“To New York—for nearly ten years.”
“What took you there?”
“I needed a break. This town is so small that everyone knows everyone else. I felt hemmed in, wanted to try the big city.”
“You didn’t enjoy it?”
“It had its positive side, but mostly it taught me to appreciate what I have here.”
Sheridan had missed Whiterock, too. But she’d been so focused on running from the past and blaming herself for putting Jason in the wrong place at the wrong time that she rarely looked back. She’d been counseled not to even think about her hometown. Now she understood just how much she’d missed the life she’d known here.
The anger she felt toward the man who’d shot her and beaten her, if it was indeed the same person, nearly overwhelmed her. Those emotions sneaked up on her occasionally. One minute, she’d be fine, and the next she’d be overcome with rage. She tried to combat it by telling herself that she wasn’t alone. Victims everywhere experienced the same helpless, futile anger. At least she was doing what she could to turn it into something constructive. She couldn’t possibly have the kind of empathy she did for her clients if she hadn’t gone through a similar ordeal.
“I can see why you like it here,” Sheridan said.
Ms. Stevens toyed with the strap of her purse. “Will you be staying long? Or heading back to California? John tells me you’re one of the founders of a high-profile victims’ charity.”
“The charity’s been able to accomplish more than I ever dreamed. It’s gratifying work. But I’ll be here until I can figure out who attacked me.”
“It’s got to be tough not to have those answers, that sense of resolution,” she said.
“It is.”
“John feels the same way.”
“He lost his son. He’s a victim in this, too.”
“And then there’s Cain,” she said, her voice falling.
Sheridan hesitated, trying to determine what that change of tone meant. “Excuse me?”
“Cain. It can’t be easy to walk away from a man like that.”
Obviously, she’d heard about the camper incident. “He’s just a friend. There’s nothing between us.”
The bell jingled over the door and Sheridan looked over to see that Cain had finally returned. As his eyes met hers, her immediate reaction said she was a liar. She was still in love with him, maybe more than ever.
“Nothing?” Ms. Stevens said. “Judging by the relief on his face, I’d say he cares a great deal about you.”
“What relief?” Sheridan frowned skeptically. If it was there, she didn’t want to see it. It would only make resisting him that much harder. “He’s…preoccupied. With whatever he’s thinking about. That’s all.”
“But what he’s thinking is, ‘Thank God she’s safe.’”
“Karen, are you ready to sit down?” Obviously eager to move away before he had to confront Cain, John reached for her as the man he’d been speaking to left.
“I’m ready,” she said, but she tossed Sheridan a barely audible parting comment. “You’re a lucky woman.”
Cain couldn’t help noticing the snub. The moment his stepfather had spotted him, he’d turned his back without so much as a nod and headed to the other side of the restaurant, choosing a booth that was as far away as he could get. But in Cain’s view, John had done him a favor. He didn’t have anything to say to his stepfather, anyway. He felt infinitely more comfortable now that they were no longer pretending to be on semicordial terms.
“What’d you find out?” Sheridan asked.
Cain tried to ignore the fact that his stepfather was even in the restaurant. “It was Owen who hid the gun in my cabin.”
“Owen?” Her eyes widened. She glanced toward John and Karen. They seemed engrossed in their own conversation—which appeared to be the beginning of an argument.
“Your stepbrother was trying to frame you?” Sheridan asked.
Cain motioned for her to keep her voice down. Most of the seniors who were the majority of the Roadhouse’s clientele on Sundays had already finished the turkey and gravy special and were on their way home. But as much as he didn’t want to acknowledge it, his stepfather was still around. “No. At least I don’t think so. He claims he found the rifle in Robert’s trunk and was trying to hide it somewhere no one would look.”
“So he was protecting Robert.”
“That part’s believable enough,” he added under his breath. “My stepfather and Owen have made a profession out of cleaning up little Robert’s messes.”
“But without ballistics testing, how would Owen know the rifle he found in Robert’s trunk was the gun that killed Jason? I mean, to the naked eye, most rifles look alike, don’t they?”
“Not if you’ve used a rifle before. Years ago, Owen went hunting with Bailey Watts. He recognized the gun as the one Bailey reported missing shortly after Jason’s death.”
“Still…Robert was so young when Jason and I were shot. He was, what, an eighth grader? Whoever wore that ski mask was the size of an adult.”
“He’s been the size of an adult since he was twelve. John used to call him Jethro after a character on ‘The Beverly Hillbillies.’”
“But would he even know how to use a rifle?”
“My stepfather taught his boys how to shoot as soon as they could carry a gun. By the time John married my mother, Robert was seven and could shoot better than Owen.”
Obviously troubled, Sheridan sat back against the booth. “But…why would he do that to his older brother? To me? He didn’t even know me.”
“Why would anyone do it?”
Kelly, the eighteen-year-old daughter of the widow who owned the Roadhouse, approached the table with a glass of water, which she slid onto the varnished tabletop. “What can I get for you, Cain?”
“Just a cup of coffee,” he said.
She smiled and hurried away, and Cain returned his focus to Sheridan. “Not what you expected me to say, right?”
“No.” Her cup clinked as she set it in her saucer. “So before we do anything else, we need to talk to Robert. Find out where he got that rifle.”
“I just came from his trailer. He claims he found it in Grandpa Marshall’s shed four years ago, when we were moving him into the nursing home.” Propping his elbows on the table, he leaned forward. “He says Owen never told him he found the gun. It just went missing one day, leaving him to wonder what the hell happened to it.”