The moon hovers over the tops of the trees and follows us into town. He takes the main drag through Sandbank and pulls into the driveway of a modest colonial home with a columned front porch and evenly placed windows.
A familiar SUV sits in front of the single garage, with a light bar mounted on the roof.
“What are we doing here?” Roiling heat ignites in my belly.
“Stay in the truck.” He climbs out and stalks to the front door.
After two curt knocks, the porch light illuminates, and Sheriff Fletcher steps out.
I sink into the shadows of the cab, my pulse thundering.
John Holsten and the sheriff of Sandbank are thick as thieves, their corruption so intertwined I wouldn’t be surprised if John was shacked up here right now, waiting for me to wander into town alone.
My spine chills as I lock the doors and nervously scan the sleepy street.
Fletcher tips his hat at Lorne, and Lorne gives him a nod in greeting. They exchange words, a conversation I can’t hear, while assuming the same dominant postures—boots planted in wide stances, hands resting on belt buckles, shoulders back, and eyes stony.
Lorne motions at the truck, and the sheriff’s greasy gaze slithers to mine. My breath stutters.
What is Lorne doing? Why the fuck are they staring at me?
Five minutes pass. Then ten. Lorne does most of the talking. Neither of them shows any signs of hostility, but the strain on Fletcher’s face confesses his growing agitation.
The confrontation ends with a jerky nod from the sheriff. He remains motionless and watchful as Lorne steps off the porch, unlocks the truck, and slides in beside me.
“What was that?” I grip the armrest, trembling on pins and needles.
“A prayer meetin’.” With a straight face, he pulls onto the road.
“Was that a joke? Because I’m not laughing. That man is a rat with a badge. Did you know he and John went to school together?”
He stops at a red light and squints at me. “No.”
“They’ve been good ol’ pals since before John met his wife.”
“What are you saying?”
“I’m saying Sheriff Fletcher had a hand in the deaths of Julep and your mother.”
He searches my face. “You believe that.”
“I believe it’s possible that a small-town sheriff shows up at the scene of a car wreck, messes with evidence, and makes it look like an accident. All the while, his best bud is sitting on oil-rich land with the promise of sharing some of that wealth.”
His nostrils flare. “Motherfuck.”
The light turns green, and he punches the gas.
“What did you say to him?” I ask.
“Told him I had what John was looking for.”
My hands ball on my lap.
He glances at my fists and returns to the road. “I went there with a warning, Raina. If John steps foot in Sandbank, Fletcher will contact me.”
“Or?”
“Or he’ll spend the rest of his life behind bars.”
“He’ll take your family down with him.”
“Not if he wants his wife to live.” His hand clenches on the steering wheel. “If there’s one thing Fletcher loves more than money, it’s his high school sweetheart.”
My blood shivers. Lorne threatened the sheriff’s wife, and I have no doubt he’d follow through on that threat if something happened to his family.
He drives the truck down Main Street, the traffic scarce this time of night. Sandbank is enclosed on all sides by farmland and cattle ranges. The closest highway sits on the outskirts of town.
He heads in that direction and stops at the intersection that marks the city limit. A few miles up ahead lies the freeway. A huge tractor supply warehouse spreads out on my right. Anyone and everyone coming into Sandbank passes through here.
“Is there always a security guard on duty?” I point at the marked car parked in the shadowed corner of the warehouse lot.
“As long as I can remember. Old Cal doesn’t trust his security cameras. He’s been robbed and vandalized too many times over the years.”
Movement shifts beside the security car, drawing my eyes to the young man standing near the building. He lifts a cigarette to his mouth, his tall frame clad in a drab security uniform.
I have an idea. It’s a long shot but worth the try.
“Pull into that parking lot.” I brush my hair over my shoulders. “I want to talk to that guy.”
“Talk to him about what?” His lips form a flat line.
“If what you said is true, Cal’s security guards see every car coming and going out of Sandbank. I’m going to ask that one to keep a look out for us.”
He barks a sound of disdain. “Waste of time.”
“If you’re so certain, give me a chance to prove you right.”
He rolls his lips between his teeth. Then he turns into the empty lot.
“Right here is fine.” I point at the first parking spot.
On the opposite end of the blacktop, the security guard lowers into his car, swallowed by the darkness within.