At the moment, he was going with the theory that Shaylee Stillman’s hat had been part of Nona’s disguise. He figured Nona had “borrowed” the cap, just in case any cameras had been rolling or in case anyone in authority caught a glimpse of her. In bulky sweatshirts, school-issued jackets, and jeans, the only identifying piece of clothing would have been the hat.
Too bad it had been left in the hayloft, and Shaylee Stillman had to take the heat.
Draining the cup, Trent thought about the two kids and the conversation he’d overheard that night. He remembered the girl being in a near panic and the boy trying to calm her down, promising to keep her safe. If it had been Drew and Nona, then he’d let her down. Big-time.
What was it she’d said?
This is getting out of hand…. I mean … when I agreed to this, to be a part of it, I thought it would be fun, a thrill, and I believed in him.
The more he considered it, the more he was certain the voice had belonged to Nona.
I believed in him.
Who? Who did she believe in?
A man. Trent didn’t think she was talking about God or Christ in the same sentence as “fun” and “a thrill.” He considered Reverend Lynch, but again, it didn’t fit. He couldn’t see anyone thinking the somber, self-important, Godfearing Lynch was fun. Or thrilling.
Puzzled, he poured himself the last of the coffee, heated it in his microwave, and, as the cup warmed, tossed the old grounds out.
Right now, Trent was going with the theory that there was a third person in the loft, one who, for whatever reason, killed Nona after getting his jollies watching the kids make love. Then somehow, he’d strung Nona up in some kind of statement.
To make it appear a suicide?
Or for theatrical effect?
It would have been so much easier just to leave her strangled body in the hay, instead of rigging a noose, looping it over the rafters, and hoisting her body up.
Unless that was what got him off.
Some kind of sick torture.
But only the girl. Drew had been hit over the head and tossed through the ladder’s hole.
The microwave dinged, and he picked up the cup gingerly. Staring out the window to the storm, still raging, still dumping more snow, he thought of the information he’d gotten from the sheriff’s department and sipped the bitter blend.
Detective Baines had informed him that Nona didn’t have defensive wounds, though the coroner had found skin cells under her nails. They were waiting to see if the cells matched Andrew Prescott’s DNA—a possibility, since the two were naked and entangled. But that analysis would take some time. There was still trace evidence being studied, fingerprints to be matched, but nothing firm yet.
And meanwhile, this whole community was trapped here, trapped and scared.
He took a final swallow from his cup, then tossed the remainder down the sink. Now that he was a damned deputy, he’d better get to work and find out what really happened in the hayloft.
For once, Jules awoke from a dreamless sleep. Thankfully she’d been exhausted enough to keep the nightmares at bay, and her headache had receded, no longer pounding.
“Clean living,” she whispered to herself before taking a quick, hot shower, then changing into thermal underwear, jeans, a sweater, and a thick, insulated parka.
She was reaching for the handle of her door when she caught sight of a small piece of white paper near the threshold, a page that hadn’t been there earlier.
She picked up the single sheet and turned it over.
HELP ME!
The frantic message was scrawled at an angle in black ink.
She nearly dropped the page.
“What the devil?” Was this some kind of a joke? A prank the kids pulled on the new teacher? Or something else? Hadn’t she felt as if someone had been in her room the other night? Possibly standing over her and watching her as she slept.
Her skin crawled as she threw open the door and stepped into the outer hallway.
Empty.
The two other doors on the floor shut tight. Who had left the desperate plea?
Shay.
Of course.
But it wasn’t her sister’s style to be so coy.
Tucking the bit of notebook paper into her pocket, she hurried down the flight of stairs, looking for anyone who might have slipped the page under the door.
So you got a note, so what?
She tried to make light of the situation, but because of the murder, she couldn’t.
She climbed down the stairs and came across no one.
At this hour, Stanton House was quiet.
She checked the main level, where a few couches, tables, and lamps created a seating area, but again, she was alone, the only sounds in the house the soft purr of a hidden furnace forcing warm air through the building and the quiet tick of an old clock mounted on the wall.
For now, there was no telling who had left the note or whether it was a serious plea or some kind of prank.
Get over yourself!
Yanking on her gloves, Jules made her way outside, where the night wind howled as it battered the campus, dumping snow, churning the dark waters of Lake Superstition.
Pulling the hood of her jacket tight against her face, she muttered, “Just another day in paradise,” and trudged
through a new layer of snow to the stable. The pathway was covered with six inches of the white stuff, and the drive, where some of the school’s vehicles were parked, hadn’t yet been plowed.
So much for the Arcadian, sun-dappled shoreline and serene Alpine vista that she’d seen on the Web site. Even the winter photographs had been of kids sledding or snowshoeing in a wintry but sunny forest. There had been shots of the interior of the rec center, the panes of glass frosted, students gathered around a cozy fire burning in the grate. Another photograph had showed a twenty-foot Christmas tree glowing with hundreds of tiny lights as students in stocking caps gathered, hymnals in hand.
Like angels … Oh, sure.
Jules shivered.
There were no warm and fuzzy photo ops today, not with the windchill factor driving the temperature into the teens and the pall of a student’s gruesome death hanging over the school.
Wind whistled around the door as she stepped into the stable. The interior was warm with incandescent lighting and the smells of horses and fresh straw, a haven from the outside world.
Curious, the horses peered over the gates to their stalls. With dark, liquid eyes, flickering ears, and snorts of disapproval, the animals appraised her. She walked along the aisle, petting muzzles, feeling hot breath on her hands, a little wary just in case some of the animals weren’t as friendly as they seemed.
Then she saw it. The rust-colored stain on the floor below the ladder to the hayloft. Someone had tried to clean it up, but the stain seemed indelible. Covered by stray wisps of hay, the evidence of Andrew Prescott’s fall caused her to stop dead in her tracks.
There must have been so much blood….
She stepped backward, shivering.
Scraaape.
What was that?
The sound of leather against wood.
She wasn’t alone!
Heart hammering, she backed up, ramming into a post just as scuffed cowboy boots and long, jean-clad legs appeared on the ladder. “Someone here?” Trent called, just as he hopped to the floor, his boots avoiding the stain. He saw Jules and one side of his mouth lifted. “Lookin’ for me?” he asked, a bit of humor glinting in his brown eyes. He was still unshaven, his mouth a razor-thin line, his deep-set eyes cutting right to her soul.
“Definitely not looking for you to scare the hell out of me,” she said, hand over her heart.
“But you
were
looking for me.” A smile tugged at the edges of his mouth, and the corners of the stable seemed to grow closer. Tighter. The atmosphere suddenly thick.
“You tell me.”
“Nah.” He shook his head. “What’s the fun in that?”
She grinned, not able to believe him. “Wait a second, Cowboy. Are you flirting with me?” she asked, secretly pleased, even though the entire situation was surreal, considering the circumstances.
“Flirting? I don’t think so.” But the glint in his eyes told her differently. Her heart raced a little faster as she remembered exactly how it felt to kiss him, how his tongue touched the roof of her mouth and caused a tingle deep inside. How the crush of his lips brought heat to the back of her neck. How he’d made her go weak, her knees giving way of their own accord.
As if reading her thoughts, he said, “So what is it you want, Jules?”
“I hate to burst the bubble that’s your incredible ego, but I really didn’t think I’d find you here.”
One doubting eyebrow cocked.
As if she were challenging him. The way it had often raised just before he pulled her into his arms and kissed her hard, to prove the point that she wanted him.
She had to fight the urge to back up a step.
A paint with a white face and blue eyes pushed his head over the top of the box and snorted, sniffing. Jules moved toward the stall to stroke the gelding. “You think I have a treat,” she said to the horse to break the tension, “but I don’t.”
“Scout’s always looking for something,” he said.
“Typical male.”
“Yeah, well, don’t tell him, but he’s been gelded.”
“Oops.” She glanced at the horse. “Sorry, boy.” She felt Trent’s eyes on her, studying her. “You know, I really didn’t think I’d run into anyone in here.”
“So, what, you just came to the crime scene to look it over?”
“I guess.” She scratched Scout beneath his black forelock. It was hard to explain. She didn’t want to think she was the victim of morbid curiosity, but there was a part of her that wanted to know what had happened, to see for herself and connect with the victims. “I thought maybe if I saw where it happened, I’d have some idea of why and how it connects, if it connects to Lauren Conway’s disappearance. Don’t tell me the same thought didn’t cross your mind.”
“Okay, I won’t.”
“I came to Blue Rock to see what was going on and to get Shay out of here if I found out that the academy wasn’t the answer it was supposed to be.” She shook her head and bit her lip, thinking. “But even before I got here, things turned upside down, a girl killed. It just doesn’t make any sense.”
“Nothing does,” he admitted.
“Well, then, let’s add another cryptic note to the mix.”
Jules retrieved the note from her pocket and handed it to him. “I found this under my door this morning.”
Trent read the simple message and frowned. “From Shay?”
“I don’t know. But I don’t think so.”
“Mind if I keep it?”
“Sure, but why?”
“I’m a deputy now,” he said, then told her about O’Donnell’s call.
“So it’s official.” It seemed to underline the feeling of safety she had near Trent, physical safety, even if her emotions scattered wildly when he was close by. “Does Lynch know?”
“We haven’t talked about it, but I’m sure O’Donnell has.”
“Tell me about our fearless leader,” she suggested.
“Lynch? All I know is that he’s been here from the get-go and has a vision of this school being an example for others; he sees Blue Rock as his mission.”
“What about his wife?”
“Cora Sue?” He shook his head. “Piece of work, that one. I’m not sure she shares her husband’s vision. Avoids this place like the plague.”
“She’s here now.”
“Well, Cora Sue comes when she’s called.” He leaned over the rail of one of the stalls and patted the head of a dark horse with a burst of jagged white on its forehead. “She makes it very clear that she’d rather be anywhere else, but she comes and he shows her off, they’re together, but if you read her body language, she’s just doing her duty.”
“Why is that?”
“I don’t pretend to understand marriages, but if I had to guess, I’d say they stay together because of the money, or their vows.”
“They don’t love each other?”
“Who knows?” he said as the dark horse turned away from him.
“You think he cheated on her?”
“Possibly, or maybe the other way around,” he thought aloud. “But don’t ask me; I’m not exactly batting a thousand when it comes to relationships, but he’s definitely got some kind of influence on her. As I said, when he calls, she comes running.”
“Like a dog to her master,” she said, remembering the conversation she’d heard while eavesdropping on the reverend’s porch.
“Who knows what goes on in people’s relationships,” he said, his gaze touching hers.
For a second, she remembered how much she’d loved him.
Thought you loved him. Remember? It didn’t work out.
The conversation was taking a dangerous path, so she said, “I take it, this”—she motioned to the stained floor beneath the opening to the hayloft—“is where Drew Prescott was found? I heard he suffered from a head wound.” Her stomach curdled as she imagined the boy lying on the dusty floor.
“That’s right.”
She leaned down, studying the discoloration, though what she thought she’d find, she didn’t know. She wasn’t an investigator and knew nothing about blood spatter or body position or anything that dealt with murder.
About an arm’s length from the large blotch was another stain about the size of her spread hand. “What’s this?”
“Blood. Smeared,” he admitted. “The crime scene investigators took samples and pictures.”
“That stain happened the night of the murder?” He was nodding as she rocked back on her heels and stared at the small stain. “Odd.”
“Any theories?”
She shook her head and looked up at him. “Sorry. Fresh
out.” But it was strange. Had the blood come from Andrew? Nona? Or someone else? She glanced up, through the opening to the darkened hayloft. Dear God, what had happened up there?
Trent said, “You can go up if you want.”
“I’m not sure I want to,” she admitted, but was already walking to the ladder, avoiding stepping on the bloodstain and trying like crazy to ignore the trepidation chilling her soul.
Gripping the steel rungs, knowing she was following the same path that Nona had taken only nights before, she ascended into the loft. From below, Trent snapped on the lights, bare bulbs mounted high overhead. They added an unworldly glow to the old crossbeams and soaring, drafty ceiling rising high over the loft, where hundreds, maybe thousands, of bales had been stacked.