•••••
After taking a shower and feeling thesting on his back where Violet’s nails had scraped him, Simon had stopped thinking last night’s encounter with her was a dream.
Not that the alternative was any better. Not once since he lost his virginity to Marybeth Hartford when he was a senior in high school had a woman slipped out on him. Or vice versa. He tended not to fall in bed with someone he might find himself eager to get away from.
Apparently, the same couldn’t be said for Violet.
Hoping to come up with a plan to address this with her sooner rather than later, Simon returned to the main floor of the bed and breakfast to steal one of the cinnamon rolls he’d smelled earlier, only to run into Holt.
“You’re meeting Travis this morning, right?”
Simon stopped walking, mentally pulling up his calendar.
Shit.
“Yeah,” he told Holt.
“In fifteen minutes.”
Simon glanced at his watch.
Double shit.
“Yeah.”
He’d promised to meet Travis Walker this morning after much back and forth. The guy wasn’t easy to pin down and evidently was extremely reluctant to talk to outsiders. If he put Travis off now, there was a good chance he wouldn’t get another opportunity. And without something to work on, he had no reason to be in Coyote Ridge.
Which meant he couldn’t go straight to the bookstore to confront Violet like he’d hoped to.
“You think I could get a cinnamon roll?” he asked Holt. “And maybe some coffee?”
“I’ll save you one for when you get back. It’s ten minutes out to his house. You don’t wanna be late.”
Well, hell.
Ten minutes later, almost right on the money, Simon was pulling up in front of an impressive old Victorian. Rather than park in the single-car driveway and risk blocking someone in, he parked at the curb.
Doing his best to stop thinking about Violet and remember the real reason he was in Coyote Ridge in the first place, Simon got out of the car. He paused for a moment, taking stock of his surroundings.
Unlike Violet’s neighborhood with the matching houses and yards, this street was bigger, the houses taking up more space, and more acreage dedicated to the yards. It looked like a neighborhood where families lived. Where backyard barbecues took place around the inground swimming pools.
He took his time walking up the driveway, admiring the house. It wasn’t quite his style, but he would admit it was rather impressive. When he reached the narrow path that led to the wraparound porch, he half expected to see toys—maybe a bike haphazardly dropped, a toy truck, some dolls—scattered around the front porch, announcing the presence of children in the house. There were none. The porch swing on the right side had a light blue cushion, the only sign that it might get some use now and again.
Simon didn’t usually meet people at their homes if he could help it. Certainly not people related to the cases he was reporting on. He preferred more public settings. Less chance of things getting awkward. He’d learned from experience that people reacted very differently to the trauma that had impacted their lives. Whether they were the family of the victim or the family of the perpetrator, the range of emotions ran the gamut, and no matter how hard he tried, he could never predict how someone would react.
Unfortunately, Travis Walker insisted on keeping their conversation on the down-low and according to Holt, the fastest way to start rumors was to be seen with an outsider in town. It’d been nine days since Holt and Travis had a sit-down at the diner, and Simon was still hearing whispers about it. And since speculation over Simon’s presence in Coyote Ridge was all over the place—Bailey had someone ask her if he was there to buy the B and B—he figured it was better to be safe than sorry.
So here he was, walking up the wide steps to meet with Travis Glenn Walker, born and raised in Coyote Ridge, Texas. Date of birth was July 15, 1978, which made him forty-four years old. Married, five children. His parents, Curtis and Lorrie, were alive and well, still living in the same house Travis and his six brothers had grown up in. Travis owned and operated Alluring Indulgence Resort, a thriving fetish resort located right here in this small town.
And that was just the information he remembered off the top of his head. He’d done a deep dive because it always benefited him to know what he was getting himself into. That, and knowing the details—names, ages, etc.—helped to remind him that he wasn’t merely reporting a story; he was relaying particulars of someone’s life.
Holt had given him a little insight but not nearly enough to prepare him for this visit. Considering Holt was still new to town, he didn’t have much information, and for whatever reason, the townspeople didn’t talk much about Travis. They had plenty to say about every other Walker who lived there but very little about the man whose wife had been murdered in the downtown square not quite two years ago.
Taking a deep breath, Simon walked across the porch and knocked on the wooden screen door.
A moment later, the door opened, and a man appeared.
“Travis?” Simon asked as they stared at one another.
