The strangest sensation came over her. As if déjà vu had just met destiny and she felt at once empowered adult and vulnerable teen. She narrowed her eyes in determination. No. She wasn’t at his—or anyone else’s—mercy, not anymore.
He’d built a small front porch onto the double-wide, big enough for a single folding lawn chair and a sawed-off pine log, turned on end to serve as a table. On it sat an overflowing ashtray. The smell of stale butts stung her nose and Miranda recalled the way he’d reeked of cigarettes. How the smell in the closed-up cruiser had made her gag.
And she remembered the way he had leered at her. The way it had made her feel—at once cold with fear and hot with shame.
Wheeler had the screen door open, presumably to let the spring air circulate through the trailer. Miranda climbed the two steps and crossed to the screen door, working to get ahold of her emotions. Fact was, she was mad and itching for a fight. A fight she’d been waiting fourteen years to have.
She glanced down. Sitting by the front door was a New Orleans Saints garden gnome. And just like that, Miranda had herself completely in control. She would determine how this encounter went. It was her show and she would control it.
She was nobody’s victim, not anymore.
She rapped on the door frame. “Officer Wheeler,” she called, “it’s Detective Miranda Rader.” When he didn’t reply, she tried again. “It’s Detective Rader. I need a word with you.”
She peered through the screen. From what she could see, the trailer was empty. She nudged the door handle and it lowered; with her toe she pushed the door open.
Odd, she thought. For a man like Wheeler to leave his door unlocked. Maybe he wasn’t the tough old son-of-a-bitch she remembered. She considered going inside, then thought better of it and turned to go.
As she did she heard music playing, coming from somewhere behind the trailer. She exited the porch and went around back. The music, she realized, was coming from deeper on the property. She headed that way, using a well-worn path. A bayou ran through this area, the one the trailer park up the road was named after.
She thought of that stuffed fish and followed the trail toward the bayou. As she did, the music got louder. A country song about the joys of living in the Deep South.
Then she saw him. Sitting in a lawn chair on the edge of the bayou, fishing pole in hand, small cooler at his side. It was a little early for beer, but hey, Wheeler was retired.
“Officer Wheeler,” she called. “I wonder if I could have a moment of your time?”
He didn’t respond and she called again as she got closer. Her steps slowed as she saw he wasn’t holding the fishing pole, that it was propped up by the folding chair, one that looked exactly like the one on the porch; that the cooler at his feet was open but not one of the six pack of Dixie long necks had been opened; and that an inordinate number of flies buzzed around him.
And mostly, because of the blood. It stained the back of his white T-shirt, turning it an angry red.
The old bastard wasn’t hard of hearing, at least not anymore. He was dead.
She walked around the chair to check his pulse, then stopped cold. A piece of packing tape was plastered across his mouth, a word scrawled in damning black across the tape.
LIAR
Miranda’s hands started to shake, her mind to race. He’d called her the liar. So, was it a message to her? No, that couldn’t be—how would the killer have anticipated her finding the body? She—or he—could have if they didn’t know she’d been suspended.
Either way, the duct tape was definitely a message. To anyone who found him, then to everyone in Harmony via the press.
He was the liar, not her.
Miranda unclipped her phone and dialed Jake. As it rang, she considered hanging up and walking away. Let someone else find him, she thought. Let them call it in.
This wasn’t going to look good for her.
Even as her brain registered the command to walk away, she pictured the two women at the trailer park, watching their children play; she recalled the cars that had passed her during her run, the cyclist whizzing past in his bright-colored Spandex.
Someone would remember seeing her, place her at the scene. And that would look even worse for her.
“Miranda?”
She realized Jake had answered. “Yeah, it’s me.”
“Are you okay?”
“I’m fine. I’m out here at Clint Wheeler’s place—”
“Clint Wheeler’s? What the hell—”
“He’s dead. Somebody shot him.”
She heard his sharply drawn breath, then nothing but a long, damning silence.
Finally, he spoke. “I’m on my way. Stay put. Don’t touch anything.”
CHAPTER FORTY-ONE
2:00 P.M.
Jake made it to the scene first. Miranda met him and together they walked toward to the rear of Wheeler’s property and Wheeler himself, being circled by flies.
They stopped and Jake surveyed the body, then returned to her side. “Well, shit,” he said.
She looked at Jake. “I’m not sorry he’s dead.”
He met her eyes, squinting against the light. “Don’t say that again, Miranda. It’s not smart.”
“It’s true, though.” She glanced back at Wheeler. “Waiting for you to get here … I remembered what he said to me that night, how he treated me.” Anger rose up in her, coloring her tone. “I was just a kid. And I was terrified.”
“Don’t say anything else, Miranda. Not to me. I don’t want to know.”
She blinked, realizing what he meant. “Do you think I’m confessing? I didn’t kill him, Jake.”
He looked toward the drive, then back at her. “Jones should be here any minute. Before he gets here, I have to ask you a question. That day the chief told you your prints were found at the scene and I backed you up, were you telling the truth? Did you take off your gloves to make a call?” At her silence he swore. “I lied for you.”
“I didn’t ask you to, and I didn’t want it.”
“You don’t get it. I jumped to your defense because I believed you. I never questioned your version of events. It didn’t even cross my mind to doubt you.”
His words stung. She lifted her chin. “I didn’t kill Stark. And I didn’t kill Wheeler.”
“How do I know that’s the truth?”
There was nothing else he could have said that would have hurt her more. “I’m not going to dignify that with a response.”
She turned to head back toward the house; he caught her arm, stopping her. “Is that what’s been going on, Miranda?”
“What are you talking about?”
“You and me, the sex. Am I your ace in the hole?”
“Stop it.” She tugged her arm free; he caught it again.
“Was I part of your plan? Just in case something went wrong, you’d have an advocate on the inside? One with a very personal reason to champion you?”
“Go to hell.”
“Just tell me it isn’t true, Miranda. Just look me in the eyes and tell me.”
Jones arrived. They heard the crunch of tires on the gravel drive, the slam of a car door. Miranda looked Jake in the eyes. “I shouldn’t have to.”
*