Chalking the whole scene up to overwrought emotions, she studied the picture he brought up on his phone.
“Why is this important?” She shot him her best don’t-feed-me-a-line look.
“It’s the type of knot used.” He enlarged the hangman’s rope and her heart squeezed, looking at the device that had killed her niece.
“Which is?”
“The trucker’s knot,” he supplied.
“Why is this significant other than I’m guessing that only a Boy Scout would know how to tie it?” Examining the knot shot pain through her. She had to set aside her personal feelings, block out emotion and focus on finding the jerk who’d done this to Clara. “Justice for Clara” was Leanne’s new marching orders.
“Right. A Boy Scout would know this and that has to be taken into consideration in finding the killer, but the person who did this gave them an out.” His inflection changed and she could sense his relief at talking about this... But relief from what?
“You said killer. How do you know this wasn’t a suicide?” She latched on to the first piece of good news in hours. Hours that felt more like days.
“Was your niece ever a Brownie? Girl Scout?” he asked, ignoring her question.
Leanne shook her head and his lack of surprise made something dawn on her.
She blinked up at him, searching his eyes.
“I know it wasn’t suicide.” His tone was finite and his jaw muscle ticked.
“How can you be so sure?” She wanted to hear those words so badly.
“The knot. One tug in the right place and they could’ve been free,” he supplied.
There was more to the story based on how much he seemed to care. There was something else present behind his eyes, too. Hesitation? Lack of trust? Her investigative experience had taught her when to press and when to back off. This was time for the former.
“Can I ask a question?”
Dalton nodded.
“Why do you care about what happened to my niece?” And then she thought about what else her police training had taught her. Actions were selfish. People were motivated by their own needs and rarely put anyone else’s first. She’d seen it time and time again through her work as a detective in a major city. The only reason he’d care about Clara was if her death was connected to something important to him.
He glanced at her and that one look spoke volumes.
And then she realized that he’d said the word they and not her.
“How many others have there been?”
* * *
DALTON STOOD IN front of the beautiful detective trying to decide how much of his hand he should show. It sounded a little far-fetched even to him that the same murderer would strike fourteen years later. But he knew without a doubt this was the work of one person. And the odds increased when he considered the event had happened on the exact same day at the same spot. “As far as I know, one. But there could be others in different locations.”
Proving his theory was a whole different story, and he also had to contend with the fact that the detective was about to find out that he’d been the prime suspect in his then-girlfriend’s murder.
“How long ago did the first occur?” Her voice was steady, calm. There was so much going on in the detective’s mind that he could almost hear the wheels churning behind those intense honey-brown eyes.
He hesitated before answering, wondering if she’d accuse him of being out of touch like the sheriff had. On balance, she needed to know.
“Fourteen years,” he said, expecting her to end the conversation and try to get back into the office with her sister.
“Other than the knot, what makes you think these two crimes are connected?” She stared at him, and he got the sense she was evaluating his mental capacity.
“Same day and location, same tree and same method,” he stated.
“The knot.” She took a sip of coffee as she seemed to be considering what he’d said. “But fourteen years apart.”
“There could be others that I’m not aware of.” Dalton saw this as the first positive sign that someone other than one of his siblings was listening. Of course, they’d been supportive. The Butler children had always been close. But shortly after the crime, his twin and best friend, Dade, had signed up for the military. His sisters had been busy with college and high school. His father, the Mav, had slapped his son on the back and told him the calves needed to be logged and the pens needed to be cleaned, like his teenaged heart hadn’t just been ripped out of his chest. Guilt ate at him, even today.
Dalton mentally shook off the memory and lack of compassion his father had shown.
“Have you considered the possibility of a copycat?” She had that same look the sheriff had worn so many times when he discredited what Dalton had told him.
“Enjoy your coffee.” He turned to walk away and was stopped by a soft touch on his arm.
“Hey, slow down. I wasn’t saying that I didn’t believe you.”
“Yeah, you did.” Dalton had no plans to go down that road with anyone again.
The detective held up her free hand in surrender. “I’ll admit that I was skeptical, but that’s what makes me good at my job. I don’t take anything at face value. But I’m also good at reading people, and whether there’s a true connection to these cases or not, I can tell you’re not lying. You believe the two are related and I want to hear you out.”
“Tell me everything I should know about your niece,” he said, testing the detective to see how far the information sharing would go. If she trusted him, she’d open up at least a little.
The detective bristled. “She’s in high school.”
Dalton set his mug down, turned and walked out. He had no plans to share his information with someone unwilling to go deep. Telling him a seventeen-year-old was in high school was like saying coffee beans were brown.
The detective was on his heels.
“Hold on a minute. I just said that I know you believe what you’re saying is true and I told you something about her,” she argued.
“I know,” he said out of the side of his mouth. He’d seen the distrust in her eyes. She thought he was as crazy as the sheriff had all those years ago. And since he had no more plays left in present company, he walked outside to where his truck was parked. He’d had one of the ranch hands drop it off since he rode here in the back of a deputy’s SUV. Reporters had started gathering in bigger numbers, no doubt looking for something to report since news—and leads—about the Mav’s murder had gone cold. He shooed them away as he made large strides toward his truck, ignored the detective and shut the door, closing him in the cab alone.
Dalton pulled out of the lot, squealing his tires, although not meaning to. His adrenaline was jacked through the roof at the thought that a murderer—her murderer—was still in Cattle Barge. One of the reasons he’d believed there’d only been one murder in town since was that he thought the killer had moved on. But now?
This guy was shoving the murder in their faces. And he could be anyone. For all Dalton knew, he could be walking right past the bastard every day. Greeting him when the man should be locked behind bars for the safety of other teenage girls.
A question tugged at the corner of his mind. Alexandria’s killer had been quiet for fourteen years. Why strike now?
There had to be a trigger. Dalton intended to figure out what the hell it was and finally put to rest the crime that had haunted him for his entire adult life.
The