Bogeyman. Gayle Wilson
You’re right. My grandmother will have Hoyt’s number. Actually…” She was repeating herself, she realized. Of course, she’d never been very good at prevaricating. “I do freelance articles for magazines,” she began again. “At least I did.”
“And you want to write an article about Hoyt?”
Cade’s elbows were on the arms of the chair, long brown fingers tented so that their joined tips touched the slight depression in the middle of his chin. It wasn’t deep enough to be classified as a cleft, but it had always fascinated her. It was a little disconcerting to realize that it still did.
She wondered if she should just tell Cade the truth. Wouldn’t he be bound by his office to keep anything she told him confidential? If she’d been willing to confide in Hoyt, why not in the current sheriff of Davis County?
“My grandmother suggested that doing so again might provide…a source of income.”
His brows lifted slightly. “And…”
“I’ve spent the afternoon researching the town’s history. Reading back through the old issues of the Herald, trying to find something that might be interesting to the outside world.”
“Did you?”
“Ada reminded me of the Comstock murder. And that it’s still unsolved.”
“That’s right.”
Judging by the shortness of his answer, she wondered if Cade disapproved of what she said she’d come here to do. Again she fought the urge to tell him the truth. He might believe she was an idiot, but at least he wouldn’t think her a ghoul.
“Was that a case where the police knew the killer, but couldn’t prove it?”
“Not in my opinion.”
“Then you’ve read the file?”
“I read through all the unsolved cases when I took office.”
The sheriff of Davis County was an elected official. Blythe wondered what credentials Cade had brought to the job other than some long ago prowess on the football field. Of course, in this state that might have been recommendation enough.
“May I look at it?”
“Why?”
“I told you—”
“I know what you told me.” He lowered his hands, resting them on the edge of his desk. “Now I’d really like to know why you’re so interested in a murder that happened twenty-five years ago.”
“Cold cases catch the public’s attention,” she said, repeating Ada’s words. “And maybe editors’.”
“So you’re thinking of a book deal?”
“I really haven’t gotten that far. Besides, there may be nothing there—”
“There’s plenty there. For the curious. There’s just no evidence. Certainly not enough to lead to an indictment. And no way you’re going to be able to come up with the murderer.”
“I’m sorry?”
“What kind of story would you have without a conclusion?”
She relaxed a little, believing that she understood his objection. “I’m not trying to solve the case, Sheriff Jackson. I don’t have the skills to do that. I assure you I’m interested in doing exactly what I said. Writing an article. Preferably one I can sell,” she added.
There was another of those thoughtful silences. “I’m sorry for your loss.”
When Cade began the sentence, she had believed he was about to apologize for giving her a hard time. By the time he finished it, she realized that he had connected John’s death with the article. He obviously believed she needed the money. Which was the truth, she acknowledged.
“Thank you.”
“I’ll have Jerrod get you the file. There’s an office across the hall you can use. I can’t let you take anything out of course, but there’s a copier in the reception area.”
Cade stood, indicating that their conversation was over. Except she hadn’t asked him anything she’d come here to find out. She had been morbidly fascinated by the Comstock murder, and it had provided an excuse for her research, but what she really needed to know…
“Are there any other…” She hesitated, unsure how to phrase what she wanted to ask.
“Murders as gruesome as Sarah’s?”
Again she sensed his disapproval. “Acts of violence,” she said, finishing her interrupted question. “Other incidents of violent death.”
“A few brawls and farm accidents. Are those the kinds of things you’re looking for?”
“Not really. Someone mentioned that something violent had happened in the house I’m renting. It’s the two-story frame house at the end of Wheeler Road.”
“Not that I’ve ever heard of. However, your grandmother or Hoyt would be a better source for that kind of information than I am. Both have lived here all their lives.”
“You’re right,” she said, finally getting to her feet. “I’ll check with them. Thank you for your time.”
She turned and walked through the door of his office, aware that he was following her. The kid watched as they came into the reception area. She smiled at him as she passed the desk.
“Jerrod, would you get Ms. Wyndham the file on Sarah Comstock, please?”
Realizing that she had been about to walk out without looking at the material she had professed to want to see, Blythe turned, making a point of glancing down at her watch. “Actually…” Again. “Would it be all right if I come back another day and read through the material? I’m late picking up my daughter. They’ll be wondering what’s happened to me.”
“Of course. Whenever Ms. Wyndham is ready, Jerrod.”
“Yes, sir,” the deputy said. “Anytime, ma’am.”
“Thank you. Thank you both.” She started to the door.
“Good to see you again,” Cade said. “And since I didn’t say it before, welcome home.”
She smiled her thanks. A smile he didn’t return. Cutting her losses, she opened the door and escaped those considering blue eyes by stepping out into the cold twilight.
5
Her first thought was it was too soon. It had been only four nights ago that Maddie’s screams had awakened her, and now—
Not screams. Whatever she was hearing didn’t follow the normal pattern of the nightmare. And then, in a blood-chilling flash of recognition, she knew the sound for what it was.
Smoke alarm.
There was only one, located at the top of the stairwell. She’d meant to buy another for the kitchen, but with everything involved in the move and with what had been going on since—
She threw off the covers and leapt out of bed, adrenaline flooding her system. She was halfway to the door of the second bedroom before she encountered smoke. As she ran, her mind analyzed the possibilities. None of them were comforting.
It was thicker in the hall, but she didn’t slow. As long as whatever was burning didn’t keep her from getting to Maddie, she wasn’t concerned with it right now. Once she had her daughter, she’d think about the terrifying reality that in the middle of the night her rented house was filled with smoke.
As she neared the door to the main bedroom, where Maddie had been sleeping since Blythe had heard the tapping on the window, she fought her panic, reassuring herself that despite the density of the smoke there was enough breathable air….
The little girl was sitting