He shook, his body heat rising like a volcano, until he screamed. The glass flew from his hand. It smashed against the wall and shattered into pieces. The cloying scent of alcohol filled the room.
He was not going to prison. Not now. Not ever.
He was a hunter. Deer. Humans. It was all the same. He took a shuddering breath. Sacrifices would have to be made, but there was a way to salvage this.
Next time, it would be a kill shot. Then he would have blood.
Luke’s. Megan’s.
And anyone else who threatened to get in his way.
Sixteen
The following morning, Luke parked his Suburban in the Dickersons’ driveway and got out. Warm sunshine hit the back of his neck and the scent of freshly cut grass carried on the wind. He’d arrived a minute or two early for the interview with the family and their attorney, hoping Chad would already be there. Luck was with him because a black pickup sat three cars away. He’d have to pass it on the way to the front door.
He slowed his steps as he approached the vehicle. The chrome bumper gleamed, and a hunting decal decorated the back window on the driver’s side. Luke closed his eyes, bringing up the image of the truck fleeing from the shooting yesterday. Had there been a decal in the back window? He couldn’t be sure.
Luke circled the truck, peeking inside through the windows. It was an extended cab, fully decked out with a high-priced stereo system and leather seats. It was spotlessly clean. A gun rack was installed on the interior roof, but there were no weapons.
Sheriff Franklin drove up, his boots hitting the cement with a thump as he exited his vehicle. He raised a hand in greeting before sneezing.
“This stupid cold is gonna be the death of me.”
They went up the walkway to the house together, and Luke rang the bell. Ed Rhodes, the Dickersons’ family attorney, opened the door moments later. His comb-over was swirled low on his forehead and his eyes bulged behind his glasses, giving him a faint frog-like appearance.
The attorney escorted them inside to the living room. Half-drunk glasses of sweet tea sat on the coffee table next to a plate of cookies. Chad lounged in a leather armchair, an insolent expression on his face. His eyes were bloodshot, as though he’d been up late drinking, but he appeared sober at the moment.
Heath stood behind his son, his arms crossed over his chest.
Franny’s mother, Karen, rose to greet them with a handshake. Slender with a pixie haircut, she was a mirror image of her late daughter.
“Can I get you gentleman any iced tea?” she asked. “Or some coffee?”
“They aren’t houseguests, Karen,” Heath snapped. “They’re here to pin a murder on us.”
Her complexion paled, and bit down on her lower lip.
Luke offered her a smile. “No, thank you, ma’am.”
Sheriff Franklin removed his hat and set it on the back of a chair. “We’re not here to pin a murder on anyone.”
“Well, you didn’t come to sell us Girl Scout cookies.” Heath rocked on the heels of his snakeskin boots. “Let’s get to it.”
“What were you doing at Memorial Hospital last night?” Luke asked, directing his question to Chad.
He smirked. “Getting stitches.”
Chad unbuttoned the cuff of his shirt and lifted the sleeve, revealing a bandage on his forearm.
“A bull didn’t want to move to his new pen.” His grin widened. “Would you like to see the bill too?”
Luke kept his expression neutral, but Chad’s smugness didn’t sit well. It wasn’t beyond the realm of possibility he’d been injured days ago.
“I would appreciate having a copy of the bill,” Luke said. “Thank you for offering.”
“Oh, come on,” Heath exploded. “Are you kidding me? This is bordering on harassment, Sheriff.”
Ed cleared his throat. “My clients are understandably upset. They’ve cooperated with the investigation and provided alibis for several days in question, including their daughter’s own murder.”
“I’d still like a copy of the hospital bill.”
“You’ll have it this afternoon.” Ed straightened his pinky ring. “Anything else?”
“Actually, yes, there is.” Luke kept his gaze on the Dickerson family. “Where were each of you on November 30th two years ago?”
Chad sat up straight. “That’s the day Skeeter was shot.”
“I’m going to object to this line of questioning,” Ed said. “How can my clients remember where they were two years ago—?”
“That’s all right,” Heath interrupted. “We know where we were.”
He stepped forward and placed a hand on his wife’s shoulder. She flinched slightly before smoothing her expression into a carefully constructed mask.
“We were here, Ranger,” Karen said. “That’s my birthday, and I’d arranged a party for that evening. Heath and Chad were helping to set up the decorations and the outside tent for the festivities.”
“The entire day?”
“Yes.” She smiled, but the edges were tight. “I’m sure our foreman will confirm it for you. He was also helping.”
The same foreman had provided alibis for both Chad and Heath for two other incidents—the hours before June’s car accident and the day of Megan’s attack. The man’s word didn’t mean much. Heath could’ve paid him off, but proving it would be difficult.
Heath released his wife’s shoulder, and Karen took a deep breath. Luke’s gut churned. He’d been around abused women enough times to recognize the subtle clues. Karen’s voice was smooth and cultured. He tried to compare it to the woman calling to warn Megan, but like the decal on Chad’s truck, he couldn’t be sure.
Ed straightened his posture. “Why are you asking about my clients’ whereabouts on the day Skeeter was killed?”
Luke opened his mouth to give them a canned answer, but Sheriff Franklin cut him off.
“A ballistics analysis confirms the rifle used to shoot at Megan and Ranger Tatum yesterday was the same weapon used to kill Skeeter,” he said. “Obviously, that changes the investigation.”
Luke kept his posture relaxed and his attention on the family, but his mind was racing. Why would the sheriff have shared that information? It would’ve been
