“You wanted to know if I had a motive to kill them, Sheriff? No. I had a reason to love her. And Wade Hollis had a reason to be jealous. You stop looking at me and you start looking at the man who’s been living in that stone house while she’s been… wherever she is.”
Sam turned toward the door, his hand on the frame. He looked back at Burke, the paper crinkling in his grip.
“She loved me, Burke. After all this time… I finally know she loved me.”
Sam was halfway to the door when Burke spoke up. The voice wasn’t that of a Sheriff; it was the voice of a son starting to see the cracks in his own foundation.
“Sam. One more question.”
Sam stopped. He didn’t turn around, but he didn’t leave.
“When you took this to my father—back in ’99—what happened?” Burke asked, his voice low. “What did he do? What was the thought process back then? Was there anything… anything at all going on at the Hollis place that he looked into?”
Sam turned slowly. He looked at Burke, then at Luke, his expression softening into a pained sort of pity.
“Burke, listen. I don’t want to run your dad down, especially not to you,” Sam said, his voice rough. “But Burton… well, he wasn’t the Burton I knew at that time. It was like he couldn’t shut her disappearance down fast enough.”
Sam stepped back toward the desk, the memories clearly rising up.
“I told him, Burke. I told him she was always painting back on that ridge, and she’d told me more than once that there was all kinds of stuff going on back there. People coming and going at all hours. Even a plane coming in and out.” Sam let out a short, humorless laugh. “When I asked Wade about that once, he told me he was dusting crops. But there weren’t no crops on that ridge back then, and there aren’t any now.”
Burke felt a coldness settle. “And my father? What did he say about the plane?”
“He told me I was seeing ghosts,” Sam rasped. “He said there was never any love lost between me and Wade—which was true enough, since I wouldn’t sell him my land—and that I was just looking for someone to blame because my girl had realized she was too big for this valley. Your dad wouldn’t hardly look me in the eye after that. They told me she walked away, and when I said she wouldn’t leave her life behind, they treated me like a madman.”
Sam leaned in, his eyes boring into Burke’s.
“I don’t know if Wade Hollis had something over your dad, or if Burton just didn’t care enough about a girl like Clara to ruffle the feathers of a man like Wade. I don’t know the why of it. ButI know it wasn’t handled right. And that’s a fact I’ve had to live with every night for twenty-seven years.”
Sam turned and walked out this time, his boots echoing down the hallway of the department.
Burke sat in the quiet of his office. He looked at the Clara Vale file, then at the empty chair where Sam had just been. He felt the weight of the five-pointed star on him, and for the first time in his life, it felt tarnished beyond repair.
* * *
Bridlepath Farm — Main Barn
The soft scritch-scritch of pitchforks against the mats and the rhythmic thud of fresh flakes hitting the floor created a steady pulse of morning chores.
Grant was leaning against a support beam, his arms crossed tight enough to tear the seams of his shirt. He was brooding, his eyes fixed on the driveway, but his mind clearly miles away—or just a few feet away, stuck on the smeared red lipstick and the defiant look in Izzy’s eyes from the night before.
Naomi moved past him, hauling a grain cart with effortless precision. She didn’t say a word as she tossed a measured scoop into a waiting bucket, the grain hitting the plastic with a dry rattle. She’d been watching him for twenty minutes, and her patience was wearing thin.
The sound of an engine broke the morning hum. A small, pristine white van with “Petals & Peak Florals” scripted in gold leaf across the side rolled to a stop just outside the wide barn doors.
A young man hopped out, nearly obscured by an arrangement of peonies. They were the color of a mountain sunrise—corals, pinks, and whites, their heavy heads nodding in the breeze.
“I have a delivery for Isabella Moreno?” the kid asked, squinting over the blossoms.
Grant didn’t move from the beam. “She’s up at the house. I’ll take ’em up for you.”
The delivery guy hesitated, shifting the heavy crystal vase. “Oh, no sir. Mr. Hollis—Mr. Cal Hollis—asked me to personally hand her the card and make sure she was the one to receive them.”
Grant’s jaw worked, a muscle jumping in his cheek. “Oh yeah? I bet he did.”
The pause that followed was brittle. Naomi paused, a flake of hay in her hand, watching the fire dance in Grant’s eyes.
“Fine,” Grant said, his voice dropping into a low, dangerous rumble. “Take them up to the house.”
