to one of two small-scale leather chairs opposite his mahogany desk. He glanced toward Dalton, who was helping Bethany walk. “I thought I made my position clear at the scene, Dalton.”
“My presence was requested, Sheriff,” he responded. When she’d almost fainted a second time, he’d been there to scoop her head up before it pounded gravel.
“I asked him here, sir,” the detective interjected. “I’ll be sticking around the area for a few days and my sister is in no condition to offer assistance. I needed someone local to the area to give advice on the best place to eat and stay.”
“My office would be more than happy to make recommendations.” Sawmill stared at Dalton a few seconds too long before blowing out a breath and focusing on the victim’s mother.
To Dalton’s thinking, Bethany Schmidt didn’t look anything like her sister. Her shoulder-length hair was stringy and mousy-brown. Her red-rimmed eyes were a darker shade, a contrast to the honey-colored hue of the detective’s. Bethany’s sallow cheeks and willowy frame made her look fragile. She carried herself with her shoulders slumped forward and the bags under her eyes outlined the fact that she’d been worried long before today. Grief shrouded her, which he understood given the circumstances, and this much grief could change a person’s physical appearance. He’d seen that almost instantly with Alexandria’s parents.
His heart went out to her, knowing full well how difficult it was to lose someone and yet how much worse it must be when it was her child. Bethany had seemed too distraught to say a whole lot on the ride over, so he’d offered her a sympathetic shoulder.
The detective from Dallas hadn’t said much on the ride over, either, and Dalton figured she didn’t want to upset her sister by talking about the case. Besides, he could almost see the pins firing in her brain, as she must’ve been cycling through every possible scenario. He’d watched from his back seat view.
Alexandria’s mother had pushed him away and it felt right to be able to offer comfort to someone who was living out what had to be their worst version of hell.
“First of all, I’m deeply sorry for your loss, ma’am,” Sheriff Sawmill began. He sat down and clasped his hands, placing them on top of his massive desk, which was covered in files. An executive chair was tucked into the opposite side. The sheriff’s office was large, simple. There were two flags on poles standing sentinel, flanking the governor’s picture. In the adjacent space, a sofa and table upon which stood a statue of a bull rider atop a bronze bull that had been commissioned by Dalton’s father. Maverick Mike had been a generous man and had given Sawmill the gift after he’d gone above and beyond the call of duty in order to stop a gang of poachers. The heroics had cost Sawmill a bullet in the shoulder.
There was a half-empty packet of Zantac next to a stack of files. Dalton had been inside this room too often for his taste in the past few months. Activity down the hall had slowed since the last time he had been here. The temporary room set up for volunteers to take calls about leads in the Mav’s case was still in the conference room at the mouth of the hallway, but there were fewer phone calls now and leads had all but dried up.
Bethany sniffled, clutching a bundle of tissues in a white-knuckle grip.
Dalton kept to the back of the room, near the door.
“I apologize again for asking you to give a statement so soon. Anything you can tell us might help close the investigation.” Dalton noticed that Sawmill didn’t mention the word murder. Was he being careful not to set false expectations that he would treat this as anything other than a suicide?
The detective noticed it, too. She sat up a little straighter and her shoulders tensed. Her gaze was locked on Sawmill like she was a student studying for final exams.
“I’ll help in any way I can.” Bethany’s weak voice barely carried through the room in between sobs. Helping her walk into the coroner’s office to verify what they’d already known at the scene had been right up there with attending Alexandria’s funeral. Too many memories crashed down on Dalton. Memories he’d suppressed for fourteen years. Memories he had every intention of stuffing down deep before they brought him to his knees. His anger wouldn’t help find answers. Finding the truth was all that mattered now.
“Can you confirm the deceased’s name is Clara Robinson?” His voice remained steady.
“Yes.” It seemed to take great effort to get the word out.
“I identified the body at the scene, Sheriff,” Leanne interjected and the tension in Sawmill’s face heightened. It was just a flash before he recovered, but Dalton knew it meant he’d never cooperate willingly with the Dallas detective. That also made her of no use to Dalton.
“And your full name is?” Sawmill continued.
“Bethany Ann Schmidt,” she supplied before looking up.
“Okay. Mrs. Schmidt, can you describe your relationship with your daughter?” the sheriff continued.
“It was all right. I guess. I mean, she’s...was...a teenager. We talked as much as any mother and her seventeen-year-old can.” Bethany shrugged as if anything other than a complicated relationship would require skills no one could possibly have.
Dalton couldn’t speak on authority but he picked up on the tension between the detective and her sister.
“How were the two of you getting along lately?” Sawmill leaned forward.
“Okay, I guess,” she responded with another shrug.
“Had you been in any disagreements recently?” he asked. Dalton couldn’t help but remember a very different line of questioning when he was in the interview room with the sheriff. Another shot of anger burst through his chest, and he had to take a slow deep breath to try to counter the damage. The sheriff had spent too much time focused on the wrong person back then and because of it, Alexandria’s killer still walked the streets. He’d wondered if the man had ended up in jail for another crime or died, considering how quiet life had become until recently in Cattle Barge. If he’d been in jail, the timing of another similar murder could be explained by a release.
“No. Not us. Nothing lately. I mean, we argued over her helping out more around the house yesterday. Her little brother is a handful and she barely lifts a finger,” Bethany said on an exacerbated sigh.
Again, Leanne stiffened but this time it happened when her sister mentioned the boy.
“How old is her brother?” Sawmill continued.
“Hampton will be four years old in two weeks,” Bethany supplied before taking a few gulps of air and then picking back up on the conversation thread. “And we didn’t have a knock-down-drag-out or anything. It was more like me reminding her to help pick up toys and her rolling her eyes for the hundredth time. I swear that girl communicated more with her eyes than her mouth.”
The sheriff nodded like he understood and then waited for her to go on, hands clasped on his desk.
“We got along okay other than that,” Bethany said through sniffles.
Based on Leanne’s reaction so far, she didn’t agree. Questions rolled around in Dalton’s mind. Was Bethany telling the truth about her relationship with her daughter? Why was Leanne so tense? Was she expecting her sister to drop a bomb at any minute? Or was it fear? Was she afraid that her sister would say something wrong?
Leanne had secrets. Dalton intended to find out what they were, because if he could uncover any connection between this and Alexandria’s murder he might be able to bring peace to her family. Only this time, he wouldn’t involve the sheriff. Sawmill had let Dalton down all those years ago, still was with his father’s murder investigation, and he didn’t trust the man to do his job.
“How did the two siblings respond to each other?” Sawmill asked.
“About the same as any, I guess.” Bethany shrugged again. There was a note of hopelessness in her voice. “Hampton gets into her stuff and she goes crazy. My Clara