Page 14 of The Texas Murders

Water pelts the brim of my hat as I step into the downpour. The driver rolls down the window a crack and I ask her to try the gas. The wheels spin, spitting mud.

“Hold on,” I say. “I’ve got a tow cable.”

I turn around and Megan is there, getting drenched.

“I’ll help,” she says.

“You’ll get soaked,” I say, but it’s too late—her wet hair is matted to her scalp, her saturated blouse clings to her skin.

“I was raised on a farm,” she says, smiling. “A little rain never hurt anybody.” I open my mouth to object, but she says,“I’m not the kind of girl who’s going to sit in the car and let a man do all the work. You should know that right off the bat.”

“Here,” I say, stripping off my jacket and draping it around her shoulders.

I place my hat atop her head—the Stetson never looked so good before.

I haul my tow cable out, and while I attach it to my truck, Megan kneels down in her skirt and hooks it underneath the stuck car. Her high heels are getting muddy, but she doesn’t seem to mind. A minute later, the car is free, and we’re back on the road, smiling at each other even though our clothes are soaked through.

When we get to my parents’ house, Dad says, “What the hell did you two get into?”

The house is full of friends and family, and it’s clear the party has already started.

So much for a small get-together.

“We thought maybe you ran off and eloped,” Jake says.

I ignore him while I strip off my button-down shirt so I’m only in a wet T-shirt. Mom hands us a couple of towels. As Megan attempts to dry her long hair, Mom fetches a faded Baylor sweatshirt that I bought her for Christmas years ago when I was a student.

“Here,” she says to Megan. “Let’s see how you look in green and gold.”

“If you’re done messing around,” my other brother, Chris, tells me, “you’re wanted in the living room.”

“I am?”

As I step around the corner, I see a dozen or so people are gathered around two stools set up in the corner. Willow sits on one of them. The other stool is empty. Two guitars—mine and hers—lean against the wall behind her.

“Sorry,” Willow says with a bright smile. “Your family insisted we treat them to a duet.”

CHAPTER 10

I TAKE MY seat next to Willow, unsure how I’m going to muster the energy to perform. Two hours ago, I was crying with Kyle’s mother in my arms. Now I’m expected to play music.

But all eyes stare at us eagerly. My good friend Freddy Hernandez, who I went to high school with and who has since helped me break more than a few cases as a top-notch medical examiner, stands in the corner with Darren Hagar, another high school buddy, who owns the bar where Willow used to sing. Jake perches on the arm of the couch, next to my parents. Chris sits on the carpet with my three-year-old nephew, Beau, in his lap, who is sucking his thumb and looking like he’s about to fall asleep. Megan sits down next to them and looks up at me with a bright smile. She looks good in an old sweatshirt with half-wet hair, and I can picture her like this with the two of us settled in for a chill night of watching Netflix on the couch.

I realize I’m getting ahead of myself, but in this moment, I am at least hoping that she gets the job at Baylor so I can see more of her.

Without even discussing it, Willow and I start with “Mammas Don’t Let Your Babies Grow Up to Be Cowboys.” It’s the first song we ever sang together, and it’s also the last song we played the night we broke up. Singing it now feels like we’ve turned another page in our relationship. We started with the spark of attraction, which turned into love, which led to heartbreak.

Now we’ve become friends.

After concluding the song, we play a mix, ranging from Miranda Lambert and the Zac Brown Band to Garth Brooks and the Chicks. My nephew—half asleep a minute ago—is up and dancing.

Willow suggests we try Kenny Rogers and Dolly Parton’s duet “Islands in the Stream.” The song is going well, but I catch a glimpse of Megan in the audience and can see that she feels uncomfortable watching me share a love song with my ex. Up until then, she seemed to be enjoying the show.

I say I’ve got time for one more, and a couple of people from the crowd jokingly call out that we should play “Don’t Date a Texas Ranger.” Laughing, Willow says she’s been working on a new song and wants to know if she can try it out.

“You just try to keep up, Rory,” she says with a smile.

She strums the strings with an upbeat tempo and starts singing lyrics about Texas, belting the words out in quick succession.

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