19. You Won’t Get to Her – Roman
Chapter 19
You Won’t Get to Her
PLAYLIST: “THE DEVIL DOESN’T BARGAIN” BY ALEC BENJAMIN
ROMAN
The ride to the station felt like purgatory. The hum of the car’s engine and the rhythmic crunch of gravel beneath the tires only amplified the suffocating tension inside the cab.
Barton sat in the driver’s seat like a king on his throne, radiating self-importance. One hand gripped the wheel with casual arrogance, while the other drummed an erratic pattern on the door panel. He wasn’t even looking at the road half the time, too busy sneaking glances at me in the rearview mirror, his sharp brown eyes gleaming with barely concealed glee.
“You don’t talk much, do you?” His voice was smooth, almost conversational, but it cut through the silence like the blade of a well-honed hunting knife. “Or maybe you’re just saving your breath for the lies you’re planning to spin once we get there.”
I kept my gaze on the horizon, where the Montana plains stretched out endlessly, painted in muted shades of gold and green under the late afternoon sun. The land was wide open, free, everything this cramped car wasn’t.
“I don’t owe you a conversation,” I said evenly, keeping my focus on the landscape outside.
His laugh was sharp, bitter, and as unpleasant as the man himself.
“That so?” He drummed his fingers against the wheel in a mockery of a beat. “You think staying quiet makes you look noble? Makes you look strong?”
I shrugged, not bothering to respond out loud. He wasn’t worth it.
He let out a scoff, shaking his head like he couldn’t believe my audacity. “I gotta say, I almost admire your loyalty to Zoe. It’s cute, in a pathetic sort of way. But here’s the thing—loyalty won’t mean shit when I’ve got you pinned to the wall.”
I clenched my jaw, refusing to take the bait. Barton was the type who thrived on reactions, the kind who liked to poke and prod until he got a rise out of someone.
Not this time.
The station came into view, a squat brick building that looked as tired as the man driving me there. Barton pulled into the lot with exaggerated slowness, his smirk growing wider as the car rolled to a stop. He was out of the car in an instant, slamming the door behind him with a force that felt like punctuation to some internal monologue I was glad not to hear. He leaned against the hood, arms crossed, his smug grin practically daring me to make a move.
I took my time stepping out, matching his gaze with a flat, unreadable expression. His eyes narrowed, just slightly, as if my calm irritated him.
Good.
“Let’s see how long you can keep up the strong, silent act once we’re inside, York,” he said, jerking his head toward the entrance. “I’ve got all day.”
The interrogation room was no better than the ride over. The air was thick and stale, the kind that clung to your skin and made you want to claw at your collar. The walls were an unremarkable beige, but somehow they felt oppressive, as if the paint itself conspired to make the space feel smaller. Barton took his time settling in, dragging the chair back with an obnoxious screech before dropping into it like he owned the place. The file he carried hit the table with a resounding thud, the papers inside jumping slightly from the impact.
Barton leaned back, his smirk firmly in place as he tapped his fingers on the table. “So, Roman, care to tell me where you really were last night?”
“I was in bed with my wife, Zoe, all night long,” I said, my tone as steady as my posture.
His smirk faltered, just for a second, before he leaned forward, sarcasm dripping from his voice. “Right. And you expect me to believe Zoe will back you up? As soon as she gets in here, she’ll throw you under the bus, and you’ll end up in jail for her. That’s the thanks you get.”
I crossed my arms, keeping my voice calm and even. “She wouldn’t have married me if she intended to run away again. My wife’s not going anywhere. She didn’t do anything wrong.”
Barton’s eyes narrowed, his fingers tapping faster against the table. The sound was incessant, like the ticking of a bomb. “You’re a fool, Roman. Everything is going to fall on you, and you’re prepared to take the fall for her?”
I uncrossed my arms, leaning forward slightly to meet him head-on. “If it does, it does. I’m prepared to take that for the woman I love. You don’t even have something like that for yourself. What does that say about you?”
The flush in Barton’s face deepened, his composure slipping as he stood abruptly, his movements sharp and jerky. He leaned over the table, looming like he thought it would intimidate me. “You’re an asshole, Roman. You think you can outsmart me? We’ll see about that.”
I stayed seated, calm and unflinching, meeting his glare with unwavering resolve.
“Do whatever you have to. It won’t change the facts.”
The door slammed shut behind him, the sound reverberating through the small room. I exhaled slowly, letting the tension bleed out just enough to keep my head clear. This wasn’t over. Not by a long shot.
When he returned, he wasn’t empty-handed. The file he carried was thicker this time, its contents spilling slightly from the edges. He slapped it down on the table with a force that made the papers jump.
“Let’s discuss Twisted Creek Ranch. Ten years is a long time to cover up a murder.”
I kept my expression neutral, waiting for him to continue.
Barton flipped open the file, pulling out a photograph. He slid it across the table toward me. “Recognize her? Missy Carter. Found in your father-in-law’s barn. Quite the scandal.”
The photo was grainy, its edges slightly curled from being handled too many times. Missy’s body lay sprawled on the barn floor, her lifeless eyes staring into the void. But it wasn’t just the image that haunted me—it was the smell of the hay, damp from a late summer storm, and the way Zoe’s voice had echoed off the barn walls during that second fight.
She’d been hurt. Furious, even. But not a killer.
I glanced at the photo, then back at Barton. Just that one glimpse was enough to send a cold weight settling into my chest. Missy’s lifeless eyes stared out from the glossy print, her face pale against the straw of the barn floor. The photograph was black-and-white, but I didn’t need color to imagine the dark bruises staining her neck around the marks the rope had left.
God, why did he have to bring this up now?
The memory came rushing back before I could stop it—the barn’s heavy air, damp with the lingering humidity of a storm that had rolled through earlier that day. Missy and Zoe’s voices had carried through the rafters, sharp as knives. I hadn’t meant to eavesdrop, but there was no avoiding it. Zoe’s anger, her pain—it had been so raw, so real.
Zoe had stormed out, her face flushed, her fists clenched at her sides. I’d followed her, my heart in my throat, thinking maybe I could calm her down. Maybe I could finally say what I’d been holding back for so long.
Instead, I’d poured my heart out and gotten it shattered in return.
I blinked, shoving the memory aside, but it stuck to the edges of my mind like tar.
“What’s your point?” I asked, my voice steady despite the turmoil churning inside.
“My point is,” Barton said, leaning forward, “your wife had a massive public argument with Missy at Twisted Creek Ranch on the day she died, in front of several witnesses. Now, ten years later, we have a firebombing at the evidence repository just a few days after Zoe flies back in from Miami. Quite the coincidence, wouldn’t you say? Lucky for me, I got curious and already had these files in my possession when it was bombed.”
I took a deep breath, forcing myself to keep my composure. “Zoe had nothing to do with Missy’s death or the firebombing. You’re grasping at straws, trying to connect dots that aren’t there.”
Barton’s eyes glinted with a mix of triumph and challenge. “We’ll see what dots connect when Zoe gets here with Deputy Blackwell. But tell me, Roman, if Zoe didn’t have anything to do with the firebombing, maybe you did. You’re so desperate to keep her close, maybe you firebombed it to protect her. So you can keep her out of jail and have her all to yourself.”
I could tell him everything—the second fight, Zoe’s pain, her decision to leave for Miami—but what good would it do? Barton wasn’t looking for the truth. He was looking for a target, and he didn’t care how many lies he had to stack to make a case. If I gave him even a sliver of what I knew, he’d twist it, spin it, and bury Zoe with it.
“That’s a ridiculous accusation,” I said, keeping my voice even. “I would never put her at risk, and you know it. You’re grasping at straws, Barton.”
God, I hoped no one else had witnessed their second argument. If someone had, we were in deep shit. But I’d made a promise to Zoe, and I wasn’t about to break it.
I’ll never betray her trust.
Barton leaned back, a smirk creeping back onto his face. “You know, my Uncle Mo, the former sheriff, kept this whole thing quiet as a favor to Zoe’s father… the potential of it being a murder instead of a suicide like they initially thought. A shameful secret, swept under the rug for years. But I’m not like him. I won’t let personal favors or family loyalty stand in the way of justice. I’m going to make this right for Michael.”
As he spoke, I could see the conviction etched into his features, the fire of someone determined to right what he saw as a decade-old wrong. His voice lowered, but the intensity sharpened. “Michael lost his little sister, Roman. That’s blood. Family. I grew up hearing stories about Missy, about the hole her death left behind. My uncle… he buried his conscience for your wife’s family. But I don’t owe the Brandt name a damn thing.”
Barton’s face twisted with a mix of anger and something else—grief, maybe. I didn’t need him to spell it out to know this was more than just a job to him. Michael Carter had lost his little sister and a piece of himself with her, and Barton had grown up in the shadow of that tragedy. I could see it in the way his jaw clenched when he mentioned her name, in the bitterness that edged his every word.
This wasn’t just about justice; this was personal. He wanted someone to pay, and he didn’t care who it was as long as he could bring them down.
“So that’s it,” I said calmly. “You’re playing judge and jury for a case that was never yours to begin with.”
Barton leaned forward, his smirk gone, replaced by something colder. “Someone’s got to. And if I have to break you to get to her, I will. For Michael. For Missy. For justice.”
His words hung in the air, heavy and sharp. I met his glare, refusing to flinch.
You won’t get to her, Barton. Not through me.
“Then you’d better start digging, Deputy. Because all you’ll find is the truth. Zoe had nothing to do with what happened to Missy, and no amount of twisting the past is going to change that.”
The silence stretched between us, thick with tension. Barton sat back, a flicker of doubt crossing his face before he masked it with a sneer. “We’ll see, Roman. We’ll see.”
I leaned back in my chair, forcing myself to appear calm, even as my pulse hammered in my ears.
“Am I under arrest, Deputy?” My voice was steady, challenging him to make a move.
Barton’s jaw tightened, but he didn’t rise to the bait. Instead, he leaned forward again, narrowing his eyes. “Not yet. Let me ask you this—can anyone verify your whereabouts last night?”
I almost smirked at the predictability of his angle. “Sure. Zoe can confirm it. Miss Smith—the live-in nurse—was there, too. So was Mr. Brandt. They can all tell you I never left the big house last night. Neither did Zoe.”
Barton’s expression soured, his lips pressing into a tight line. I could see the wheels turning in his head, trying to find cracks in the story. Finally, he scoffed, the sound bitter and sharp. “We’ll have to confirm that alibi.”
I shrugged, keeping my tone easy. “You do that, then. It’s the truth.”
For a moment, he stared at me, like he was trying to peel back layers to see what I was hiding. But there was nothing for him to find, and he knew it. Finally, he stood, his movements stiff.
“Don’t think this is over, Roman. We’ll see what your wife and the rest of them have to say.”
I watched him go, waiting until the door clicked shut before letting out the breath I didn’t realize I’d been holding.
This isn’t over. Not by a long shot. Barton would be back, and next time, he wouldn’t come alone. I need to be ready—ready for whatever hell he’s about to unleash.