Twenty years ago, his dad had been dead. For twenty years, Trent had run this land either with his mother or alone. They’d handled every hard thing that had come their their way because there’d been no one else. And now here was his father, alive, sitting on the very sofa that Trent remembered him purchasing and carrying in from the truck. And here was the woman Trent loved with a bruise and cut on her face, and there was no fucking way Trent was going to lose either one of them.
Not today.
Courtney folded her arms and tapped her toe on the floor. “Everything is working out just fine," she said. "You think the world finding out Jack is alive is a problem for us?" She shook her head. "It's not. Because the world will also find out that he faked his death—ith the help of a sitting US Marshal." She paused and leaned closer. “Slade broke the law to hide a witness to a crime that never happened. The courts would look at it as a fabrication for some kind of profit. And Slade would've had to bribe at least one official, if not more, to make Jack's death look real. That’s gonna come back and bite someone in the ass.”
“Not me,” Jack said.
“Oh, but it’s not going help your case.” She smiled serenely. “Especially when you’re dead, and/or missing—again. I mean, twenty years later, it's all coming apart. You see, we can spin this any way we need to. Like, let’s say, Jack panicked because he didn’t want to be brought back from the dead. Killed the one man who could expose him." She looked at Dove. "And this one—she discovered the truth. Came to confront him. Had words with Trent. And well…" She lifted one shoulder. “Crime of passion. Or maybe an accident. You know how accidents can happen on properties like this. Everyone knows that."
“Wow. You’ve created quite the plan in a short period of time.” Trent stared at her, a little in awe of the smooth, practiced way she'd assembled that story, the way every piece fit against every other piece like she'd been building it for a while. There were holes. But those holes might not need to be filled if there were no bodies, or if those bodies couldn’t speak for themselves.
His dad leaned forward, pressed his hands on his knees and laughed. The kind of laugh that rattled a man’s chest. "That's an interesting plot twist," his father said when he'd settled. "But it doesn't explain why I'd kill Slade. I have no motive. None. I owed him everything. And the second anyone starts digging into why my death had to be faked in the first place—and they will, because that's how these things go—they’ll find the ME who did it. A Dr. Raymond Weiss. The same one who’d gotten a little tired of Edward Kirk threatening him.”
Trent shifted his gaze to Dutton, who narrowed his stare.
“You don’t know what you’re talking about,” Courtney said.
“But I do,” Trent’s father said. “Your father might have been able to keep his hands from getting dirty. His name might have never appeared in Parrish’s Cache and Weiss couldn’t prove anything. But he kept records. And he gave them to Slade, who gave them to me, and I gave them to someone else for safekeeping.” His dad shrugged. “But you know, if you want to take your chances and kill us off, bury our bodies, good luck.”
“And no one is going to believe Dove and I killed each other,” Trent said. “It’s absurd.”
“Not a problem you have to worry about.” Dutton pointed his gun at Dove.
Trent sucked in a breath and slowly let it go.
“But at the end of the day, I’m the one holding the cards," Dutton said.
The song Born on the Bayou, by Creedence Clearwater Revival, came alive in the room.
Trent knew that ringtone. It belonged to Karl and his phone.
Karl dug into his pocket.
“Who the fuck is it?” Dutton asked.
“No one important,” Karl said, staring at his screen.
“Not what I asked.” Dutton glared.
“Cullen Monroe. A guy I grew up with.” Karl stared at Trent.
Trent didn’t move a muscle. He didn’t breathe. He had no idea what Cullen’s play was, but he suspected Cullen wasn’t the only one out there, and that had to be a good thing.
"Answer it, and put it on speaker,” Dutton said.
Karl tapped the screen. “What do you want, Cullen? I’m kind of busy.”
“I can see that.” Cullen's voice filled the kitchen. "Why don't y'all come on outside. And I mean all of you.”
Dutton inched closer and tapped the screen. “Who is this guy?”
“Trent and I went to high school with him. He left town right after to join the Marines. He came back a couple of years ago, not quite right in the head," Karl said. “He’s close with Trent and Dove.”
“He can go to hell,” Dutton said.
“Not sure where you think I am, but I’m not home and like I said, I’m busy.”
“I know. You’re at Trent’s. You’re with Dove, Trent, and I’m guessing Jack as well. Along with a politician and?—”
