With the truck locked and the front door closed, she walked upstairs, where she laid the little girl down for her nap. When she was stretched out on the mattress, Daniela gently took off her little shoes and her coat and then tucked a blanket lightly around her. Back downstairs, she took the groceries to the kitchen and unpacked them. It was such a mundane chore, but it brought her a sense of peace. Settling into a routine was what she desperately needed. So much was going on in her life, but all she wanted was peace and quiet, along with a happy future for her and her daughter. Was that asking too much?
Weston wasn’t sure why he was back at the homestead, but, as soon as he’d gotten just a mile away from the wreck where Ginger and Grant had gone over the road, most likely with Shambhala, she started to bark again. He’d pulled off to the side of the road, trying to figure out what the problem was. When he turned to look at her, she went quiet again.
“What do you want to do, girl?”
Shambhala just looked at him. When he pulled into the road to turn around again, Shambhala started barking. He groaned.
“Okay, so does this mean you want to go back to the cabin?”
He felt foolish talking to the dog, as if expecting to get a straightforward answer, because nothing was straightforward about this. The dog was obviously lost and feeling like she was missing something special. But, if he could make the dog a little happier or more secure, it would be worth spending the time.
He drove back up to the cabin, and the dog whined to get out of the truck. He walked around and opened the door for her, then watched as the dog took off again, racing around the fields, then back up to the house, where she scratched on the front door. Weston walked up and opened the door, stepping inside.
It was a nice little homesteader cabin. He hoped the brother didn’t sell it off too cheap because it was a nice place. He looked at some of the details he hadn’t noticed before.
“Grant, did you do all this woodwork? If you did? Nice job, man.” Indeed, a beautiful butcher block countertop was in the kitchen, and it was obvious a lot of time and love had gone into it. He opened a few drawers, looking to see if people had come in and cleaned out the place, but it was still fully stocked with dishes and cutlery in the utility drawer. He stopped when he saw a bunch of letters tossed on top. He pulled them out curiously.
“What was your life like, guys?” he murmured.
Shambhala went to the rug in front of the fireplace and lay down. That seemed to have been her spot.
He looked over at her, smiled and said, “You like that place, do you?”
Shambhala gave a heavy sigh and stretched out on her side.
That was the first time he realized she had dried blood on her underbelly as well. He frowned from a distance and then decided she should just stretch out and relax a bit, and he’d check it out later. After she was more comfortable around him.
As he studied her, he remembered the note in her file about loving music. He himself played the trumpet a bit, but had her adoptive family known about her favorite things? Living out here, they may not have indulged in a lot of electronics, especially if electricity was spotty out here. So maybe they wouldn’t have played the radio constantly, nor had he seen any musical instruments. Right now she looked like she didn’t have a care in the world.
Whatever the injury, it couldn’t be too bad. She’d been very active since he’d gotten her, so she clearly wasn’t hurting or slowing her down that he knew of. As he looked at the envelopes, he realized they were bills—one for truck insurance, and another one made his blood freeze.
Nothing was on the envelope except a single word. Die. He grabbed a set of tongs, flipped it over and realized the tongs would be useless because whoever had opened it had already put fingerprints all over it. But Weston wouldn’t add any of his. Being as cautious as he could, he pulled out the letter with the tongs. It was a single piece of paper ripped off a notepad.
I told you to pay up, or you’ll die. There was no signature. He laid it out on the kitchen counter and took several photos of it, then sent the pictures to the detective he’d spoken to earlier, Detective Kruger. Because, if you saw something like this, and then the people died, you have to wonder if something wasn’t suspicious about the case. As soon as he sent the photo, he sent a text message. Are you sure the deaths were accidental?
He went through the rest of the mail but found nothing else suspicious. He put the rest of the mail back into the drawer. Then he did a quick search around the living room, looking for anything that might be out of the ordinary.
Shambhala hadn’t seemed to be too bothered. She’d come in and gone straight to the fireplace, but that didn’t mean that, with the cops having been in here, somebody else hadn’t been as well. Weston searched the cupboards, high and low, and the bathroom, then went into the bedroom. Also a sleeping loft was upstairs, and, as he went up to see it, he found it was used more as a family den or sitting room with a great big soft couch for reading and lots of bookshelves stuffed full.
He wandered through the shelves, smiling when he saw the eclectic mix of fantasy, fiction and business books, right along with homesteading books. He shuffled
