Page 3 of The Killing Plains

Colly Newland stood on the porch of the old farmhouse, cradling a cup of coffee and staring out across the fields. The sun was rising, huge and orange, through a sickle-shaped gap in the distant bluffs, glittering and flashing on the spinning blades of the wind turbines that lined the heights. Mist drifted above the fence line, and a rich, loamy scent of damp earth hung in the air, along with a sharp chemical smell—the ranchers spraying the winter wheat.

Colly shifted uneasily. Beneath the squabbling of crows in the field next to the house, a heavy, aching quiet thrummed in her ears. Accustomed to the hum and rumble of Houston, she found the silence unnerving.

Twenty-five years ago, when Randy first mentioned bringing her home to meet his family, he’d warned her: “West Texas can be a little overwhelming if you’re not used to it—all the space and silence. And then there’s my family.”

“Crazy?” she teased. “I can deal with crazy.”

“Complicated. I just want you to know what you’re getting into.”

“All families are complicated.”

“Half of Crescent Bluff works for my father, so being a Newland there—you’re under a microscope. Everyone’s angling for something. And the family’s like a spiderweb you can’t escape.”

“You escaped. So did Russ.”

“Our bodies got out, for now. But up here...” Randy tapped his forehead and shrugged. “At least Russ and I tried. Willis and Lowell will be stuck there forever.”

Colly hadn’t taken his warnings seriously at the time. They were both twenty-one, graduating from college. She was going to be an FBI profiler and Randy a Pulitzer Prize–winning journalist. They’d get married, move out east—to Washington, or New York, maybe. Reinvent themselves. Back then, it seemed inconceivable that anything could stand in their way.

But life hadn’t followed the script they’d written for it. Colly remembered with painful clarity precisely when their dreams slipped through their fingers, though neither of them recognized the moment’s full significance at the time. She’d been twenty-six, standing in her patrol uniform in the kitchen of their first little apartment, stirring a pot of spaghetti sauce and holding two-year-old Victoria on one hip. They’d just given their landlord thirty days’ notice and were packing to move to D.C.

Randy came into the kitchen and sat down heavily. His face was bleak. He stared at the linoleum. “Colly, I can’t go.”

“What?”

He swallowed. “Momma’s going to need the emotional support. Willis, too. Prison’ll be tough on him. I’m sorry.”

Colly laid down the spoon and brushed her thick, dark hair away from her face, working to keep her voice calm. “Does it have to be you?”

“Dad’s no help. Russ is in South Korea, and Lowell’s a self-absorbed prick.”

“Are you saying you want to move home?”

Victoria began to fuss. Colly was gripping her too tightly. She set her down, and the child immediately began to toddle to her father.

“God, no. But I’d like to be close enough to get home on the weekends when they need me—just till everything’s more settled.” He stooped to pick up Victoria. “We both have good jobs. It won’t kill us to stay in Houston a little longer.”

He’d been wrong, though.A little longerbecame two decades, and staying in Houstonhadkilled them—had killed Randy and Victoria, at least. And now here was Colly, on her own at forty-six and just as entangled in the Newland web as ever.

Behind her, the screen door slapped open, as loud as a gunshot. Colly jumped, sluicing coffee over her hand. A young boy in black pants and a rumpled t-shirt was watching her from the doorway with solemn blue eyes.

“Ow! Satchel, why?” Colly shook her burned fingers to cool them.

“Sorry.” The boy anxiously chewed his lip, a habit that had left one side of his mouth perpetually chapped. He was seven years old but small for his age, with white-blond hair and skin so pale it seemed translucent. A timid boy—so much like Victoria in appearance but so unlike her in temperament. Victoria had been fearless. “I’m ready to go, Grandma.” He squinted into the sunrise.

“Get out of the light,” Colly snapped. “What on earth are you wearing?”

He stepped back into the shadows. “My trilobite shirt.”

“You slept in that. Go get a fresh one from your suitcase.”

He shook his head. “It’s my lucky shirt.”

“Then you shouldn’t have slept in it.” They stared at each other. After a moment, Colly checked her watch and sighed. “Fine. Take it off. I’ll look for an iron.”

The darkened foyer of the house was cluttered with dim shapes that slowly coalesced into a jumble of half-unpacked luggage as Colly’s eyes adjusted. The boy was bouncing on his toes beside a large suitcase, his now-naked torso glowing in the dim light.

“Maybe the iron’s in here?”

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