The mention of blood caused fear to uncoil in the pit of Clay’s stomach. Who’d want to break into Madeline’s house badly enough to stick around once he’d been injured? And who, besides Maddy, would give a damn about Barker’s belongings?
Stop her or I will…Stop her from what? Digging for the truth?
It wasn’t logical that anyone else would feel threatened by Madeline’s persistence. Clay had Barker’s body buried in his own cellar, which was why he could never leave this place. It was his secret, his problem. No one else’s. So why the note?
“That’s all I needed,” Pontiff muttered, then started for his car.
Their interview was over. Pontiff seemed satisfied. But something strange was going on, and Clay had no confidence in the local police department’s ability to solve it.
That left Hunter.
Clay couldn’t believe he was even considering it but he knew what he had to do. For Madeline’s sake, he was going to turn that note over to the man who could destroy him.
The trailer was cold. As if the door had been left hanging open for hours. Or the windows. A woman sat crying on the tattered couch, her face buried in her hands.
Madeline recognized her as Bubba Turk’s sister, Helen, because she’d occasionally seen them together, along with the woman’s teenage daughter, who was with her now, trying to comfort her. Chief Pontiff and Norman Jones, a recent hire, were also in the threadbare living room, as was the county coroner, Ramona Butler. Pontiff and Ramona were bent over Bubba Turk, who was lying on his back on the floor, his massive body taking up all but a small perimeter in which they were trying to work.
“Hi, Maddy,” Norm said. The pallor of his skin had a noticeable green tinge, and he stayed as far from the body as possible.
“Hi, Norm. Where’re the emergency personnel?”
“Wasn’t any need to make ‘em drive all the way over here. It was—” he cleared his throat “—obviously too late by the time we arrived.”
At this exchange, Toby, still kneeling on the floor next to the body, glanced over his shoulder. “Who called you?” he asked.
“Your wife,” Madeline replied. “We happen to be friends, remember?”
He stared at her for a second, then sighed. “I shouldn’t have told her,” he grumbled. “It’s already too crowded in here.”
The past few days certainly hadn’t strengthened their relationship. Toby himself had called her when they found Rachel Simmons’ body; she’d joined them at the quarry at his invitation. Now, only two weeks later, he seemed to have an aversion to her presence.
Her life was changing. Opposing people she’d known for years and hiring Hunter was costing her everything that had once meant so much to her. Family. Friends. And even, indirectly, Kirk. Who knew how many times they would’ve reconciled and split again if Hunter hadn’t come along? Despite her growing resolve, their breakup wouldn’t have lasted, not in the face of all this pressure. It was the incident behind the tree that told Madeline it was really over.
“I have a right to be notified,” she said, her tone no kinder than his. “I’m the press, remember?”
“There’s nothing here to report.”
“The loss of a fellow citizen is important to me,” she told him tartly and tried not to wrinkle her nose at the smell, some of which came from the trailer itself and not Bubba. “What happened?”
Ramona Butler, the county coroner, was a small, bony woman who raised horses outside of Iuka. “I’m betting it was a heart attack,” she said, leaning back on her haunches. “I imagine he clutched his chest, then stumbled and hit the corner of the counter. There’s quite a lot of blood, so his heart was still beating when he hit it. Maybe that’s what actually killed him.”
Pontiff looked at the counter she’d indicated, but Madeline couldn’t bear the sight. The bloody gash she’d glimpsed on Bubba’s forehead upset her. Death upset her. Bubba’s lifeless body brought back images of her mother. Opening the door to her bedroom. Finding the dark figure, barely visible because of the tightly drawn shades, lying on the floor like a discarded garment. Rushing forward and crying out, “Mama! Mama, what’s wrong?” as she touched her shoulder. Then bending close to see why her mother wouldn’t answer and, as her eyes finally adjusted to the dim light, finding a hole in the side of her head.
Madeline suddenly felt claustrophobic in the tiny room. She wanted to run outside and drag big gulps of air into her lungs. But Helen, weeping on the couch, reminded her that she wasn’t the one suffering here. Refusing to do anything that would draw undue attention her way, she edged closer to Norm. “Don’t tell me Helen found him,” she whispered.
He nodded. “They were supposed to go grocery shopping. When he didn’t answer the door, she came in and—” he wiped beads of sweat from his forehead “—and then she called us.”
“He never locked his door, not while he was home,” Helen said, interrupting their hushed conversation. “Why would he lock it now?” she demanded of the room at large. “I couldn’t find the key he gave me, couldn’t help him.”
Norm grew a shade paler as his eyes fastened on the bloated body, and more sweat popped out on his forehead. He was too rattled to help the crying sister, so Madeline slipped past him and knelt in front of her. “Did you know something was wrong, Helen?”
“I was worried.”
“Why?”
“Because I kept calling him this morning, and he didn’t answer. I even called Ray next door and asked him to go over, but Ray couldn’t get an answer, either.”
“You think Bubba might’ve been alive when you got here?”
“Stop beating yourself up,” Ramona said. “That definitely wasn’t the case.” She’d answered with less tact than Madeline might’ve hoped for, but that was Ramona. She wasn’t highly empathetic or patient. She was merely efficient, with a cool, detached air that was probably necessary to her emotional well-being, considering the gruesome nature of her work. “Judging by the temperature of the body, he’s been dead for hours. At least eight.”
Madeline took Helen’s hands while Ramona made the notations on her clipboard. “Are you going to be okay?” she murmured.
“Why’d he lock the door?” she asked again.
Madeline just shook her head.