Page 101 of Husband Missing

TWO MONTHS LATER

Josie pulled her jacket more tightly around her body and jammed her hands into her pockets. October and most of November had been mild with spring- and summer-like weather. Naturally, the one day that she decided to drive up to meet with the Bradford County DA who’d agreed to review Roe Hoyt’s case, it was freezing. The temperature hadn’t mattered much during lunch, but it was seriously hampering Josie’s tour.

As it turned out, Oren Ellis, Clint Phelan’s father-in-law, had owned a home about eight miles from Roe’s shack. Although Oren and Clint had used it for hunting, once Mrs. Ellis died, Oren and Tilly had lived there full-time. The house had changed hands a half-dozen times since. Now it was owned by a hunting club comprised of six men. Josie had been shocked when all six of them gave her permission to explore the premises. She wasn’t even sure what she expected to find. The new owners had given her a list of renovations made to the house. At this point, all that remained of the home Oren and Tilly Ellis shared was the foundation.

She just needed to see it for herself. On a warmer day she’d bring Noah back with her and they’d hike out to where Roe’s shack used to be. For now, she circled the small house that hadbeen renovated to look like a log cabin on the outside. An acre of land separated it from Hoyt Road. There was no driveway, just a dirt lot next to it large enough to accommodate four vehicles.

Around the back were all the things Josie would expect to find at a hunting camp. A blue barrel half-filled with empty beer cans. A couple of archery targets in the shape of deer. A firepit. Shoddy lawn chairs. A meatpole. A four-wheeler parked beside a small firewood rack shaped like a house—three walls and a roof. Josie lingered under the meatpole. She’d seen plenty in and around Denton but none like this one. High above her head, a sturdy wooden beam, at least six feet long, connected two ash trees. Thick metal hooks hung from it at regular intervals. From one of them dangled a hanging gambrel—a heavy-duty steel instrument that resembled a clothes hanger but was used by hunters to suspend deer by their feet. The practice allowed rigor mortis to run its course while blood drained from the carcass. Josie looked at the ground beneath the beam. No fresh blood. Only tufts of coarse brown and white hair from unlucky deer. She looked back up and realized that the beam was what made this meatpole different than others she had seen. It was old, very old, its wood dark and weathered.

“It belonged to my father.”

Josie whipped around, heart thumping. It wasn’t often that someone was able to sneak up on her, much less a woman in her eighties. Josie hadn’t heard her footfalls, even with the smattering of fallen autumn leaves on the ground. Tilly Phelan moved like a ghost. Today, she looked more like the woman Josie had seen on television multiple times, though she was dressed casually for their current environment in boots, a pair of jeans, and a flannel shirt. Her white hair was tied back in a neat bun, not one strand out of place. She looked sad but serene. Stately and solemn.

“Mrs. Phelan, what are you doing here?”

“My husband was asked to meet with the district attorney to give a statement. Now that Erica Slater’s relationship to him has come to light, they wanted to talk to him about Roe Hoyt. From what I understand, they’re hoping he’ll know her real name.”

It was all a ploy by the prosecutor to open discussions with Clint Phelan in a non-threatening way. At lunch, the DA had informed Josie that the first interview was taking place today. She just hadn’t expected to run into Clint, much less Tilly. Especially not here.

“Does he know Roe Hoyt’s real name?” Josie couldn’t help asking.

“Yes.”

Shock and anger rattled Josie’s insides, but she kept her expression neutral. Clint Phelan had repeatedly raped Roe Hoyt, killed the children she’d borne, and let her take the fall for five murders but somehow, keeping her name from the world, especially when she could never speak it herself, seemed especially egregious.

“Did he tell you?”

Rather than answer, Tilly lifted her chin in the direction of the beam. “My husband wanted to bring that with us when we sold this property—after my dad died—but I thought the past should stay in the past.”

“Well,” said Josie, “some things shouldn’t be left behind.”

She turned away and walked around the meatpole toward the four-wheeler and fire rack. Tilly followed. Along one of the outer walls of the fire rack, she noticed three nails, all in a row, protruding from the wood at eye-level. A piece of fabric was snagged on one of them. It was old and faded. It might have been yellow at one point but now there was no way to tell.

Tilly drew up beside her. “In hunting camps, there’s usually a wall like this. Whoever takes a shot and misses has to put a piece of their shirttail on the wall. It’s tradition.”

Josie knew that already, but she didn’t bother telling Tilly. The woman had an agenda and she’d make it known in her own time. Or maybe she’d just follow Josie around all day, talking in code.

“Tell me,” said Tilly, her blue eyes like lasers burning straight through to Josie’s soul. “Have you ever missed a shot?”

The question hung between them for a beat too long.

“Not often,” Josie said coolly.

Tilly nodded.

“I shot my husband once,” said Josie, feeling a small sense of satisfaction at the surprise on Tilly’s face.

It was a well-placed shot into a part of his shoulder that wouldn’t leave him with permanent deficits. .22 caliber. Not very much of a wallop. She’d done it to save a young girl in jeopardy. They were only colleagues then and Josie didn’t know if she could trust him. Noah had proven that he wasn’t corrupt and that he was fiercely loyal to her. He’d forgiven her instantly, but guilt still weighed on her. Yet, she’d run her fingers over the puckered scar at least a hundred times since he came home just because she could.

Tilly maintained her unnerving stare. “Was it the dishes, then? I hate when Clint leaves dirty dishes in the sink.”

Josie laughed unexpectedly. “Nope. Not that.”

Tilly offered a small smile. Then the wrinkles at the corners of her eyes tightened. “Well, we all do what we think we must.”

“Not all of us.”

“You’re wrong about that. It was good to see you again, Detective. Time for me to go. I’ve set up my own little meeting with the DA.”

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