My mouth actually drops open. I have to snap it shut. Was all that work with the Sons of Liberty for nothing? “But what about what they’re saying around town? His involvement with a motorcycle gang?”
The sheriff’s face turns scornful. “Hogwash,” he growls. “Nothing but ridiculous rumors. This whole town’s up in arms for no good reason.”
My mind whirs. Ever sent in the tip. The sheriff is aware of the rumors. The last time we talked, he said the evidence in Renard’s case pointed to murder. And yet he’s calling his death an accident. Did his office not investigate the Sons despite our tip, or did they investigate and miss the deed—and the drugs, guns, and women?
Is Sheriff Theriot really this ignorant?
Our eyes lock from across the room like those of a pair of adversaries. I’m not misreading the tension—the sheriff has come to confront me. But why, if he’s dismissing Renard’s case?
Twice now, I’ve felt the law’s breath on my neck, and twice the threat has been abruptly pulled away.
“Ruth.” The sheriff clasps his hands in front of himself in a show of calm control. “What do you know about Herman Blanchard?”
It seems I won’t be able to predict a single turn in this conversation.“He was my youth pastor, obviously. And my Vacation Bible School teacher.Everyone’sVacation Bible School teacher.”
“What do you know about his passing, I mean?”
For the first time, I break eye contact, searching my memories. “He died two summers ago, right?”
I look up. The sheriff says nothing.
“A gas leak, if I remember. He was found in his garage.”
A tragic accident, everyone had said, though not an uncommon one. Herman Blanchard had never been known as the most street-smart of men…
“The door from Mr. Blanchard’s house to his garage was locked from inside the house,” says the sheriff. “And the electronic control on his garage door was malfunctioning, making it unable to open.”
It takes me a second. “You’re saying he was killed?”
The sheriff rolls back on his heels. “You practically grew up at Holy Fire Born Again. How well did you know Herman? Did you ever hear any…disquietin’ rumors?”
The question touches a nerve. “Like what?” I fold my hands to match his.
He notes it and clenches his jaw. On the pocket over his heart, the starred sheriff’s badge gleams pure gold. I think of the crescent moon symbol in the woods. So many inscrutable talismans I cannot read. “Some things have come to light regarding Fred Fortenot, as you might’ve heard.”
“Oh?” I raise my eyebrows.
The tic in his jaw seizes again. “Some unsavory behavior that escaped the town’s attention while he was alive.” He raises an eyebrow back at me. “Skipped his neighbors’ attention as well, apparently.”
“My father was close with Fred. You should ask him.” I cock my head. “Come to think of it, Fred was a church elder like you. I remember seeing both of you those nights at our house. Remember those nights? When you used to come over late, drinking and smoking?”
The sheriff glares. I can’t decide whether I’m more victorious or terrified to be going toe-to-toe with him. “Back to Herman,” he says eventually. Anger edges his voice. “If I recall, he was very close with his students. What do you know about that?”
This question is the challenge he’s come to lay before me. I can see it in the way he tenses: this is what he cares about.
“Mr. Blanchard was beloved,” I say carefully, “because he went above and beyond what other teachers did. He used to hold these competitions in VBS. The winner would get to go somewhere with him, Dairy Queen or McDonald’s. Places children get excited about. But I never got to go.”
His eyes flash. “Why not?”
I look at the desk and shrug. “Not much of a winner, I guess.”
The sheriff stares at me for a long time before he says, “You know, Ruth, you’re different these days. Not the girl I remember.”
I say nothing. I recognize the trap.
“Well, I won’t take more of your time.” He moves to the door. I watch him, glad to be seeing his back.
“Oh, wait.” He turns. “One more thing.”
