He finishes putting the number in and hits the call button. “He said to call him if something significant happens and this feels pretty fucking significant.”
Despite the late hour, Hank Landry shows up forty-five minutes after Deacon called him. While we waited, Deacon peeked in my room, but neither of us went in any further. We wanted him to see it exactly as the cops left it.
We meet Hank in the front yard after he texted Deacon that he was parked on the street in front of the house.
Things are tense. We’re not friends. We’re not working together. But somehow we’ve found ourselves connected to Hank in a weird way.
“Show me where they searched.” It’s all he says as we lead him around the house to the backyard, taking him to my exterior entrance so we don’t wake up Shane and Eddie.
His shoulders stiffen when he sees the mess left behind in my room. “Did they give you a copy of the warrant?”
I hand him the document the cop gave me, and Deacon and I stand quietly next to him while he reads through it.
After he’s finished, he glances around the room. “And they said the search was unsuccessful?”
I nod.
Hank walks through the room, stopping near my dresser, where the knife was planted. Obviously, we left that part out.
Deacon gets antsy and rights the mattress over the box spring then picks up the sheets and comforter to remake the bed. I appreciate the effort but I’m not sure I’ll ever be able to sleep peacefully in here again.
“What is all of this?” Hank asks.
I have to step around a pile of clothes to see what he’s referring to. “Shit,” I mumble when I move closer. “Those are the letters and gifts an inmate at Angola named Paul Granger has sent me over the last several months. The police must have spread them out like that because they were in my drawer.”
Each letter is unfolded and stacked on top of the dresser, next to the leather goods he makes and sends with each one.
Hank’s head tilts to the side. “Gifts?”
Hank not asking who Paul Granger is tells me he’s way more aware of what’s going on than he let on at the bar last night.
“He makes leather goods and sells them at the craft shows Angola has on Sundays in April and October.”
Hank picks each one up, inspecting all the items. There’s a wallet, a couple of bracelets, a jewelry box, and the bookmark.
He moves on to the letters and reads each one carefully.
“He makes a good case,” I say.
Hank ignores my comment and instead says, “All the letters are handwritten except this one. When did you get it?”
“Hold on.” I shuffle the letters around and match them up. “This one came with the wallet, which also had a Saint Jude prayer card in. He’s the patron saint of lost causes. Paul is kinda dramatic like that. The bracelets came separately with these two, and the typed one came inside the jewelry box. That’s the last one I got.”
“And the bookmark?”
I shake my head. “No letter with that.” I’m not about to tell him I visited Paul in person last weekend.
Hank looks everything over then takes a step back. “I’m not sure what you want me to do about any of this.”
“You showed up at Doug’s last night for a reason.” Deacon has been silent up until now. “You know more than you’re saying, which I get. The cops thought a knife missing from the Bayliss house was in this room. Just know that if Aubrey is in their sights, so is Camille Bayliss. But I think you know that already.”
Hank lets out a deep breath. He looks tired. Beat. This hasn’t been an easy week on him either.
Deacon takes a step closer, his voice dropping to a whisper. “There’s no saving one without saving the other.”
The grim look on Hank’s face tells me he’s not convinced that’s the case.
“Ask Camille why I was at the Rosary,” I blurt out. “Why I was in St. Francisville.” It’s a risk saying this to him, but the fact that a killer broke into my room and planted a murder weapon makes it worth it.
