Page 77 of Obsession

A look crossed his face she couldn’t read.

“I wouldn’t say that,” he said softly and squeezed her hand.

“Are we good now?”

“I hope so.”

His touch was like an electric current racing up her arm. Would it be too much to hope they might have a future? She marshaled her thoughts back to the reports and found Sheriff Carter’s thin file. “It says here that witnesses saw Mary Jo and Ryan together at the tavern and that they left together. But the only witness Carter names is the owner of the Hideaway.” She looked up. “Who are the others?”

“I don’t know,” Sam said. “I’ve never seen such a sloppy job in an investigation and don’t know how he got away with it.”

“He made Ryan the handy scapegoat.” Her dad picked up the sheriff’s report. “Do you think Carter could have killed Ryan?”

“If he did, we’ll never find out now. I’ve heard he can’t even remember who his son is half the time,” Emma said.

“Since Trey was one of the last people to see Mary Jo alive, maybe that’s why the sheriff accused Ryan of killing her,” her dad said. “He was protecting his son.”

“Why were Trey and Gordon even in Natchez that weekend?” Sam asked. “It wasn’t spring break or anything.”

“That was Ryan’s doing,” Emma said. “He got them to skip class on Friday and drive down for our twenty-first birthday celebration—those two were always looking for a reason to party, Gordon especially.”

Sam nodded thoughtfully. “Wasn’t Carter running for reelection that year?”

“Yes, and it was a hotly contested race,” her dad said. “I think he won by a narrow victory. If his son had been accused of murder, he probably would have lost the election.”

“And by pointing the finger at Ryan, it looked like Carter had solved the crime,” Sam said. “It wasn’t his fault Ryan had disappeared—although we know why now. I wonder if the FBI investigated the crime since it happened on park service land?”

“I don’t remember hearing anything about the FBI.” Her dadrubbed the back of his neck. “Didn’t the Selbys have two daughters?”

She searched through her hazy memories of Mary Jo. They’d gone to school together since junior high when the family moved to Natchez, and while she and Mary Jo hadn’t been close friends, they’d known each other and were in the same church youth group. “I have my school yearbooks ... if she has a sister, maybe she’s in one of them.”

Emma hurried to her bedroom and dug into her cedar chest for her yearbooks, quickly realizing she’d have to have help. Just as she opened her mouth to call for her dad, Sam appeared at the door.

“Need help?”

“You know I do,” she muttered and stepped aside so he could get the annuals.

She followed him back to the living room, and each of them took a yearbook. Emma started with her tenth-grade one while her dad and Sam took other years. Right away she found Mary Jo’s photo not too far from hers. The girl had had theitfactor. Cheerleader, class president, voted most beautiful in their sophomore class.

“There are no Selbys here other than Mary Jo,” Sam said and put his annual aside. He took out the newspaper clippings while Emma picked up another annual. After a few minutes, he said, “Mary Jo’s obituary lists the sister as Sandra Wyatt. It doesn’t give her age, but she was already married by the time Mary Jo died.”

Emma set her annual aside and peered over his shoulder at the obituary. “I wonder if she has a Facebook page?”

Sam quickly connected to the social media site. “I don’t find anything.”

“I wonder if she or her parents still live in Natchez? I’d like to talk to them,” Emma said.

“Good idea.” Her dad stood. “But we can’t tonight, and I have an early morning meeting.”

Weariness radiated off him like heat. She’d not seen her dad so tired in a long time. “I wish we didn’t have to deal with this again.”

“I know, sweetheart. And since we don’t know anything for sure yet, we don’t want to tell your mom.”

“My thoughts too.” She stood and hugged him. “Thanks for dinner.”

“Anytime.” He turned and shook hands with Sam. “Can I count on you to watch out for my girl here?”

“Yes, sir,” Sam replied, his face somber.

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