Royce
“Do you think Raine will listen?” Briar asked him as she slid into the passenger side of the 4Runner and set her backpack behind the seat.
He shrugged as he started the engine. “Fifty-fifty chance. Raine tilts at windmills, she was born fighting for the underdog. Tia is lucky that Raine’s the one who found her. Right now, I think she’s more concerned about the girl, which will keep her close to home.”
“Where, and who, do you think Tia was running from?”
He’d wanted to show Tia a picture of the dead tattooed guy and ask if she recognized him, or at least gauge her reaction. Really, he should have taken a picture of the corpse last night, but the coroner should be willing to provide one—as long as Royce didn’t piss Frank off. Fifty-fifty chance, he figured.
Pulling back out onto the highway, he pointed the 4Runner toward Bridgeton, which was about a fifteen-mile drive from Rexville, shorter if the roads weren’t so damn windy. “That’s the million-dollar question, isn’t it? Do we have someone using illegal labor, a farm camp? Is it human trafficking—which is an issue, even here in our small community—or could she be on the run from a boyfriend?” He shook his head. “The boyfriend angle is less likely in my opinion. Tia is truly scared, and I didn’t get the impression she was lying.”
“No,” Briar replied, “she’s not lying, except about her age. There’s no way she’s seventeen. Wherever she was held, her movements were controlled. And they—whoever they are—made sure she was kept unaware of her surroundings. I want to talk to her again. She was definitely hiding something.”
Royce wanted to talk to Tia again too, but Raine was right. They needed to go slowly if they wanted to learn everything they could from the frightened kid. And, if Briar was right and Tia wasn’t even seventeen, they needed to contact CPS. Was it really only his third day as sheriff?
Up ahead, Royce noticed several farm trucks parked in front of the Rexville Café. He tapped the brakes. “More coffee?”
“God, yes,” Briar breathed.
“A woman after my own heart.”
Had he really just said that?
Royce rushed to his next thought. “Besides, the funeral home won’t be open for another hour. I think today is the last day they’ll hold him unless you make special arrangements. Or, obviously, if you decide to hold a memorial there.”
“I don’t know what I’m going to do yet. I imagine there are people who will want to pay their last respects. Maybe.”
“I think you’ll be surprised.” Topher, at least, would want to pay his respects, Royce knew. He’d somehow managed to befriend the curmudgeonly old man in the time he’d been home.
Royce eased the 4Runner in between two older pickup trucks owned by local farmers or workers in the valley. The café was always busy with locals and today was no exception.
“Dammit,” Briar muttered as she pushed opened the car door.
“What?”
“I still have no idea if there was a will or not. And if it was in the house, it was likely destroyed.”
That hadn’t occurred to Royce either. They’d been focused on the shooter and then the fire, not on finding Tor Nilson’s will.
“One thing at a time. After the funeral home, we can call or stop in at Paul Bower’s office.”
“Paul Bower…”
“One of the attorneys in town. He’s in his sixties. If Tor used a law office, it seems like he’d go to one of the older guys in town, not some young whippersnapper.”
“Young whippersnapper,” Briar repeated with a chuckle and a smile. Royce had said that to make her smile and now he had to hold himself back from grabbing her and kissing her right there on Main Street, in front of the diner where just about everyone awake would see them and those not out and about yet would hear about it within three minutes.
Royce restrained himself, but it was a close thing.
It didn’t really occur to Royce until they were inside of the diner that there would be old-timers who would want to congratulate or commiserate with him about the sheriff thing, ask questions about last night’s fire, and maybe recognize Briar, even though she’d been gone for almost twenty years. He steeled himself for the possible onslaught of well-wishers.
Merlin Jones, owner of the Seed and Feed, nodded at Royce as they walked in. He was sharing a booth with Carolyne Pratt, retired English and art teacher. They seemed cozy and Royce wondered what they were up to, worried they were discussing jousting or stage fighting. Carolyn had sold King Security the building they were located in and was now in the midst of planning and restarting the annual Renaissance Faire that had been held in Rexville when he was a child. While it wasn’t written into the sale, she’d given them a deal in exchange for them participating in the Faire. Royce was hoping she’d let it slide but from the wink she gave him, he suspected not.
“Is that Mrs. Pratt?” Briar whispered, close enough that her warm breath tickled Royce’s ear.
“Yep.”
“Boy, I loved her. She was my favorite teacher. She seemed so old to me twenty years ago, but I don’t think she’s hardly changed.”