Chapter 31
Jamie
Jamie drives slowly down the deserted backroads outside of Nightjar, trying to decide what to do next. His horse ride with
Wes has left him unbalanced, his head swimming with more questions than answers. Still, he’s come away certain that Wes is
more complicit in Johanna’s death than he first thought possible. He pulls up Colson’s number and hits the Call button. It
rings twice before Colson answers. “Hallo,” he says in that gruff manner Jamie remembers from when he was a kid.
“Sheriff, it’s J. J.,” Jamie says. “Are you still up for me coming over tonight? I want to get your take on a few things.
About the case.”
“Everything okay?” Colson asks.
“Yeah, but I’ve learned a few things and just had the most bizarre conversation with Wes Drake.”
“About the barn? I thought he clammed up. Would only talk through his lawyer.”
“About the barn, about what I found on his phone. And about . . .” Does he really want to muddy the waters and bring up his
sister’s case right now?
“Juneau?” Colson finishes for him. “It’s okay, J. J. I’ve been waiting for this conversation. I live on Killdeer Road, thirteen-oh-nine.
It’s the green house. Come on over.”
“Okay,” Jamie says, his stomach fluttering with nerves. “I’m on my way.”
Colson’s home is on a quiet cul-de-sac not far from the sheriff’s office, where all the houses are built in the same craftsman
style with their low-pitched gables, tapered columns, and covered front porches. Jamie easily finds the Colson house, painted
green with a tidy lawn and surrounded by juniper. He parks on the street and steps from his vehicle to find Colson waiting
for him on the porch, two bottles of beer in his hand.
With heavy legs, Jamie climbs the steps. “J. J.,” Colson says, handing him a bottle, sweaty with condensation. “Thought you
might need one of these.”
“Thanks,” Jamie says, accepting the offering. Colson takes a seat on a patio chair and waves his hand, inviting Jamie to sit.
Jamie chooses the chair next to the sheriff so that he doesn’t have to look him directly in the eye, picks up a plaid pillow
from the seat, and sits. He takes a swig from the beer bottle, feeling only a little bit guilty for drinking while on duty.
“Nice place,” Jamie says, looking appreciatively at the quiet green street in front of him. “I remember your wife made me
homemade soup and brought it to the motel when I got out of the hospital. I couldn’t eat much with my jaw wired shut. It was
good. Is she home?”
“No, she’s running some errands, meeting a friend for dinner. I know she’d love to see you, though. Maybe you can stop by
again later,” Colson says.
“Maybe,” Jamie says noncommittally.
“So where would you like to start, J. J.?” Colson asks, picking at the label on his beer bottle. “With the Drake case or with
Juneau?” This is when Jamie notices it. The thick binder sitting on the glass-topped side table between them. Jamie has seen
hundreds of these binders. Has himself filled many of them with police reports, autopsy reports, witness statements, and photos.
Juneau’s binder.
“It’s bigger than I thought it would be,” Jamie says.
“We worked hard,” Colson says. “I told you we would.”
A knot forms in Jamie’s throat. “Yeah, but my sister is still gone.”
“That she is. But not for lack of effort,” Colson says. “And I haven’t stopped looking.”
Jamie meets his gaze. “But the case file is here, not back at the station. We both know what that means.”
“It’s cold. But I haven’t given up,” Colson says.
Jamie wants to believe him, but the fact that Juneau’s binder is at Colson’s house and not on the sheriff’s desk or even the
desk of one of the deputies means that they aren’t actually looking into Juneau’s disappearance. Any work on the case is being
done by Colson on his own time.
“Let’s talk about the Drake case,” Jamie says abruptly. “Tell me more about Wes. What’s his story?”
“You’re not going to tell me about your visit with him?” Colson asks.
“I’d like your take on things first,” Jamie says. “Then I’ll fill you in.”
Colson releases a breath. “Where to start,” he laughs. “His dad was one of the wealthiest landowners in the county, and when
he died, he passed the fortune on to his two sons.”
“Wes and Dix,” Jamie adds.
“That’s right. They own the land together. Rent a good deal of it out to smaller ranchers, run the equestrian center with
Madeline, buy and sell horses.”
“Wes is well thought of around here?” Jamie asks and almost misses the shadow that dims Colson’s eyes for a moment. But it
was there, however briefly.
“Wes and Dix do a lot of good for the community,” Colson says. “They’re very generous.”
“But . . .” Jamie prompts.
“But just that,” Colson says and takes a drink from his bottle. “The Drakes give to a lot of important causes. They make a point to keep their money local, and most people appreciate that.”
“But some people don’t?” Jamie asks. He finds himself growing impatient with the sheriff and his caginess. Why is he being
so evasive?
“When people have as much money as the Drakes, they want favors and are willing to offer some in exchange. Sometimes lines
are crossed.”
There it is, Jamie thinks. Not that what Colson is saying is some profound revelation.
“Did you know that Wes might have been having an affair with Johanna?”
“I did not,” Colson says, rubbing a hand over his face. “But I’m not surprised. Wes has always had a wandering eye. Even as
a teen.”
Jamie hands Colson his phone. “These texts were found on Johanna Monaghan’s cell. They’re from Wes.” Jamie watches as Colson
reads through the messages.
“Well, this doesn’t look good,” the sheriff says, handing the phone back. “But it doesn’t mean he murdered her.”
“I also think he’s having a relationship with Mellie Bauer.”
“That young waitress?” Colson asks. “The one staying with the Drakes right now?”
“That’s right,” Jamie says. “And when I tried to ask Wes about this, about the explosion, instead of trying to help you know
what he said?” Before Colson can respond, Jamie continues. “He told me that he knew who I was. Told me he had done some checking
up on me. My wife. Pretty much told me he could talk to the right people and get Tess a job.”
Colson lets out a long breath. “That’s what Wes does,” he says. “That’s what makes him a good businessman, but not necessarily
a very good person. He does his homework.”
“He also said that after Juneau disappeared and I was hurt so badly, his father paid for me and my mom to move back to San Antonio. And that he created the scholarship that sent me to college. Did you know that?”
“I did not,” Colson says quietly.
“The only reason I can think of for Wes telling me all this is that he is trying to leverage me somehow. He doesn’t want me
digging any deeper and is calling in that favor his dad did for me years ago. He has something to hide. What doesn’t Wes want
coming out?”
“You’ve got to understand,” Colson says, “the Drake boys have never been held accountable for anything in their lives. Their
father was always there to clean up things. Now Wes does his own cleaning up.”
Jamie waits for him to continue, watching as the older man peels the label off the bottle and rolls the damp paper between
his fingers. “The sheriff’s office has gotten some calls over the years asking for one of us to do a wellness check on Madeline
Drake. They always called the nonemergency number, but I sent a deputy out to see what was going on. Even went out there once
myself.”
“What did you find?” Jamie asks.
“Nothing,” Colson says. “Nothing that we could act on. Each time Madeline said she was fine, that someone must have been playing
a mean-spirited prank. There was nothing we could do.” He sets his bottle aside, gets to his feet, and steps inside the house
leaving Jamie on the porch alone. A few minutes later, he returns with two more beers and offers one to Jamie, who waves it
away.
“You found nothing you could act on, but you found something. What was it?” Jamie asks.
“Madeline Drake bruised up and moving around like she got kicked in the head by one of her horses,” Colson says. “Of course, that’s exactly what she said. Blamed herself and said that she got careless and got knocked off a horse, and it stepped on her head. Nothing we could do about it.”
“You still could have arrested him, brought him in for questioning. Something,” Jamie insists. “Especially if there’s a clear
pattern of abuse.”
“In a perfect world, yes, J. J., that’s what we would do,” Colson says, a spark of irritation in his voice. “But you have
to know that even if you do all those things, if you don’t have a prosecutor with the balls to do anything about it, your
hands are tied.”
“So what you’re telling me is Wes Drake is capable of blowing up his own barn and killing a woman, but there’s nothing we
can do about it because he has deep pockets?” Jamie says with disgust.
“I’m not saying that at all, J. J.” Colson says, matching his tone. “I’m just saying get the rock-solid, undeniable evidence
and prove it. You’re the feds, you have the resources. Do your thing. I’ll do whatever I can on my end to help, but you gotta
have the proof.”
Jamie lets Colson’s words sink in. He’s right.
“I talked to someone who says that she saw Wes and Juneau talking before she disappeared. Did you know that?” Jamie asks.
Colson lifts his eyebrows. “They went to the same high school. I’m guessing Juneau talked to a lot of people.”
“But did you ask Wes if he knew her? If he had any interactions with her?” Jamie presses.
Colson sets his beer aside and leans forward. “Of course we did. Wes was the one who found you, which was a miracle on its
own. That stretch of ditch was so overgrown with grass it’s a wonder he saw you at all. We questioned him several times, and
he said he really didn’t know your sister.”
“But . . .” Jamie prompts.
“But . . .” Colson tilts his head from side to side. “Others did see them together now and again—at school, in town, all very innocent.”
“Like they were dating?” Jamie asks. He can’t believe it. How was he the last to know?
“No,” Colson says. “No one said they were dating. They simply talked to one another now and then. They were friends.”
“He has an alibi for that night?” Jamie manages to ask, his frustration building.
“He had a football game and then went home,” the sheriff says, his voice tight. “His brother, Dixon, vouched for him. So did
his parents. It’s all in the binder, J. J. And to be honest, I’m getting a little worried about you. Are you sure you’re not
conflating Juneau’s case with the Drakes’?”
“I’m just trying to be thorough, and I think we both know that Wes isn’t quite the nice guy that so many people believe him
to be. His affairs, the way he treats his wife, the text messages to Johanna prove at least that.”
“Yes, but it doesn’t prove he’s a murderer,” Colson says gently.
“Anything farther back?” Jamie asks. “You said Wes’s dad got him and his brother out of a lot of scrapes. What kinds of trouble
did they get into?”
“Mostly kid stuff. Underage drinking, speeding, general mischief,” Colson recalls. “But there was something else. I was just
a deputy at the time, so I wasn’t privy to any of the details. It was all very hush-hush.” He pauses as if debating whether
to go on with the story. Jamie waits him out.
“A man came into the sheriff’s office. He was distraught.
Said his daughter was beat-up really bad—had a broken arm, a few broken ribs.
She was just a wisp of a thing. Maybe thirteen, fourteen years old.
The dad said her boyfriend did it. But then nothing came of it.
Not one more word was said. When I asked the sheriff, he said it was all a big misunderstanding, that I should forget about it.
A few weeks later I heard that the dad was laid off from his job at the meat-packing plant, but he landed a different job in Texas. The family moved away.”
“The boyfriend was Wes Drake,” Jamie says. “And Drake Sr. made it all disappear.”
“That’s what I heard. But again, J. J., if the victims don’t follow through, there’s not a whole lot to be done.”
“When was this?” Jamie asks.
“What do you mean?”
“Before or after? Was this before or after Juneau?”
“Before,” Colson says, looking down at the floor, unable to meet Jamie’s eyes.
“I should go,” Jamie says, getting to his feet. “Thanks for the beer.”
Colson follows suit. “What are you going to do?”
“Get that proof,” Jamie says.
“I’ll do anything I can to help, J. J. You know that, don’t you?”
“I do,” Jamie says.
“And feel free to take that with you,” Colson says, glancing down at the glass tabletop.
Jamie follows his gaze to the black binder that holds all the important information in his sister’s case. He knows that if
he picks it up, there’s no going back. He’ll be diving into a rabbit hole that he may never escape. “Thanks,” Jamie says,
picking up the binder. It has some heft to it, and that’s a comfort.
Sheriff Colson walks with Jamie to his car and waits as Jamie places the binder carefully in the back seat. “It’s good to
see you doing so well, J. J.,” he says. “You’ll have to come over to dinner before you head back home. I know Janet would
love to see you.”
They say their goodbyes, and Jamie climbs into his car and pulls from the curb.
In the rearview mirror he sees Colson, hands stuffed in his front pockets, staring after him.
The sheriff was being kind, Jamie knows.
Without Colson checking in on Jamie and his mom in the aftermath of Juneau’s disappearance, Jamie could have gone down a very different path.
He is the reason Jamie went into law enforcement.
He meanders through the streets of Nightjar for a few minutes, trying to get his bearings. The binder feels like having Juneau’s
body in the back seat and opening the case file will feel like witnessing his sister’s autopsy. Grim! Juneau exclaims.
Jamie rolls down the car window, grateful for the warm spring wind that sweeps across his face, and turns his car toward the
motel. He’s got a long night in front of him.