Page 9 of Stryker

“Why’d they send this toyou?” Brick asked.

“It’s the priest’sbelongings. He had no next of kin, and the assistant warden thoughtit might help us in figuring out Jericho Miles’smurder.”

Stryker remembered being told aboutGreat-Aunt Sophia’s mystery priest, a suspect in the killing of thetown’s problem child, Jericho. Sophia was Brick’s great-aunt andhad left him the lake house and all its contents, including boxesfilled with clippings and information about a murder from yearsago.

“I guess he figured sinceyou guys went out there to talk to the priest, you might want hisstuff,” Spence said. Julia had taken over the search for answersafter she’d found boxes of records on the town, and the case file,in Sophia’s closet.

“I knew we were working onborrowed time due to his age, but I guess I didn’t figure he’d bepassing this soon,” Julia said.

“Maybe there’ll besomething in there that’ll help,” Brick suggested. “But I don’t seethe point now the priest has passed on. There isn’t a case anymore.All the players are dead.”

Julia looked to be thinking it over.“Maybe you’re right. What difference does it make now whether thepriest shot Jericho or not?”

“Here, how about I setthis in the office for now, and you can take your time deciding?”Stryker offered. Now wasn’t the right time to come to conclusions.She was still in obvious shock at the news of the priest’sdeath.

“Yeah, I think that’s agood idea for now. Thank you.”

Stryker took the box away. It wasfairly light; the priest probably didn’t have many belongings,considering he was in prison most of his life, but he couldn’t helpwonder to himself what would drive a man of the cloth to commit theworst sin imaginable in taking another’s life.

A mystery for another day.

***

John

Finally, they were all moved in, theshop and the storefront ready to go. John couldn’t say the sameabout himself. He was terrified. They were only days away fromtheir grand opening. Jason was excited, but all John had wasquestions. What if it was a flop? What if nobody came? What if theycouldn’t sell a piece of furniture?

Questions swirled inside his head andwhile he was powerless to stop them, he made sure to appear calmand collected on the outside. He’d had many years to refine the artof deception. He went about his work as if everything was undercontrol.

He put on his filtered breathing mask,a necessary piece of equipment considering his lungs were alreadyscrewed up, and began sanding the stool he was working on. Theworkshop was not far behind the storefront, and he only had to walka ways to get into the customer store if needed. John’s businesspartner knew he preferred to stay in the background, so they’dagreed Jason would take on more of the front-of-store activity. Itleft John with limited interaction with the public, although he’dbe fine with people when he needed to be.

It worked for them—both wereexceptional craftsmen, creating the pieces for their store, butJason excelled with the customers. They switched it up when Jasonfelt the desire to be creative.

The day had started out pretty much asalways. He woke up, showered, went to the diner for breakfast, andreturned to the store to work. Today was slightly different. It washis thirty-eighth birthday, though he never celebrated such days.The last time he’d celebrated, John had been a teenager with hisparents on their last trip together, before their deaths.Celebrating anything from then on wasn’t in the cards.

He leaned into the sanding and losthimself in his work, until the ringing of his phone had himstopping to answer.

“Hello.”

“May I speak to Mr. Seya?”a male caller asked.

“You’ve got him.” Johndidn’t recognize the voice, but that didn’t mean much. His numberwas listed for the store.

“Mr. Seya, this isDetective Woodley from Hood River, Oregon.”

That got John’s attention. Why would adetective from his old town back in Oregon call him?

“How can I help you,Detective?”

“Mr. Seya, there’s been anew development in your parents’ murder case,” Detective Woodleysaid.

Well, happy fuckin’birthday to me.

John was speechless. The case had beencold for over two decades, and for good reason. No suspects, nomotive, no case.

“Mr. Seya? Are you stillthere?”

“Y-yes. Sorry, but I neverthought I’d hear anything once it went cold. It’s been closed formany years.” In truth, it was the last thing he ever expected tohear. Winning the lottery held better odds.

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