Chapter Fifty-One
Parker
The Impala rolls over a cattle guard a mile from the cabin. The suspension groans anyway, the undercarriage scraping just enough to make both of us wince.
“Son of a bitch,” Nate mutters under his breath.
“I could’ve driven again.” I give him a sweet smile. “Though, I should probably replace the ‘oh shit’ handle first. You crushed it.”
He shoots me a look before returning his attention to the rutted county road stretching out ahead of us. “It’s the smoothies. They do wonders for my grip strength. You should try them.”
I scowl. “My grip strength is just fine. I’m range certified. The physical therapist cleared me.”
“Parker…” His voice takes on that careful tone he uses when he knows he’s put his foot in his mouth. “That’s not what I meant. I’m not worried about your hands. Unless…you are?”
“What did I just say to you, Nathaniel?”
Now it’s his turn to scowl. He drops his voice to a whisper. “No one calls me Nathaniel.”
Shit. I’ve hit a nerve. Then again, so did he, so I guess we’re even.
Except we’re not. Not really.
I know Nate. I know the jokes he makes when he’s uncomfortable, the way he deflects when something gets too close. And I know I didn’t mean to hit that particular target.
Before I can figure out if I should apologize, he turns onto the dirt road, his attention shifting to the trees and any potholes that might hurt his car.
“So…Cooter’s on the way back?”
“Now I know something’s wrong. You’ll willingly eat brisket twice in the same week? What about my cholesterol? What about your cholesterol?”
“I added rolled oats and cinnamon to my smoothie this morning. They cancel out the bacon in the collard greens.”
“But not the brisket.”
“Fair.”
The dirt road narrows as we get closer to the cabin, the trees crowding in on either side of us. Dust billows in a thick cloud behind the Impala before settling back over the road.
Nate eases into the clearing and parks beneath the shade of the trees.
Kessler’s truck is gone.
“Did we drive all the way out here for nothin’?” I ask.
“Only one way to find out.”
We exchange a glance as he cuts the engine. The sudden silence makes the absence obvious.
When we were here yesterday, Lost Pines was alive with nature. Birds calling from the trees. The rustle of leaves in the breeze. The steady buzz of insects hiding in the undergrowth.
Now, the woods are quiet. Not empty. Just quieter than they should be.
Without a word, we ease our guns from their holsters. Nate slows his pace, trusting me to match him. He takes the left side of the path. I drift right, widening the angle between us.
At the edge of the clearing, he lifts two fingers. Wait.
I scan the windows. The tree line. The porch.
Nothing moves.
The curtains are all open. The windows catch the noonday sun, the glass bright enough to make me squint.
Nate reaches the door first. He doesn’t knock. His hand settles on the knob, and he cuts a quick gaze to me.
I nod and raise my weapon.
He throws the door open. I go right. He takes the left.
The cabin is spotless.
The sweet scent of tequila is gone. So’s the bottle. The duffel bag. The overflowing trash can. The dirty dishes. The clutter. A subtle hint of bleach cuts through the traces of old upholstery, body odor, and buckshot.
The counters are bare. Not wiped down—stripped. No dishes or glasses. The towel that was hanging off one of the cabinet doorknobs yesterday is gone.
The table—where we told Kessler his name had been taken off the inspection records for Aldrich and Rutherford Lane—is polished almost to a shine, all the chairs pushed in, equally spaced.
Drawers open and close in the single bedroom. A closet door scrapes on its track. Nate moves through the space with the same precision he brings to everything else in his life.
A moment later, he emerges, shaking his head. “Empty.”
The trash can isn’t though. Not completely. It’s got a new liner. “Nate. A guy runnin’ scared doesn’t think about trash bag liners.”
“He doesn’t think about stripping the bed either.”
Shit.
We don’t touch anything—yet. First, we walk the exterior of the cabin.
This time of year, it’s too dry for usable footprints in the forest litter.
We check anyway. The outhouse is…still disgusting, but there’s a fresh roll of toilet paper hanging from a rusted metal hook mounted to the wall.
It hasn’t been touched. Not a single square missing.
“Either Kessler’s a neat freak when he’s not on a bender, or…”
I glance back at the cabin. “Or someone else did the cleaning. Now we need to find out if they also cleaned up Kessler.”
We return to the Impala, where Nate unlocks the trunk. We aren’t expecting to find much. No prints. No fibers. No bodily fluids. Not with how well this place has been scrubbed. But if we don’t look, we don’t deserve our stars.
Two hours pass before we’ve swabbed every surface. We’ve taken enough photos, we could wallpaper the whole damn cabin with them. “I’m callin’ it,” I say. “Kessler’s either in the wind, or he’s gone from this life, but he definitely ain’t here.”
The Impala’s AC struggles against the heat as Nate takes the cattle grate at a whopping two miles an hour. The trees and brush blur outside the windows, but neither of us say a word until Cooter’s comes into view.
“You hungry?” Nate asks. He waits for my answer, but I’m too wiped to give one, so eventually, he shakes his head. “Neither am I.”