The sheriff cleared his throat and set the cross back down with exaggerated care, like it might shatter. “Well. If what you’re saying holds up, turns out Amelia Trent’s death wasn’t a tragic accident after all; it was premeditated murder. He used a rattler like a weapon. Once on his sister, and once on you, Miss Fontenot.”
“Almost,” Silas muttered, jaw tight.
The sheriff nodded slowly, then turned to Whit. “And you, son? Just happened to stumble across all this in the middle of a tent revival?”
Whit smiled like he didn’t give a damn. “Guess I’m just lucky that way.”
The sheriff stared at him a second longer, then huffed. “Guess you are.”
He leaned back in his chair with a creak that sounded like it might snap something in his spine. He was tired. We all were. But the weight of what we’d brought him was starting to settle into his bones, too.
“This is gonna be a mess,” he muttered, almost to himself. “Church folk, out-of-towners, social media. I’ll have reporters on my doorstep by sunup and God knows what kind of statement the fellowship’ll try to put out.”
“Don’t think many of them will give a shit now that their dear leader is gone,” Delilah said, venom in her voice. I looked back, and I could tell she was resisting the urge to smile. “Not after tonight.”
A beat passed.
The sheriff groaned.
“Anyway…thought you’d want to know we’re reopening your fiancée’s case, Mr. Ward—but it’s pretty open and shut,” he said, looking at Silas. “We’ll need to keep the cross for evidence, but we’ll call you as soon as you can take it back.”
Silas gave a single nod. I could feel his fingers tighten around mine again, just slightly. Enough to let me know he was still here.
“Thank you,” he said, and I knew what it took for him to say it after they’d dropped the ball in the beginning. “For taking it seriously.”
The sheriff grunted. “It’s what we should’ve done the firsttime.”
Silas didn’t answer.
He didn’t have to.
The sheriff tapped his desk, then stood up. “Go on home. I’ll keep you in the loop.”
The parking lot was slick with rain when we stepped out of the sheriff’s station in Perry, the sky glowing with the kind of predawn light that painted everything in silver and indigo. Delilah dug around in her purse for her keys, Whit already leaning against the Jeep, while Silas unlocked the truck.
“So…now that we’ve taken care of Abel, how about some eggs and grits over at Mabel’s?” Whit said.
“Jesus, Whit,” Silas muttered. “A mandied,for fuck’s sake.”
Whit shrugged, utterly unfazed. “And you watched it all go down, which is exactly why you deserve hashbrowns and biscuits. Maybe even pancakes. We earned that shit.”
Delilah rolled her eyes. “I’m sure they’d prefer to go home and fuck it out.”
I choked on a startled laugh.
“No…you two enjoy your post-revival breakfast,” I said. “I think that, as Delilah said, we need to go home and fuck it out.”
Silas didn’t say anything, just rolled his eyes as he opened my door for me. I was too tired to tease him about it—even if I loved the way he hovered. We could do that later.
Right now, though, we needed to talk about Amelia.
The drive was quiet for the first few minutes, the roads wet and empty, the whole world hushed. I swallowed hard as I looked out the window, half-expecting to see the flutter of ivory wings.
It was Silas who spoke first.
“I think she’s actually gone now,” he said. “For good.”
The road hummed beneath us, intensifying the bonedeepexhaustion I felt after the night we’d had. But I needed to talk to him…and I needed to listen.
