Page 73 of Longest Ride

“Right now, when I smelled the old grease hanging heavy on the air in here.”

“I never noticed,” said Travis. “Smells the same as it did yesterday.” His cell rang and the grease talk ended. “Sheriff Frost.”

Billy watched Travis’s face change as he listened to the caller. Whatever the person was saying wasn’t happy news.

“Yes, ma’am. I’ll be there in fifteen minutes.” Travis jumpedup and headed for the door. He waved an arm at Billy to follow him.

Billy ran after him. “We’re not eating?”

“Not right now. Paula Fleming’s neighbor says she’s dead.”

“That can’t be true,” said Billy. “She was fine yesterday.”

“She ain’t fine now.”

“Fuck that,” said Billy.

“Fuck it double,” hollered Travis as he jumped behind the wheel of the Bronco.

Fleming Residence. Valier.

The neighbor lady let them in amidst a round of barking and growling from Paula’s two Rotties. “Go lay down, doggies.”

She turned to Travis and said, “Paula is dead in her bed, Sheriff. I never touched anything. I’ve watched enough CSI shows to know what to do.”

“Thanks for the call, Mrs. DeGrille. Sheriff Johnson will take your statement.” He turned to Billy. “Why don’t you use the kitchen?”

“Sure.”

Travis walked into the bedroom alone and pulled the covers back to see Paula Fleming’s dead body. She’d been strangled—death by asphyxiation—but before she was murdered and put into her bed, she’d been beaten pretty badly.

Beaten by the killer? Or by someone else? Why didn’t the dogs do something? Was it someone the dogs knew?

None of it made any sense and Travis was becoming more baffled by the day. He called Doctor Olsen and walked outside to light up a smoke and wait for the coroner.

Mrs. DeGrille went back home after promising to feed the dogs, and Billy joined Travis outside after he’d had a look at Paula.

“Was she beat up already, or did the killer do that?” askedBilly.

Travis shrugged. “No telling. Call Ted and see if Wyatt is saying anything meaningful.”

“Yeah, I’ll find out.”

Biloxi Medical Center. Mississippi.

Mile after highway mile, Bobby Prescott suffered excruciating pain. Ray watched Bobby fidget and twist and turn trying to get comfortable in the passenger seat of the rig and Bobby couldn’t get settled.

Ray had a soft heart and he felt bad for Bobby—a guy who befriended him when he was at the bottom. Ray made it his business to find a clinic in Biloxi and take Bobby there. Even if they couldn’t fix his wound, they could give him something for the pain.

He spotted the medical center and parked as close as he could to the front door knowing it would be hard to get Bobby into the building.

Ray helped Bobby out of the truck and into the waiting area inside. The nurse behind the front desk glanced at Bobby leaning heavily on Ray and pointed down the hall.

“In here, sir.” She led the way into a treatment room. “Put the patient on the table.”

“Yep, I’ll handle it,” said Ray. “I’ll stay with him.”

“I’ll send the doctor in right away to look at you, sir.”

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