Page 138 of Swept for Forever
But tonight wasn’t the range, and I wouldn’t rest until I had Autumn back.
The farmhouse at Timber Loop was still lit, and dogs barked at my approach.
I cut the engine and got out, the Glock snug against my spine. No jacket. No plan for pleasantries. Just fury in my veins and a name in my mouth.
The place looked like it had been holding on by rust and prayer, with peeling siding, a sagging porch, and a tractor that hadn’t moved in months. His porch light sputtered, and for a second, I considered shooting it out just to take the edge off.
I didn’t knock.
Instead, I slammed my fist into the door. Once, twice. The third time, it finally gave.
He opened the door, his flannel shirt half-buttoned, a rifle in hand.
He was not ready, though.
I was on him with my gun out, the muzzle kissing his skin before his finger even brushed the trigger.
“Drop it,” I said.
His grip faltered, and the rifle clattered to the floor.
Good. I wasn’t here for warnings.
He wasn’t the old man with a beagle. This man was younger. So the stiff-necked man had never seen us at Timber Loop. I was sure he figured out we were in Buffaloberry Hill when he noticed Lulu barking at him that day when I lost the race in the river with Otter.
“You the one who reported an armed robbery at the trail?” I asked, stepping forward.
His mouth opened, quavered, then clamped shut.
I grabbed the door and shoved it open the rest of the way.
“Did you?” I growled.
He backed up like he could vanish into the shadows of his hallway. “I…I might have, yeah. It was just…this guy. He said he needed help catching a criminal. A woman.”
I stormed inside and slammed him against the nearest wall. “You look me in the eye,” I growled, “and youtell mewhy you painted a bullseye on her back.”
“I didn’t mean?—”
My fist landed beside his head, cracking the drywall.
He flinched hard. “Okay! Okay! I was paid!”
That made me pause.
“Paid?” I repeated.
He nodded frantically. “The man said he was the father of the missing girl. He said a woman was involved and that the cops weren’t moving fast enough. He told me to say she held me at gunpoint, and he gave me instructions for what to say if the sheriff asked what she looked like.”
I almost choked him, but I couldn’t afford to send him to hell just yet.
He added, “The man said it would put pressure on the police. I have a daughter too. I just thought I was helping someone like me. The money felt like a thank you. That’s all.”
So the stiff-necked bastard knew how to convince a man. Or maybe this one never needed much convincing.
Pulling out my phone, I showed him an article that included a photo of Deborah Sinclair’s parents. “Was this him?”
He squinted. “No, it wasn’t him.”
