Bitterroot Lake by Alicia Beckman (best books for 20 year olds txt) 📗

to call her,” Sarah repeated, staring into her empty coffee mug. “How did you find Lucas? Did you find the gun?”

“His secretary, Renee Harper, found him when she came back from the post office. She swears he was alone when she left, and that she was gone no more than half an hour.” He swallowed the last of his coffee and set the mug on the table. “And no, no weapon. Just the body and the blood.”

He’d already taken Janine’s T-shirt into evidence, tucking it into a paper bag he’d sealed and initialed. He’d taken the letter, too.

“A lot of blood,” Janine said, her voice thick with the memory.

“And you don’t own a gun?” he asked, though he’d asked once before. The answer was the same—a shake of the head.

“Was Lucas popular?” Sarah asked, thinking of that possible run for office. “Well liked?”

“Well known,” Leo replied, his careful choice of words saying plenty. “Soon as you two are cleaned up and dressed, come into my office and give official statements. We’ll need both your fingerprints.”

“Mine, too?” Sarah asked. “Why?”

“You touched the letter, right? Getting prints off paper isn’t easy, so there’s no guarantee we’ll get a match. But at least we can eliminate yours.” He rubbed the cat’s head one more time. “And pick up some cat food.”

Thank goodness she’d remembered to switch on the water heater last night. The hot shower had felt so good.

There might come a day when Sarah McCaskill Carter would walk down the streets of her hometown wearing second-day clothes and second-day hair, but this was not that day.

She took pity and set the last of her yogurt on the floor for the cat, who polished the bowl clean before sitting on her haunches and asking for more. “Don’t get used to it. People food isn’t good for you and I have no patience for picky eaters.”

The cat did not reply.

Sarah found a tunic for Janine to wear over the borrowed leggings, then pulled on slim-cut black pants, a white silk T-shirt, and a bright blue blazer with a notched collar and rolled-up sleeves. Black flats. She’d only brought one bag, a woven straw tote with a leather strap. Finger-combed her light brown hair, the red flecks catching the light. It would do.

They drove the ten miles to Deer Park in the rented SUV, Janine’s face ashen, hands clutching her elbows. Sarah kept her eyes on the road, barely seeing the land she’d once known as well as her own face.

On the courthouse steps, Janine paused.

“The last time I was here, I was twenty-two, claiming what my mother left behind.”

Sarah grabbed Janine’s shoulder and looked her square in the eyes. “You. Are not. Your mother.”

Inside the office, the sharp smell of cleaning spray mingled with the scent of daffodils from a bouquet on the counter. The fortyish woman on duty said Sheriff McCaskill wanted to see Sarah first, and a young officer who introduced himself as Deputy Pritchard escorted her to the interview room. The fluorescent lights buzzed slightly and gave his pale skin a bluish tinge, though the table and chairs were not as old and scarred as she’d expected. Then Leo entered.

It didn’t take long to repeat her story for the digital recorder that lay on the table between her and the two men. No, she replied to Leo’s final question, she had nothing more to add.

“If you’re sure—” Leo said. She was sure.

Back in the lobby, he beckoned to Janine. “No reason to wait,” he told Sarah. “We could be a while.”

She turned to her friend. “Text me when—” But Janine had no phone.

“I’ll ping you when she’s free,” Leo said. A good sign, right? He didn’t plan on clamping on the handcuffs and tossing Janine into the jail. Which surely did not smell of spring flowers.

Outside on the sidewalk, Sarah checked her phone. Replied Gorgeous day in Montana—love you! to a text from her daughter, no doubt sent while scurrying between classes. She’d texted both kids from the train station in Whitefish yesterday, letting them know she’d arrived safely. Her son might not reply for a day or two. They had their own lives now, which was the point of raising kids, right? But though she’d been happy to see them choose their dream schools and move halfway across the country while their father was alive and well, now she wanted to drag them home and never let them out of her sight.

Which was exactly what she couldn’t do.

She dropped the phone into her bag. The courthouse anchored Main Street—literally; it stood in a circle at the south end of downtown, a few blocks from the lake. Despite the sunshine, the air held a slight chill. Mountain air. Fresh, and yet, filmy. Like a thin curtain had fallen between her and the rest of the world when Jeremy died.

This is your hometown. There is nothing to be afraid of.

She took a deep breath. One step, then another, and another.

At half past ten, Main Street was open for business. Flower baskets hung from hooks on some of the wrought-iron lampposts, while others sported nylon flags with bright images of birds and butterflies. “OPEN” signs glowed in the windows of the copy shop and the liquor store, and petunias and verbena spilled from window boxes outside the florist’s shop. Her grandmother had had a standing order for a fresh bouquet every week, and Sarah had loved going in with her to pick them up, even when the owner was away and they had to deal with the prickly woman who worked there. As a little girl, she’d wondered why someone who worked with pretty things always seemed to be in a bad mood, but her grandmother had said the woman had a hard life.

“Good morning,” an older man called as he came out of Deer Park Hardware and crossed the sidewalk. She returned the greeting, though she didn’t know him. This was how she remembered town. Not like Seattle, where default mode