Page 62 of The Overnight Guest

Josie didn’t want to get out of the car. The world outside was too hard, too painful. She turned her head away.

“Come on, now, Shoo,” he said wearily. “You’re too big for me to carry you. Get on up and walk.”

Josie had always thought of her grandfather as old, but at that moment, the man standing before her looked ancient. His skin was pulled tight against his skull and purple veins mapped his forehead. His eyes were red rimmed and the skin beneath deeply creviced.

Josie stepped from the car, looked around for any sign of Becky’s parents. “The sheriff took her away,” Matthew explained.

Josie’s eyes widened. “They took her to jail?” she asked in disbelief.

“No, no,” Matthew said, putting an arm around his granddaughter and leading her past the tent and toward the house. “They took her to a quiet place where they could talk. She’s pretty upset, Shoo. Their little girl is missing. Don’t be too hard on her.”

“But they think Ethan killed Mom and Dad and took Becky,” Josie cried, unable to stave back the tears.

“People don’t think straight when they’re scared,” Matthew explained. Josie leaned into his thin frame as they walked. “And you’re probably going to hear people say a lot of bad things about Ethan. They’re looking for someone to blame and Ethan’s that person right now. But we know better, don’t we? We know Ethan couldn’t hurt anyone, right?”

“Right,” Josie sniffled. But she wasn’t sure if she believed it. She saw the look on Ethan’s face after he fired the gun into the air. She heard the anger in his voice when he was arguing with her father. “They’re going to take Ethan to jail when they find him, aren’t they?”

“We don’t know anything for sure,” Matthew said. “We just have to be patient until all this gets sorted out. And whatever happens, we’ll be okay.”

Josie wanted to believe her grandfather.

Ignoring the spasms of pain in her arm, Josie ran across the yard to the barn, eager to see the goats. Once inside, she looked up at the rustic beams that ran the length of the ceiling like the ribs of a great, benevolent beast and breathed in the scent of the fresh straw her grandfather must have spread out for the goats in the feed bunks, several eight-foot long, three-foot deep trenches that ran down the center of the barn.

Out of the corner of her eye, Josie saw a figure step into the barn. At first, she thought it was her grandfather coming to collect her, but this person was too tall and broad shouldered, too sure-footed to be Matthew Ellis. As he came closer, Josie could see it was Randy Cutter, Brock’s father.

Randy didn’t seem to know that Josie was sitting just a few yards away from him. There was something cold, calculating in the expression on Randy Cutter’s face. Something that made her want to stay hidden, unseen even in her own barn.

Josie eyed the distance from the pen to the barn door. It wasn’t far, but with her injured arm, she wouldn’t be able to run very fast. She had no specific reason to be afraid of Randy, but she knew her parents didn’t like him.

Josie thought of Agent Santos’s question about whether her parents had any conflicts with anyone. Josie’s father wasn’t a great fan of Randy Cutter or his father, a blustering, red-faced man who was slowly gobbling up all the farmland that came for sale.He won’t stop until he gets a thousand acres,William observed.

But Randy Cutter hadn’t been able to get his hands on the farmland that William and Lynne Doyle had their hearts set on though he tried mightily.

The feud, if that was what you could call it, lasted for years and bled into their day-to-day lives. There were fences that William Doyle was sure Randy Cutter had damaged and calls to the sheriff about wayward cattle. And there was Ethan’s friendship with Randy’s son, Brock. That didn’t sit well with either family.

Randy stood in the center of the barn and slowly turned in a circle, his eyes scanning the great expanse.He shouldn’t be here, Josie thought. People didn’t just walk into another person’s barn. Not without permission. He continued his slow spin until he was facing Josie. Their eyes locked for a moment, and then he looked down as if embarrassed for getting caught.

“Sorry,” he said. “I didn’t mean to scare you. I was looking for your grandpa,” Randy said, pulling his red McDonough Feed and Seed cap from his head and kneading it between his large fingers.

“Josie,” came Matthew’s raspy voice. “Time to go.” Then seeing Randy, his face changed, his eyes narrowing suspiciously. “Can I help you?” he asked Randy.

“No, no,” Randy said in a rush. “I was just stopping in to see if there was anything I can do to help out. See if you needed any help with chores and such. I’m so sorry about what happened. Man,” he shook his head, “I just can’t imagine.”

After Matthew sent Randy Cutter on his way, Josie stayed close to her grandfather as they did the chores. He milked the nannies while Josie watered and fed the goats. Flies buzzed about Josie’s head as she scooped grain into the feed bunks and then added fresh hay atop the loose hay that was already there.

Josie got to the final bunker and started pouring in the grain when a putrid odor filled her nose. She covered her face with her hand. Goats had a strong scent, especially the billy goats, but that wasn’t what she smelled.

It was a distinctive odor. Animals were always dying on the farm. Whether it be a goat, chicken, or a nighttime visitor like a possum or raccoon, animals died, and their stink was unmistakable. Josie knew that she couldn’t let the goats feed from bunks that contained a carcass. She was carefully pawing through the three feet of hay that lined the bottom of the bunk in search of the animal when she saw it. The deep indigo of denim. Josie paused. It was so out of place, so foreign a sight, it took a moment for her to register what she was seeing.

Josie tugged on the fabric, but it resisted. She brushed away more hay and more denim appeared. A shudder crept up her spine as the smell grew stronger. Josie knew she should stop and get her grandfather, but still, she swept aside the hay, slowly working her way up the length of the bunk until the dark blue turned pale, not much lighter than the hay it was sitting in.

Still not sure what she was seeing, Josie leaned in more closely to get a better look. It was a hand, palm facing upward. Cupped as if ready to receive something, a coin or communion. Then Josie saw them. The scars. He had gotten them when he fell into a barbwire fence when he was fourteen. Tore the flesh clean across his palm in a ragged X.

It was Ethan.

32

When the snows first came, the girl would stand on her chair beneath the window and watch the dancing flakes fall to the ground. She longed to reach through the glass and catch the white crystals in the palm of her hand. They looked like glittering stars.

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