Page 9 of Double Bucked

I follow in her wake. She exits the building and halts in the parking lot. Her hair looks gold in the Kentucky sun. Claire is standing very still. She stares ahead. I put my hand on her shoulder, but she flinches and shrugs it off.

Deputy Holden steps outside to join us. He’s holding his hat by the brim in a sign of mournful respect. “When you’re feeling up to it, Ms. Preacher, I’d like to come by the house and get a statement. Go through some of Mr. Preacher’s files. See if we can’t make some headway into the investigation.”

“Do you have any leads?” Claire asks.

“We’re compiling a list of people who may’ve run into trouble with your father in the past.”

“You’ll need the whole town registry for that.” Claire tilts her head. “Come over now.”

The deputy hesitates. “Are you sure you don’t want to settle in?”

“The quicker we get through this, the quicker I can get back to France.”

Our driver pulls up. I open the door for Claire, and she steps a long leg inside.

“I’ll follow in my car,” the deputy says.

I get in beside Claire and close the door. It’s dark in the car, the tinted windows sealing us off from the midday sunlight.

“To the Preacher estate, miss?” the driver asks.

“Yes,” I answer for her.

The car rolls forward. Claire looks away from me. As she stares out the window, I notice the rapid rise and fall of her chest.

Claire hasn’t eaten in forty-eight hours and wouldn’t even touch the tiny bag of airplane pretzels I pushed on her. She’s consumed some water, but not enough. She hasn’t slept.

She’s wound tight, running purely on the fuel of grief and rage.

“Claire.” I say her name softly. “You should slow down. Take a breath.”

“I’ll slow down when I’m dead.” She hears the words repeated back in her ears, and her mouth twists.

I crack open the window and let the fresh, earthy air in.

We pass more hills, spotted now with large, looming mansions. Each house has wide swaths of empty land separating one from the other. There are no true neighbors on this side of Belleflower, it seems, only acquaintances who live very, very far down the road from each other.

Our car stops in front of a black iron gate flanked with red brick. Harding gets out, punches in the key code, and the electronic motors on the gate ease open. We roll through the teeth of the gate and turn down a private road blocked in with tall, thick hedges. Through the gaps in the hedges, I can see the sprawling Preacher property, dotted with farm hands, grazing horses, and white wooden ranches.

We drive the bricked road up to the Preacher mansion. It’s a looming, Greek-style mansion. Tall, curved windows open out like a many-eyed spider, watching the grounds. The roof is ash-colored, the body limestone white, crawling with green fingers of ivy. We pass a large bronze structure of a horse rearing back on powerful, strong haunches. On either side of the stature sit two stone fountains with cherubs pouring water from large vases.

Now that she’s home, I watch some of the fight leave Claire’s eyes. This time, she remains seated and allows Harding to open the door for her and help her out.

When I step around to join Claire, I find her pulling through her purse frantically.

“Looking for something?”

“A key. I don’t have a key.” Her voice is tight and shaky.

I’m about to ask Harding for assistance when we both hear, “Bear.”

A man sits on the front steps. He’s wearing a rugged canvas jacket, dirty jeans, and a red bandana around his throat. He removes his hat as he rises to his feet, revealing a head full of wild, thick hair and a gentle face full of remorse. “Bear, I’m sorry…”

Something switches in Claire.

I watch as she storms toward the man and smacks him hard across the face.

“I had to hear it from the sheriff!” she hisses. “The sheriff! Where the hell were you?”

---