Alison Stone - Plain Jeopardy

He stopped pacing and stared down at her. “You realize, besides causing Jason’s mother tremendous pain, you’re also making it exceedingly difficult for the sheriff’s department to find out who provided the drugs the night of the party?”

Offended, Grace jerked her head back. “How?”

“The more you go digging around, the harder you’re making it for law enforcement to do the same. The Amish don’t like to be in the spotlight.”

“Maybe I provided you a lead tonight. Go find the truck that rammed my sister’s car. Then you’ll find someone who has something to hide.”

“Trust me, we’ll be working that angle. Meanwhile, I need you to stay put.”

“Don’t tell me to stay put.” Anger surged hot and fiery in her veins. She didn’t take commands from anyone, certainly not a man she had just met.

“I can’t keep saving you if you’re being reckless.”

“I hardly think pumping gas is being reckless.”

Conner held up his hand, then backed up. “Good night. Set the alarm when I leave.” He pulled a business card from his pocket. “Here’s my cell phone number. I’ll respond quicker than a 9-1-1 call from a cell. Sometimes those calls are routed through a few substations before they can find the origin.”

“If you’re trying to scare me, you’re not.”

He set the card down on the table and looked at her intently. “I’m not trying to scare you. You need to understand how things are. Good night,” he added tersely, turning to leave.

She stomped to the back door and turned the lock behind him. An ache in her hip from her heroic dive earlier this evening joined the dull pain from her appendectomy surgery.

The memory of the truck barreling toward her came to mind. She entered the alarm code and hit On, convincing herself she was safe. She had pursued far more dangerous stories in far scarier parts of the world. She wasn’t afraid of some teenager in a souped-up truck, if indeed the accident at the gas station had been intentional.

She returned to the sitting room and slipped her laptop out of the case resting against her sister’s fancy rolltop desk. She logged on to her blog, the one the editor encouraged her to keep updated. Since he was the one who assigned the stories, it was in her best interest to keep him happy.

“It gets the readers excited,” he’d told her more than once.

She focused her thoughts, her fingers hovering motionless over the keyboard. The hurt and betrayal in Conner’s eyes would haunt her. The dead boy had been his family. His responsibility.

The young man had made a horrible error in judgment that put a young Amish girl in a coma. People had to take responsibility for their actions.

No one had ever taken responsibility for her mother’s murder.

She considered all the hurt and deceit in her life. Her mother’s murder. Her sister’s violent husband. People weren’t always who they seemed to be. She had to shed light on the evil of the world. Give victims a voice.

This was her job. Her editor expected her to write the story.

She clicked New Post and started to type:

The idyllic countryside is dotted with picturesque farmhouses and barns. The Amish people wear conservative clothing and use horses for transportation, as if living in another era. Yet the world changes around them at a dizzying speed.

Alcohol. Drugs. And other evils.

The Amish choose to live an insular life with porous borders that provide no barrier at all. They are warned to live separate from the world.

But, apparently, no one told the outsiders, for they have found a way in.

Grace drummed her fingers on the edge of the keypad and reread her words. Too dramatic?

She closed her eyes and tried to remember her mother’s face. It was hazy, the memory of a three-year-old little girl.

Her mother had been murdered and no one had paid for the crime. Justice had never been served. Were the answers still out there? Was it really too late? What could it hurt to talk to the sheriff at the time of her mother’s death? Could she still ask Captain Gates to set up a meeting with his father? She hadn’t been very sympathetic to his family’s plight when he asked her not to write about Jason.

Conner must think she was as cold as the winter winds slamming the outside walls of the Quail Hollow Bed & Breakfast. Nerves tangled in her stomach, and she made one more check of the alarm.

All set.

She wandered back to the seating area and stared over the yard. In the window, her weary reflection peered back at her. A chill raced down her spine.

She backed away from the window, unable to shake the sensation that she wasn’t alone.

THREE

Late the next afternoon, after completing his shift, Conner strode around to the passenger side of his personal vehicle and opened the door for Grace. She had called him early that morning to see if the offer to talk to his father was still on the table. Conner considered this a good sign. Maybe they’d work out something mutually beneficial for both of them. She could get information on her mother’s murder, and maybe she’d back off Jason’s story.

When Grace didn’t immediately unbuckle her seat belt, he asked, “Is something wrong?”

“Are you sure your dad’s up for talking to me?”

“Yeah, come on. I called him earlier.” He held out his hand, and she finally unbuckled her seat belt and slid out of the truck without taking it. “He generally doesn’t like to discuss this case with outsiders, but that’s not the situation here.” Conner paused, not wanting to say that his father had always had a soft spot for the three little girls that Sarah Miller had left behind when she was brutally murdered. “He’s willing to talk to one of Sarah’s daughters.

“Besides—” he yanked open the back door and grabbed the takeout bags “—he’s always up for food.”

Grace held her scarf close to her neck as they walked up the pathway cleared of snow. Conner suspected his father had shoveled the flakes before they had a chance to hit the ground, whereas Conner preferred to put his four-wheel-drive truck to work each winter, creating two deep tracks in his long driveway. No shovel required. It was an ongoing joke between the two men.

“Watch out for the ice on the steps.” The salt hadn’t kept up with the sun-kissed icicles dripping from the overhang. He reached out for her elbow. She moved to the side and grabbed the railing instead.

“Any leads on the truck involved in the hit-and-run last night?” she asked.

“No, nothing on the surveillance video. But that was to be expected since it was positioned at the register and the driver never came into the store. All the officers know to look for a pickup with rear-end damage. If anyone tries to bring a truck in for repairs within a hundred-mile radius, we’ll be notified.”

Grace glanced up at him. “Why was it you answered the call last night when you obviously work the day shift?”

Conner smiled. “It’s a small town. I was filling in for another officer who requested off.”

She nodded.

“I’ve also—” The door swung open, stopping Conner midsentence. His father must have been waiting on the other side for their arrival. “Hey, Dad.”

“Son.” The former sheriff stepped back into the foyer, allowing him and Grace to enter. His father took the takeout bag from his son before grabbing their coats with his other hand. He shuffled off to the first-floor bedroom where he undoubtedly placed the coats on the king-size bed, like Conner’s mother used to do when they entertained when he was a little boy. It baffled Conner that, even after twenty-some years, the memory of his mother’s habits made him miss her like the day she had left.

Time had passed. The Miller case had grown cold. His father retired. Yet his mother never returned, having found happiness with a nice engineer with regular hours and little chance of getting shot on the job. Apparently, the replacement kids meant she didn’t miss the one she had left behind in Quail Hollow.