Chapter Twenty-Six
Meredith studied the sheriff’s face as he spoke to his son.
Hendricks appeared pleased, as if he enjoyed getting a rise out of Wade. After he ended the call, he tucked his phone away and turned to look at Meredith. He assessed her with a cool blue gaze. They were alone in the station, with vertical steel bars between them.
Sheriff Hendricks didn’t resemble Wade in the least. He was stout and barrel chested where Wade was tall and lean.
He had thinning gray hair and the weathered features of an outdoorsman.
His slow perusal of her face and figure turned her stomach.
Refusing to be cowed, she squared her shoulders and examined him in return.
“What brings you to Last Chance?” he asked.
“I was just passing through.”
“On the way to where?”
“Oklahoma.”
“Family visit?”
“Something like that.”
His eyes narrowed at her vague responses. “What do you do for Wynona?”
“Whatever needs doing.”
“Is Wade on that list?”
She didn’t answer.
“I’m surprised by how upset he was to learn you were in my custody. It’s almost as if he thinks I can’t be trusted with you.”
She took the threat for what it was and tried not to show fear.
“You’re not his usual type,” Hendricks said. “He likes them classy and well-groomed. You’re just a backwoods wildcat, fresh from the holler.”
Meredith flushed at the insult.
“You’re a criminal, too.”
“No, I’m not.”
“Lying to police officers is a criminal offense. So is aggravated assault.”
“He told me about you.”
Hendricks raised his brows. “Oh? What did he say?”
Deputy Slate returned to his desk with a cup of coffee. Meredith was relieved by the presence of the friendlier officer. She returned to the cold concrete bench and sat down. She would stay quiet and wait for Wade.
“Do you know why my deputy came back for you?” the sheriff asked.
She stared at the wall of the cell, feigning disinterest.
“He’s a bit of an amateur sleuth. Wants to be a detective someday, so he follows a bunch of folks with similar interests on the internet.
YouTubers or some such. I don’t know what the hell it’s all about, but he does.
Tell us, Slate, why this lovely creature caught your attention. Other than the obvious.”
Slate gave the sheriff a quelling look before turning to Meredith. “There was a feature on Websleuths this morning. Poison Rose.”
“Poison Rose,” Hendricks repeated.
“They ran a photograph and a bunch of speculation about the inspiration for the song, along with the mystery behind it.”
“What’s the mystery?” Hendricks asked.
“A college student posted on social media that her sister, Meredith Rose, had gone missing, and she was involved with Tripp Gilley before she disappeared. She took the post down after it went viral, but there are screenshots.”
“Screenshots,” Hendricks said, pointing at her.
Meredith crossed her arms over her chest. She was still soaked to the skin, and she couldn’t stop trembling.
“You’re Meredith Rose,” Slate said. “You have a prescription bottle with that name on it, and the photographs are a clear match. There’s even one with the dog.”
“Speaking of the dog,” Hendricks said. “If his shots aren’t up to date, we’re going to have put him down. It’s the only way to make sure he’s not rabid.”
Meredith jumped to her feet. Fear spiked through her. “Leave my dog alone.”
“Be glad to, as long as you cooperate.”
“What do you want me to say?”
“I don’t actually care what you say,” Hendricks admitted. “But Slate does. He wants to interview you for his YouTube channel.”
“It’s a podcast,” Slate said, sounding bashful.
Hendricks rolled his eyes. “I’ll be in my office.”
After the sheriff walked away, Slate approached the cell. “I doubt he’s going to write up an arrest report. He just wants to needle Wade.”
“Why?”
Slate shrugged. “Family squabble, I reckon. Anyway, I’m a huge fan of Tripp Gilley and web-sleuthing, so I’m thrilled to have you here. If you would grant an interview, I’ll ask the sheriff to go easy.”
“Bring me my dog,” Meredith said.
Slate nodded happily. He came back with Chico, who was small enough to pass through the bars. Meredith’s eyes filled with tears as she hugged the little dog to her chest. He covered her face with kisses.
“This is for a podcast?”
“Yes. It’s just audio.”
“How many questions?”
“Twenty,” Slate said.
“I’ll answer five.”
“Ten.”
She sat down on the bench, compliant, and Slate pulled up a desk chair. He took his phone out of his pocket to record the conversation. He had reddish-brown hair, ruddy cheeks, and a good-natured attitude.
“For the record, I wasn’t aiming at you,” she said.
“No harm done.” He pressed the record button. “What’s your full name?”
“Meredith Ann Rose. What’s yours?”
“Raymond Slate.”
“Pleased to meet you, Raymond.”
“Likewise,” he said. “What’s your relationship with Tripp Gilley?”
“I thought he was my husband. We went to a small chapel outside of Nashville and exchanged vows when I was eighteen. Later, when I tried to get a divorce, I found out we weren’t legally married.”
Slate frowned at this detail. “How did you meet him?”
“I was a waitress at the Blue Moon Café in Memphis. He played at the juke joint across the street.”
“Did you inspire the song ‘Poison Rose’?”
“Yes.”
“What was his creative process like? How did the idea come to him?”
Meredith stroked Chico’s head, considering. She hadn’t been able to share the entire story with Wade. Telling it now, from the bleak confines of a jail cell, wasn’t her first choice, but she was tired of lying. Tired of running.
“His creative process, for that song, involved throwing me into a coffee table. I wanted to attend my sister’s high school graduation ceremony.
I was packing a bag to leave when he attacked me.
I don’t remember it all, due to the head injury.
I know he pushed me. I woke up in a pile of broken glass, and he was strumming his guitar.
He wrote the melody while he was waiting for me to come to. ”
Slate paused the recording and took a deep breath. “I don’t know if I can post this. I might have to edit that part out.”
“Suit yourself,” Meredith said. She wasn’t as devastated by the confession as she’d anticipated. It felt like a weight had been lifted off her shoulders. She didn’t care if only the two of them heard the story.
“He knocked you unconscious and wrote a song about you being poison.”
“Yes.”
“How do you feel when you hear it?”
“Sick to my stomach. Broken inside.”
“Is he the reason you disappeared?”
“Yes. I left him two years ago and went into hiding. That’s where I’ve been this whole time.”
After a moment, Slate started recording again. “One more question.”
Meredith nodded her agreement.
“How do you feel about his death?”
She cocked her head to the side. “What do you mean, his death?”
“You don’t know what I’m talking about?”
“I don’t.”
“Tripp Gilley died in a helicopter crash last night. It’s all over the news.”
*
Wade pulled into a parking space in front of the sheriff’s substation and hopped out.
He strode through the front entrance, bypassed the reception desk, and continued straight back to the holding area.
Deputy Slate was sitting in a chair outside one of the cells, playing a song on a harmonica.
Meredith sat inside the cell with Chico.
The dog threw his head back and howled as if singing along to the music. Both Slate and Meredith laughed.
Wade didn’t know whether to be relieved by the sight of her in good spirits or annoyed about her easygoing manner.
She was in a jail cell, for Christ’s sake.
He’d been worried sick. The least she could do was act like a damsel in distress.
This scene reminded him of the night of the tornado, when he’d found his mother partying it up at the evacuation center.
“Wade,” she said, rising to her feet.
Slate glanced over his shoulder. “Howdy, Wade.”
“Raymond.”
Chico wagged his tail as Wade came forward. Meredith offered an uncertain smile. Her hair was loose and tangled, she had a dirt smudge on her cheek, and her clothing appeared damp. Even disheveled and incarcerated, she looked beautiful.
“You all right?” he asked.
She hugged the dog to her chest. “I’ve been better.”
“Were you out in the rain?”
“For a bit.”
Wade frowned at Slate. “Can you get her a blanket?”
Slate jumped out of his chair, face flushed. “Of course.”
Boyd Hendricks emerged from his office, thumbs tucked into his waistband. He looked Wade up and down, studying the Lost Lake uniform. Slate grabbed a blanket from a nearby cabinet and passed it through the bars. Wade wanted to demand her immediate release, but he summoned patience.
“We need to talk privately,” Wade said to his father.
Boyd gestured toward a hallway that led to his office. With one last look at Meredith, Wade followed his father away. As soon as they were behind closed doors, Boyd settled into a leather chair behind his desk. Wade took the seat across from him.
“Why are you messing around with this girl?” Boyd asked. “She’s a beauty, I’ll grant you that, but she’s half-wild. What briar patch did she crawl out of?”
Wade didn’t bother to respond.
“Slate says she’s the Poison Rose, to boot.”
“Are you going to charge her with something?”
“I haven’t decided yet.”
Wade gritted his teeth in irritation. “There’s a problem in Lost Lake.”
“Oh?”
“It involves Cameron Pickett.”
Boyd didn’t even flinch. “What about him?”
“Kids found his remains by the lake after the tornado.”
“Why should I care?”
“Mom says you buried him, so that’s one reason.”
He leaned back in his chair, lip curled in derision. “You fight her battles now?”
“Maybe I do,” Wade said, meeting his father’s gaze.
“Has the body been identified?”
“Not yet.”
“What’s the cause of death?”
“Undetermined. I was pushing for a homicide ruling until I learned that my own mother bashed him over the head.”
“Any physical evidence?”
“Nothing to connect her to his death, so far. But she’ll be questioned, based on my resemblance to the deceased. I got a forensic sketch.”
Boyd drummed his fingertips against the surface of the desk. He understood the layers of complication involved in the discovery of the remains. Wynona could keep a secret, obviously, but she might buckle under the pressure of a police interrogation.
“What happened to his car?” Wade asked.
“She drove it across the border and walked back.”
“You told her to do that?”
“Someone had to.”
“She said the two of you made a deal,” Wade continued. “You asked her to marry you after getting her drunk and sexually assaulting her, and she only agreed when she needed help getting rid of a body.”
His father’s flush was confirmation enough. “I never used force.”
“Never? You didn’t slap her around sometimes, with an open hand?”
Boyd narrowed his eyes. “Is that what she told you?”
“Is it true?”
“Here’s the truth,” Boyd said. “She was out of her mind on drugs and alcohol. She was a danger to herself, and to you. She tried to put you in the car and drive away when she was falling down drunk.”
Wade couldn’t dispute this account. It sounded accurate.
“Maybe I should have handled it better. I did what I had to do to subdue her.”
“You outweigh her by a hundred pounds,” Wade said quietly.
“I didn’t say it was right,” Boyd admitted.
“It wasn’t.”
“Is this how you think you’re going to get your little girlfriend out of custody? By insulting me in my own office?”
Wade curled his hands into fists and stayed quiet.
“I regret what I did,” Boyd said. “She’s an aggravating woman, and she needed a strong hand, but I went too far. After Billy came along, she told me she wanted a divorce. I realized I’d been too harsh. I never put my hands on her again. She left anyway.”
Wade didn’t know what to say. There was no justification for Boyd’s actions, no words that could heal the emotional scars between them. Their family unit was damaged beyond repair. “She wants to confess.”
“To what? Self-defense?”
“I’ll convince her to keep your name out of it, if it comes to that. I won’t say anything about the abuse, either, though it sickens me to cover for you. In exchange, you’ll let Meredith walk away with me right now.”
Boyd stared at him for a taut moment. “Go on then.”
“I’m sorry about Billy,” Wade said, rising to his feet.
“So am I,” Boyd replied.
Wade turned and walked toward the door.
“Before you leave, you should know something.”
The hair on the nape of his neck prickled. “What’s that?”
“I didn’t bury Cameron Pickett.”
He paused. “What do you mean?”
“I made a deal with your mother, but I didn’t honor my end.”
“Why not?”
“By the time I got there, he was gone. I searched the water and the riverbank. I thought he’d drifted downstream or come to and wandered off.”
“That’s impossible.”
“If you say so.”
“You’re lying.”
“No, son, I’m not.”
“I’m not your son.”
His gaze flickered over Wade, revealing pain. “I never cared that you were his. I loved you as if you were mine.”
Wade couldn’t look at him any longer. He wanted to punch a hole through the door.
“For years, I wondered if he’d show up somewhere, dead or alive. Turns out he’s been there all along, right where she left him.”
Wade’s stomach roiled with tension. “If you didn’t bury him, who did?”