“I’ll just lean against the wall,” I offer, suddenly nervous with the towel-wrapped firearm in my handbag.
“You sure?”
“I’m not going to attempt to clean this mess up,” I tease. “It’s probably the same files from sixteen years ago.”
“Might be.” He chuckles. “But seriously, it’s so good to see you. I’m glad you took my advice and stopped in.”
“Yeah, me too.” I can feel my face flush as his pensive stare lingers too long on my bruise. I’m waiting for him to ask me what happened, but he’s silently giving me a chance to talk. “You wanna know about my face?”
“Nope. I figure you’ll tell me in due time. Something else is on your mind. The gears are turning in your head.”
“Is it that obvious?”
“Yep.”
I shrug, letting my gaze drift to a family picture taken when his children were tiny. I smile at one of his kids running through a sprinkler system as his wife holds a grinning boy bundled up in her arms. “I love that picture.”
“I know. It’s my favorite.” He barely glances at it. “You’re deflecting. What’s up?”
I say casually, motioning to the floor, “I found something.”
“On the farm?” Leaning his elbows on his desk, he watches me reach gingerly into the handbag resting at my feet. I set the rolled-up towel in front of him on the scratched surface. The chief looks at me, then at the faded towel as if it might bite him.
I warn him it could be loaded.
Raising a quizzical brow, he nods at the desk. “There’s a gun in here?”
“Uh-huh.”
His nostrils flare. “Where did you find it?”
“In the barn.” He waits for me to explain the exact location, and I add, “It was stuck behind a wooden chest in the tack room.”
His eyes become narrowed slits as he unwraps it slowly. When the ugly metal object is unveiled, he stands to consider it. “Why did you bring this here?”
“I thought it might help in the arrest of my mother’s assailant.”
He sucks in a ragged breath and exhales slowly. “That was a tragedy.”
“I hope it can be analyzed for fingerprints. With the prison being so close, I figure there’s a good chance prints are already in the fingerprint system.”
The chief strokes his chin. “Did you touch the gun?”
“Absolutely not!”
“That was a trick question.” He lets out a loud cackle. “I’m glad you ended up a lawyer. You always were a smart girl, Sibley.”
“I just want whoever did this to be caught, you know?” My voice catches. “I can tell my mother is a nervous wreck because of this.”
“That would be the best outcome, honey. This could be what we need to arrest someone,” he soothes. “How’s everything going so far since you came back home?”
“Well . . .” I take a deep breath. “I have a couple of questions about my mother.”
“Go ahead. Shoot.”
“I found some old correspondence between my mother and a man named Edward Pearson and . . .”
Perspiration beads his forehead before I even finish. Instantly, the chief shrinks into his chair, as if he wishes he could fold his towering form into it. It makes sense that the chief would know him in this small community.
“So you knew him?”
With a shrug, he claims they were acquaintances, but his sunken posture and red face tell me he’s lying. Usually, he has an expert poker face, and I’d know because Jonathan used to play poker with him and told me.
Besides the guilt, recognition and pain are visible in his eyes.
“I just thought since you and Deborah are close to the same age, it would make sense,” I offer. “I mean, there were only forty-seven students total in my mother’s graduating class.”
“And that’s combining a few towns,” he chuckles.
“Can you tell me about him?”
“I can try.”
“Did my mother used to date him?”
The chief shifts uncomfortably in his seat, and I decide to put him out of his misery. I’m just as eager to leave the claustrophobic room as he is.
“Did they have a bad breakup?”
“Not that I recall. Eddie enlisted in the navy and went off to war. Hard to have a long-distance relationship, let alone international.” He pokes my elbow. “Remember, back then, we didn’t have cell phones or email. Everything was snail mail and maybe even a passenger pigeon.”
“I have to ask you something, and let me preface it with: I’m not upset.” I consider him mournfully. “I just want to know the truth. The other day my mother was having a nightmare, and I heard her yelling two names: Edward’s and Jonathan’s. When I woke her up, she kept murmuring she was sorry she didn’t tell me sooner that Edward was my father, not Jonathan.”
Abruptly, the chief stands up and walks to the corner of his office, his back toward me.
“It’s true.” My voice shakes. “Isn’t it?”
“Sibby.” I can hear the hurt in his voice. “I didn’t want to be the one to tell you.”
“You didn’t.”
He doesn’t turn around, speaking to the wall instead of my face. “Yes. Edward was your father.”
“Do you know how I can reach him?” I pretend I don’t know this will never happen, ignoring the hard tug on my heartstrings.
“You can’t.” I watch his neck lower as he hangs his head.
“What happened to him?”
The chief’s voice has a hard edge to it. “He killed himself. Supposedly PTSD. He saw a lot of shit he shouldn’t have had to see. It’s a real, serious thing.”
“When did he . . . when did he pass?”
“You were in high school.” He grimaces. “Shortly before, yeah, shortly before Jonathan died.”
“How long have you known I was his daughter?”
“Edward told me when you were younger, probably when you were in seventh or eighth grade.” The chief turns to face me, and I see wetness on his cheeks. “One day, he spotted you walking with your mom, going into the diner, and when he noticed you,
