exposed (Twisted Cedar Mysteries Book 3) (8 page)

And of course she was. Her niece, with her small, heart-shaped face so like her mother’s, looked at her with questioning eyes.

“No news on your brother, I’m afraid.” Charlotte pulled the girl in for a hug, then glanced up at Bailey Landax. It was hard not to resent the other woman’s well-groomed state, when she herself looked like hell.

But then Bailey was a Realtor. Looking attractive and professional was important to her success. With the closing of Quinpool Realty, business must be booming. Even Jamie had purchased her new home from Bailey.

“How are you doing Charlotte?”

“Is Chester home yet?” asked her daughter Paige.

“No.” Charlotte shook her head grimly. “I’m afraid not.”

“I’m sorry to hear that.”

Bailey put a hand on Charlotte’s shoulder. She probably meant the touch to convey sympathy, but for some reason this woman had always struck a false note with Charlotte.

Still, Charlotte knew Cory really enjoyed Paige’s company, so she was glad to hear Baily say, “I’ll be glad to drive Cory to and from school tomorrow, as well, if—well, if you would like me to.”

In other words, if Chester was still missing.

“Thank you,” Charlotte said, barely managing to get out the words without crying.

“Oh, absolutely.” Bailey hesitated, then took a step forward and lowered her voice. “I did hear Cory talking about something with Paige. I thought it might be important and so I suggested she tell you.”

“Is it to do with Chester?”

“Yes, it is. Go on, Cory, tell your aunt the same thing you told Paige.”

Worried lines appeared on Cory’s forehead as she glanced from Bailey to Charlotte.

Charlotte gave her niece’s hand a squeeze. “It’s okay honey. Take your time.”

Cory swallowed. “W-well, it was after school a few days ago. We were walking home when the football coach told Chester he wanted to talk to him.”

Charlotte was confused. The school the twins went to had a gym teacher, but not a football coach per se. “Were you still on the school grounds?”

“Not anymore. We were walking past the pink house, the one with the bird houses.”

Charlotte nodded. “I know exactly the place you’re talking about. So this football coach—was he someone you knew?”

“No.”

“Are you saying a strange man just walked up to your brother and started talking to him?”

“I-I guess. But he looked like a coach, he had a ball cap and a whistle on a rope around his neck. He wanted to know if Chester was planning to play football when he was older. He said Chester looked like someone who would be a natural.”

Charlotte put out a hand to the doorframe, feeling suddenly unsteady. She took a deep breath then nodded at Bailey. “Thank you for bringing this to my attention. We need to let the sheriff know right away.”

“Of course. I think driving by the house was what made Cory remember. I hope it helps.”

Charlotte thought she said thank you, again, before closing the door, but she wasn’t sure. She was too focused on Cory, trying to read from her expression if she realized how important her story might be.

“Come and sit down,” she told her niece. “I’m really glad you remembered this detail. It could be important so I’m going to phone Sheriff MacKay, all right?”

“Okay,” Cory said softly.

Charlotte kept a reassuring hand on Cory’s back as she made the call. Her eyes fell on the butter she’d removed from the fridge earlier, planning to make cookies with her niece once she was home.

Was she deluding herself to hope that this clue might be the key? That before the cookies were ready, her nephew might be home?

After being admitted into the inner sanctum of the sheriff’s department, Dougal was heading toward his room at the far back of the building, when he almost collided with Wade. Wade had his hat in one hand, SUV keys in the other.

“Dougal.” Wade looked pressed, but he paused to talk. “Charlotte just called. Apparently Cory noticed Chester talking to the high school football coach on the way home from school one day—she thinks it was on Monday.”

Dougal knew Brad Scott. He’d been a senior when Dougal, Kyle and Wade were juniors. He’d played four years of college football, on the same scholarship that had later been offered to—and refused by—Kyle.

“Where did this happen?”

“Cory says Scott approached Chester during their walk home from school.”

“I suppose Brad could have been asking about Kyle.”

“Cory said they were talking about football. The coach was buttering up Chester, saying he thought he looked like a kid with potential.”

“You’re right. There’s something off about it.”

“I’m going to talk to Scott now. Field is getting a statement from Cory and Charlotte.” Wade’s eyes narrowed. “You going another round with the old man?”

Dougal held up his phone, which had chimed with new email messages about five times on his drive back to town. “I’ve been summoned.”

“Did he like the first chapter?”

“God help me, he did.”

“It’s a video chat?”

“Yes. A different chat room than the last time.”

“Can you tell where he’s contacting you from? Anything in the background that might be a clue?”

“Afraid not. He’s strung up something on the wall behind him. Looks like a white bedsheet.”

“Not much to go on there. Keep me posted if anything else comes up.”

“Will do.”

Dougal carried on down the hall, pausing to grab a slice of pizza from the big conference room. Only Marnie was in there at the moment, logging information into one of the computers. She paused briefly, but when she saw it was him, immediately lowered her gaze and resumed typing.

The telltale red stain on her cheeks gave her away, though.

She
did
have a crush on her boss. Dougal wondered if Wade had guessed. Knowing him, probably not. Wade was pretty astute when it came to running the sheriff’s department. But when it came to romance—especially his own—he didn’t have a clue.

His replacement laptop was waiting on the table, just as he’d left it. Dougal opened the machine and while he waited for it to warm up, devoured his pizza. He might as well build up his strength now, because for sure, once he started chatting with the old man again, his appetite would be gone.

As he ate, Dougal re-read the email he’d skimmed earlier on his phone. Librarian Momma sounded so excited, it was nauseating.

“Yeah! That’s perfect. You’re off to a good start. I’m ready to work on the next chapter as soon as you are.”

Christ. The sick pervert was totally getting off on this.

Dougal took a deep breath, then followed the link and signed into the new chat room. He couldn’t help but flinch when his father’s face almost immediately filled the computer screen.

“You got to admit, son. Makes a damn good story, doesn’t it?”

Dougal swallowed down his disgust at the word “son.” Though he didn’t remember much about his old man, he knew that if he asked him not to call him that, he’d do it more.

“Want to pick up where we left off?”

“That’s the idea.”

“What’s Chester doing while we work on this?” Dougal slipped the question in, but wasn’t surprised when all Ed Lachlan did was scowl and shake his head.

And then he started talking.

“For as long as I could remember, I’d dreamed about finding my mother, even though I knew she never wanted me. What a fool I was to think she’d be happy to see me now...”

* * *

May 15 1972, Librarian Cottage outside of Twisted Cedars, Oregon

“Why are you here?” Shirley kept hold of the rifle, even though she already knew the moment to use it had passed...

“Why to introduce myself. Don’t you think it’s time we met? I’m Edward Lachlan, but I’ve always wondered...if you’d kept me, what would you have named me?”

He was playing games with her, like a cat, toying with a mouse. But she was older than him. Smarter, too. She had to convince him he couldn’t get to her. “I was a mere teenager when all that happened. There was never any question of me naming, or keeping you.”

“Really?”

Edward turned his back to her, and before she realized what he was doing, he’d pulled up his T-shirt to reveal skin so red and scarred it seemed reptilian.

For just a moment Shirley felt the urge to reach out and touch the raised, angry-looking welts. Instead she curled her fingers into her palms. “I didn’t have anything to do with that.”

“Not even a sympathetic word from my own mother? Especially considering it was you who gave me—an innocent infant—to the monsters who did this?”

“Stop!” Shirley Hammond covered her ears. “I don’t want to hear any more about how they treated you. I was just a kid myself.”

“You don’t want to hear about the beatings?” He circled her, forcing her to twirl in place, in order to keep her eyes on him.

“But I came such a long way to tell you my story, Mother. Maybe, instead, I should tell you about the way they starved me, made me scrounge and steal for enough food to stay alive. Or perhaps you’d like to hear how they treated my younger sister like a princess—just to make sure I knew that it was me not them who was the problem.”

She closed her heart to his words. It was a skill she’d taught herself long ago. He was just a character in a novel. This was merely a story and she could choose to stop reading whenever she wished.

With a calm voice she pointed out, “None of that was my fault.”

“But you’re the one who gave me to them.”

Suddenly it was not a man with a mocking tone in front of her, but a sad little boy, asking why she’d abandoned him. The old pain slammed into her then, and she was shocked that after all these years it could still hurt so much.

She wouldn’t go back there. She couldn’t. Shirley pushed back against the darkness, imagined shoving it between the covers of a book and replacing it on the farthest, darkest corner of a bookshelf.

“My parents made the arrangements.”

“But they’re dead now.”

Yes. He’d done his homework. Her parents had both died prematurely, her father from a heart attack, and her mother from a bad fall down the basement stairs. And she was glad of it. She had never stopped blaming them. The legacy, it seemed, was to be continued.

She set the rifle on the kitchen table. “Fine. If you need someone to blame, then let it be me.”

The man, the stranger, her son, stared back at her.

What was he looking for from her, if not guilt? “Would it make you feel better to beat me, the way they used to beat you?”

She stood before him, an easy target, but he remained motionless.

She turned her gaze to the gun. “Or maybe you’d rather shoot me.”

The terror she expected to feel, was absent. This was the price you paid when you locked away some of your emotions. Eventually it became harder and harder to feel anything at all.

She watched his face, saw him study the gun as if considering her suggestion. But then he swallowed and shook his head.

“When I was a boy I used to dream you would come and save me.”

Shirley blocked out the image his words painted. No one had saved her, either. “You survived without me.”

“Only because I was waiting for this day. I’m going to make you pay.” He put his hand on the gun. “But not with this.”

He left then, and Shirley was relieved. It wasn’t until a few days later that she noticed one of her red scarves—it had been draped over the back of the sofa, along with the cardigan she’d worn to work that day—was missing. At the time it didn’t seem a matter of much consequence.

Wade parked his SUV across the street from the high school, alongside an overgrown hedge but with a clear view of the football field. A practice was in session and Coach Brad Scott stood out as not only the oldest man present, but also the largest. The impressive bulk Scott had sported during his years as defensive end with the Broncos had gone to fat, and even distributed over his six-foot plus frame he looked obese.

It didn’t seem that long ago that Wade and his friends had been playing football on this same field. Wade counted back. Sixteen years. Hell, that number made him feel old.

In Wade’s memory, practices back then had been tests of will, skill and physical stamina. But the guys on the field today seemed to be making a lack luster effort, while Coach Scott was spending more time watching his phone than his players.

Shortly before half-past five, Scott waved the guys off the field. Wade got out of his vehicle and made his way slowly across the street. He paused before approaching Scott, just in case he had last minute questions to answer, but it seemed the team couldn’t get off the field fast enough.

“So they can run, after all.”

From Scott’s startled expression, he obviously hadn’t noticed Wade before now. The coach glanced from him, to the departing players.

“The season isn’t shaping up to be one of our best.” He tucked his phone into his jacket pocket. “Can I help you Sheriff?”

Up close, Coach Scott was looking rough. His eyes were bloodshot and his grey-speckled goatee was on its way to becoming a full-on beard.

“I hope so. You may have heard a local boy, nine-year-old Chester Quinpool has gone missing.” Wade pulled out a photo.

Scott gave it a brief glance. “Yeah. That’s tough. Hope you find him soon.”

The words were right, but the man displayed no real emotion. Wade would have expected more from a man who coached young men and even had two sons himself.

“It’s been more than twenty-four hours, so we’re pretty concerned. Have you seen Chester recently?”

“Why would I?” With a spiritless shuffle, reminiscent of the young men he was supposedly training, Scott made his way to the bleachers lining the west side of the field.

Wade followed. “Well, the kid is a huge football fan.”

“I haven’t noticed him hanging out at any of our practices, if that’s what you mean.”