile. “Men!” Looking through the windshield, Jo gathered her courage and opened her door.

Memories trickled in as she stepped toward the cabin. If she reached back far enough, she sensed the feeling of her mother there. But that had been so early in her life she’d all but forgotten the details of the woman.

“What are you thinking about?” Gill asked as they stood staring up at the cabin.

“I’m trying to remember my mother.”

Gill reached for her hand, laced his fingers through hers.

“It’s hard to see her anymore. Unlike my dad. I hear him in my head just about everywhere.”

“And what do you hear in this place?”

She lowered her voice in an attempt to mimic him. “‘Get the groceries, JoAnne. No need to traipse dirt inside if you don’t need to.’ He was a little anal about cleanliness.”

“Even out here?”

“A little less out here, but he’d always remind me to wipe my feet, take my shoes off.”

“Those things don’t seem to bother you.”

She shook her head. “No. Life is too short to worry about dirt.”

“Yet you keep your house nearly immaculate.”

“No, I don’t.”

Gill tilted his head to the side.

“Okay, maybe a little. It’s still his house, I guess.”

Happy Gill didn’t point out that it had been hers for ten years, she took the first step onto the porch and opened the door.

It smelled the same. Wood and musk from sitting unused masked the slight scent of campfire the potbelly stove would give off on cool nights. All the furniture was made of thick wood and dark-colored fabric. If dirt was brought in, Joseph couldn’t see it.

This wasn’t a place to watch TV or think of the world. It was a place to visit with family, eat whole foods that didn’t require a microwave to cook, read a book, or play a game of cards. Considering she’d grown up with a cell phone in her back pocket, there had been trips up there she’d hated simply because she couldn’t connect with Mel or Zoe. And then there were the memories of Mel and Zoe joining her. They left their phones in the truck when they arrived and didn’t pick them back up until they reached the cell service back in town.

Her father would read on the porch, when he’d tell his friends he’d hunted all day. Truth was, he’d only really attempt to find venison on the day before leaving . . . or even the day of. Bleeding a deer in the woods often attracted predators that had no problem stealing her father’s find. When he did manage to bring something home from his hunt, they’d freeze what they could and give the rest to various neighbors who appreciated the meat.

The taste of her father’s venison stew made her mouth water.

Jo crossed to the bookshelf that sat beside the two-person sofa. Her fingers lingered over the thrillers her father had read, some he’d never gotten to.

“Your dad’s?” Gill asked.

“Yeah. He was up here a lot more than I was in my last years of high school.”

“Who came up here with him?”

Jo started listing names. “Karl would come up if Stan was in town, and Stan would come when Karl wasn’t here. Mr. Miller, Sam. There wasn’t anyone excluded from a man’s trip. It came down to who could convince their wives to deal with their kids solo. He came up here alone, too.”

“Or maybe he was meeting someone here,” Gill suggested.

Jo lifted a novel from the shelf. “Probably. I would have at some point if I’d dated someone from town I didn’t want anyone to know about.”

“Is the gossip that bad?”

“Not as much as it could be, I guess. But as a public servant, there is a certain amount of scrutiny the good people of River Bend placed upon him, and now me.”

Gill turned around, took in the room. “What do you see when you walk in here?”

“I see his life. I see that he’s not here, and everything else is.”

“Is that all?”

She allowed her eyes to settle on the new table. “No. That’s not all I see.”

The images snapped in the police file of her father’s death showed her exactly what had happened to her dad.

His death had been instant. One bullet, point-blank. He had a closed-casket funeral as a result.

Jo shivered.

“You okay?”

“Yes.”

“Liar.”

She pushed the image of a dead father from her head and focused on the living soul that still lingered in the space.

“Miss Gina coordinated a cleanup . . . after.”

“I noticed this table is different than those in the photos,” Gill said as he tapped the kitchen-style table.

“I don’t remember exactly who brought it up here. That first year was a blur.”

“I assume the other one was tossed after the investigation was closed.”

“Probably.”

“Karl found him, right?”

“Yeah. When he didn’t return for his shift, Karl drove up. Makes it difficult to point a finger at him in foul play when he had a legitimate need to be here.” Jo set the book in her hand on an end table and crossed to the kitchen side of the room. There was an old icebox they’d put big bricks of dry ice in to keep their perishables cool without having to dig through an ice chest of water. Beside it was a counter for prepping food, a sink that drained to the outside. They’d use water from a nearby creek to wash pots and pans. Paper and plastic plates were a staple to cut down on the need for cleaning. They’d pack out the trash with every trip.

“Did anything else change in here? Damage to other furniture from the gun?”