Thirteen
Dean returned home from his run with Sarah to a sheriff’s car parked in his driveway. The sheriff himself stood on the doorstep, his back leaning against a brick pillar as if he’d been there a while just waiting. Dean paused for a moment. Maybe his grab for freedom was over already, and still, the sheriff pushed away from the pillar and strolled closer, his wavy gray hair swept back and his weathered face unreadable.
“Dean Holloway?”
Adrenaline spiked, and Dean’s pulse climbed to a galloping pace. He could stay and find out what the sheriff wanted, or he could run while he had the chance. Except the sheriff’s car blocked his, so running would have to be a literal run. In a place like Harlow, his best chance would be hiding in the woods, but not before trekking across miles and miles of high grass plains.
He took a steadying breath and met the sheriff’s direct stare, relaxing his body one tense muscle at a time. “That’s me.”
As far as he knew, this was just an innocuous visit to say hello. Best not to incriminate himself just yet.
The sheriff pointed to the front door. “Mind if we talk inside?”
Okay, so maybe not innocuous after all…
Shit!
Dean nodded, resisting the urge to say no.
Hope wasn’t dead yet. Maybe the sheriff had no idea about his unintended involvement with Ms. Bonacci’s home invasion.
“You’re new to town.” The sheriff spoke from behind Dean’s shoulder, while he unlocked the front door.
“That’s right.”
The two men made their way into the sparsely furnished living room, and he took a seat in one of his new armchairs.
“I’m Sheriff Peter Marlin.” The sheriff sat on the matching couch perpendicular to Dean, the lines either side of Sheriff Marlin’s mouth anything but welcoming. The man had to be somewhere near his sixties. “I’m here to talk to you about the recent shooting. I assume you’ve heard about it?”
Dean put on a calm appearance and forced his breathing to slow in a bid to continue enjoying his new life of freedom. No way was he ever going back to prison. Certainly not again over a crime he’d wanted nothing to do with.
The sheriff’s probing stare seemed to size Dean up, or the intention here was to psych him out. Either way, the silence chipped at his nerves since he had no idea what this man already knew.
“One death and a serious gunshot wound. Yeah, I heard.” He curled and uncurled his fingers in his lap, stopping the second he noticed the fidgeting. He needed to give away as little as possible. To not fall into any traps. “I bet something like that doesn’t happen around here very often.”
“No. Never.” The old sheriff gave a restless exhale and shook his head, the wrinkles over his forehead deepening, his brown eyes exuding a level of wariness. “As you can imagine, there’s a lot of people worried and riding me for answers. It looks like a simple case of an ex-husband wanting revenge, but certain details don’t add up. At a local level, I can’t let up until I at least try to find some answers.”
Dean lightened his pitch slightly, feigning surprise. “And your visit here today has something to do with that?”
“You’re here from LA?” The sheriff angled his body toward Dean, as though he aimed for a better look at him, the goal being to weigh Dean’s every reaction.
“That’s right.”
No point lying about information easily obtained.
“And are you aware the man killed in the incident, Anthony Stucco, was also from LA?”
Dean shrugged. “Of course. People here like to talk, and this whole thing is the current topic of choice. So yeah, I’ve heard. But LA is a big place. What are you trying to say?”
Sheriff Marlin cleared his throat, and he frowned down at the biscuit-colored carpet at his feet. A sign he wasn’t so easily led astray. “You arrived roughly around the same time as the deceased. A strange coincidence, don’t you think?”
Dean leaned forward and raised a brow, making it clear he wouldn’t give in either. “Around that time, Harlow also had a town fair and a bunch of tourists from all over passing through. So, what do I think? I think it’s highly likely two people from one giant city like LA could be at the same big gathering, yeah.”
The sheriff leaned in, mirroring Dean’s move; at the same time, mirroring his attempt to intimidate. “I’ll come right out and ask you then, Mr. Holloway. Is there a connection between you and the deceased?”
Dean shifted back, an unnatural stillness taking him over, while sweat clammed up his palms. He pressed his hands to the sea-green armchair material and turned the question over and over in his head.
The last thing he needed were more felony charges added to his already dismal rap sheet. After ten damn years, he’d only now gotten his life to a point where he somewhat liked what he saw. Then again, a clever but evasive answer now would be the only way to avoid hanging questions over his honesty should someone ever manage to link him to Anthony.