Page 83 of Preying Game

Epilogue

There was no way for Jonah to transport a vehicle into the past, so he and Alice simply appeared in a wooded area near the entrance of the Davenport farm.

She looked around and blinked, taking a deep breath of the crisp fall air. “Thank you for doing this.”

“I understand why you wanted your parents to know you’re not dead.”

Her voice hitched. “But they are still going to be sad. This is the last time I can ever see them.”

He squeezed her hand as they stood in the shadows, looking out at the cornstalks that had turned brown and the cows contentedly munching grass in a nearby field.

They were married now, and a lot had changed over the past year. Because Jonah had improved the garage considerably, he’d been able to sell it at a nice price—along with most of his vehicles, since he now had better things to do in his spare time than fix cars. But he and Alice both wanted to keep the Chevy—of course.

With the cash, they’d bought a house not far from the Decorah offices. But Jonah had sensed a restlessness in his bride, and after much prompting, she had told him what was bothering her—the idea that her parents thought her life had been cut off all too early. He’d told her there might be a way to remedy that.

They’d talked to Frank, and he’d said they could visit her parents—once. But they would have to follow strict rules when they did it. She had understood and agreed.

Jonah was wearing jeans, a white tee shirt, a leather jacket and sneakers. She was wearing a pale green shirtwaist dress, a classic blazer, and loafers with white socks.

“Ready?” he asked.

“As ready as I’ll ever be.”

They stepped out into the sunshine and headed for the two-lane blacktop road she had traveled every time she left the farm. From there, they walked up the gravel lane that led to the simple Victorian two-story where Alice’s family lived, and she waited around the side of the house while Jonah walked up to the front porch.

His heart was thumping as he trained his gaze on the door. It was 10:00 in the morning, and Alice had told him her father would have been up early and out to milk the cows and do some other chores. Then he liked to come in for some coffee with his wife. Her brothers and sister would be at school.

Hoping for no surprises, Jonah knocked on the door. After almost half a minute, a woman who looked a lot like an older version of Alice came to the door.

“Can I help you?” she asked as she wiped her hands on her apron.

“Mrs. Davenport, my name is Jonah Ranger. I have some news you’ll want to hear—about your daughter, Alice,” he said.

The woman put her hand to her mouth. “Alice was killed in a terrible accident a few months ago,” she said.

“I’d like to talk to you about what really happened. Can I come in?”

Her lips trembled. “What are you saying?”

“I’d like to come in and talk to you and your husband, if I may,” he repeated.

“Yes, yes, of course.”

She stepped aside, and he followed her down the hall to a big country kitchen with a Formica and aluminum table, old gas range, refrigerator with a rounded top, and a stained porcelain sink—all of which Alice had described to him.

A man with the salt and pepper hair and the leathery features of someone who spent a lot of time outside was sitting at the table with a mug of coffee in front of him.

“Henry, this man says he has some information about our Alice.”

Mr. Davenport stood slowly. He was tall and lean. Looking Jonah in the eye, he said, “What are you selling—a Bible with her name on the front? Her obituary encased in plastic?”

“I’m not selling anything. But I need to talk to you about Alice. It’s important.”

Mr. Davenport braced his large hands on his hips. “I’ll give you one minute.”

This was not going the way Jonah had anticipated, and he remembered the gun Alice had told him was in the top left drawer of the sideboard. He’d come to the house ahead of her so as not to give her parents a shock when they saw their daughter. Now he knew he couldn’t ease into the subject.

“She’s not dead,” he blurted.

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