“Yeah,” he says. “And they’re usually the ones everyone agreed not to listen to.”
The screen door creaks before I can ask the obvious follow-up.
Marshall steps into the kitchen, rain jacket slung over one shoulder, hair damp because he probably walked straight through powerful rain.
He clocks the tension immediately. Wyatt’s closed notebook, my coffee untouched, the silence stretched just a little too thin.
“Well,” he says, setting his keys down. “Either someone died, or you two are about to tell me something I don’t want to hear.”
Wyatt glances at me.
I jerk my chin toward Marshall. “You’re here. Might as well join the conspiracy.”
Marshall’s mouth quirks, but he pulls out a chair and sits. “Try me.”
Wyatt hesitates just a beat, then slides the notebook back across the table, opening it again. “I’ve been looking into Bonnie Kentwood’s death.”
Marshall stills.
“Okay,” he says slowly. “That’s… not nothing.”
Wyatt gives him the condensed version. The accident ruling, the missing inquest, the land, the money.
I watch Marshall as much as I listen. The way his shoulders tighten. The way his jaw locks, filing this away underthreat assessment.
When Wyatt finishes, Marshall exhales through his nose. “Yeah. I’ve heard some of that.”
Wyatt’s head snaps up. “You have?”
“Not details,” Marshall says. “Just… noise. Growing up. My dad talked about the fire once or twice.”
“What did he say?”
Marshall leans back, crossing his arms. “That it was tragic. That people should’ve left it alone.” He pauses. “And that Carl Benson knew more than he ever admitted.”
Wyatt’s pen stills mid tap. “Carl Benson?”
Marshall nods. “Dad’s friend. Drinking buddy back then. He said Carl was around a lot. Around Mara. Around the Kentwoods.” His eyes flick between us. “And that when Bonnie died, Carl ended up catching heat he never really deserved.”
“Or deflected,” I say.
Marshall shrugs. “Maybe. But my dad never thought Carl caused it. Thought he knew something, though. Or at least knew who did.”
Wyatt leans forward. “Did your dad say what?”
“No,” Marshall says. “Just that it got messy. And that when people started pointing fingers, it was easier to shut the whole thing down.”
I rub my face. “Of course it was.”
Wyatt nods thoughtfully. “Carl still drinks at the Silver Bit.”
Marshall’s eyes meet mine.
I don’t smile. “I was hoping you’d say that.”
Wyatt glances between us, already knowing where this is headed. “I’m not bringing Abilene into this yet.”
“No,” I agree. “You’re not.”
