“That’s a shame,” Frank said, shaking his head in disgust. “Coulda killed someone. I’m glad she’s okay. This is Mabel McCoy. She’s friends with the man who was hurt.”
Turk turned to me, pen hovering over his notepad. “Ma’am, do you know what happened here? Did you see anything?”
“No. I was inside the hardware store with my friend Dottie.” The words came out steadier than I felt. “When we came back to the parking lot, we found Hank unconscious in his vehicle.”
Turk made a note in handwriting too small to read from where I stood. “And Dottie is?—”
“With the victim in the ambulance,” Frank supplied. “On the way to Charleston Medical Center. I offered to take Mrs. McCoy there now so she can be with her people.”
“I’m sorry about your friend,” Turk said. “Crime in this area is rare. And if someone had seen something they’d come forward. Probably just a transient looking for money. We’ll follow up with your friend at the hospital. See if he remembers anything.”
Frank led me toward his truck that was parked behind the hardware store. It was an older Ford F-150, forest green, with the kind of respectful wear that came from years of actual use rather than neglect. The interior smelled like sawdust, coffee gone cold in the cup holder, and something else I couldn’t quite identify but found oddly comforting—maybe pine tar, maybe just the accumulated scent of someone who worked with his hands and didn’t apologize for it.
He drove with the careful attention of someone who’d learned that rushing led to accidents and accidents led to consequences. Checked his mirrors, used his turn signals even when no other cars were visible, kept both hands at ten and two on the steering wheel like he’d been taught in driver’s education and never quite let go of the lesson.
We rode in silence for several miles, the landscape shifting from Beaufort’s historic district to marsh and pine forest, the late afternoon sun painting everything in shades that made me think of amber and honey and all the sweet things that could turn bitter if left too long in the heat.
My phone buzzed. Dash.
Where are you? Dottie called from the ambulance. Said someone attacked Hank.
I typed back with trembling fingers—Frank Holloway is driving me to Charleston Medical. Hank was hit in the head in the parking lot while we were interviewing Frank. Police are examining the Buick.
The response came so quickly he must have started typing before I finished. I’m leaving now. Don’t go anywhere alone. Stay in public spaces with witnesses.
I stared at that last sentence—don’t go anywhere alone—while sitting in a truck with a man I’d met less than an hour ago. A man who’d quit the sheriff’s department under circumstances that could mean principled stand or guilty conscience. A man who knew we were asking questions about a murder someone had just violently tried to stop us from investigating.
Frank Holloway, who was driving me to Charleston. Who knew exactly where I’d be for the next forty-five minutes. Who could take any exit, any turn, drive anywhere he wanted while I sat in his passenger seat with my phone and my assumptions about his good intentions.
My fingers hovered over the keyboard, and I realized I was holding my breath.
Frank is getting Tommy Wheeler’s evidence files. Bringing them directly to the hospital.
A longer pause this time, and I imagined Dash processing that information, recalculating timelines and priorities and probably the wisdom of letting me get into a vehicle with someone connected to a case where people were being attacked in parking lots.
Good. That’s good. I’ll be there in 45 minutes. Call me if anything feels wrong.
If anything feels wrong. As if wrong would announce itself politely, give me time to dial and explain before something terrible happened.
“Your sheriff,” Frank observed, and something in his tone suggested he’d been aware of the texting even while keeping his eyes on the road. “He worries.”
“He should worry.” The words came out before I could stop them, sharper than I’d intended.
Frank’s hands tightened fractionally on the steering wheel, then relaxed. “You’re wondering if you made a mistake. Getting in a truck with a stranger. A stranger who used to be a cop, who quit under suspicious circumstances, who’s connected to a case where someone just got their skull cracked for asking questions.”
The fact that he’d said it out loud somehow made it both better and worse. “The thought crossed my mind.”
“Smart.” He took the turn onto Highway 21 with careful precision. “For what it’s worth, I understand the concern. And I’m not offended by it. Caution keeps people alive.” He paused. “My house is just up here. Five minutes. You can stay in the truck if you want—I’ll leave the keys so you can drive away if you get nervous.”
The offer surprised me with its matter-of-factness, its acknowledgment that my suspicion was reasonable rather than insulting. “You’d leave me your keys?”
“Rather that than have you sitting here terrified while I’m rummaging through closets for files.” A ghost of a smile. “Besides, if I were planning something nefarious, I probably wouldn’t announce my address and offer you the means to escape.”
“Unless that’s exactly what you’d do to seem trustworthy.”
“Fair point.” He pulled onto a gravel road, the truck crunching over stones. “Be back in a few minutes.”
He disappeared inside, and I sat in his truck watching pine trees sway in the breeze, their branches moving like hands conducting music only they could hear. The afternoon was starting its slow decline toward evening, shadows lengthening across Frank’s small yard, and I found myself thinking about all the places secrets could hide in plain sight.
