Chapter Nineteen
If all the world hated you and believed you wicked, while your own conscience approved of you and absolved you from guilt, you would not be without friends.
I awake to a trailer-shaking crash of thunder. It’s after seven thirty, which is late for me to be getting up. But it’s so dark, a symptom of the storm. Also, last night I forgot to set my alarm.
It doesn’t take me long to wash up and get dressed.
I consider nuking some hot water for a cup of Folger’s instant, but Axel Rose usually has a pot of the good stuff brewing inside the stable.
So I throw on my rain slicker and bolt the short distance from my trailer to Axel Rose, the horses, and a decent cup of coffee.
When I get inside, I find more than I bargained for.
It’s Chet and a man in a police uniform, standing in a loose circle with Axel Rose.
All three look toward me when I enter. “Jane,” Chet says.
“Glad you’re here. We were just about to come get you.
This is Theo Baird, sheriff of Sugar Pine.
He’s here about last night’s incident and would like to ask you some questions. ”
Chet’s voice and manner are so matter-of-fact, it’s like he’s erected a physical barrier between us, one that shouts, “We’ve got a boss/employee relationship and nothing more!”
“Of course,” I say to Theo. “I’d be happy to answer your questions. How’s Mason doing?”
“I hear he’s doing well,” Theo says. “The wound was fairly superficial, no major damage done. But he still wants to find the perpetrator.”
“That’s understandable.” I walk over to the counter and casually pour myself a cup of coffee, as if I don’t feel like I’m on a Law the hard line of his mouth suggests a storm is brewing. Immediately, I wish I could take the words back and stuff them down my own throat with a pitchfork. But it’s too late.
Theo seems surprised. “Did anyone check in with this Grace?”
Chet’s voice is smooth and civil but shot through with warning. “She’s a night owl, and something of a recluse.”
Theo looks at his watch. “You think she’s still asleep?”
“Probably,” Chet says.
“Well,” Theo states, “either I can wake her up by banging on the blue barn’s door, or you can go get her for me. I’ve got a busy day ahead—don’t really have the time to come back later.”
“I understand,” Chet states, vowels clipped. “I’ll go get Grace right now.”
He bolts outside, into the rain, and over to the blue barn. An awkward silence descends, which is broken by Axel Rose.
“Chet Edwards is a good man,” she says to Theo.
“I know,” Theo says. “But why are you telling me this?”
“Because I realize how it looks,” Axel Rose replies.
“Like maybe he orchestrated the attack against his stepbrother, or at the very least, like he’s covering it up.
But I’ve worked for Chet since he bought Resilience Ranch over a year ago, and I can attest to his character.
Whatever you’re suspecting him of—he’s not responsible. ”
My head is swimming. What did Chet and Axel Rose say before I got here? Did I mess up by mentioning Grace Poole? But if she stabbed Mason—if she’s that dangerous—why would Chet try to protect her?
The only sound is the rain pounding down on the metal roof.
There’s a clap of thunder, and Miss Adele fidgets in her stall.
Just like a horse we used to board at Adkins Stables named Kenny G (his owner liked yacht rock).
I spent hours calming Kenny G whenever it rained.
It only makes sense that Miss Adele is reacting this way.
The smarter the horse, the more sensitive they are.
“Hey, girl,” I say, moving toward her stall. “It’s okay. I’ve gotcha.” I pet her mane, soothing her.
After a couple minutes, Chet comes barging back into the stable. “Turns out Grace was already up,” he says. “She’ll be right here.”
“I would have come to her,” Theo says.
“It’s fine,” Chet says, voice brisk.
Thirty seconds later, Grace appears. “You wanted to ask me some questions?” she says to Theo.
“I do,” Theo tells her. “You’re Chet’s aunt?”
“Correct,” she says.
“So,” Theo responds, “Chet’s mother, who was here visiting yesterday, is that your sister?”
“No,” Chet states. “Grace is my dad’s sister.”
“And where is your dad?” Theo asks.
Chet takes a deep breath, yet he seems even more tightly wound. “Not that it’s relevant, but my father died in the Persian Gulf War, shortly before I was born.”
Theo blinks at him. “Sorry to hear that.” He swallows. “Anyway, Ms. Poole, can you describe your whereabouts last night and if you noticed anything unusual?”
Grace tells Theo that last night, like every night, she stayed in. “I’m going through a messy divorce,” she says. “And I came here for peace and quiet.”
As Grace describes her evening—reading a book, drinking tea, and trying to ignore noise from the party—Chet walks over to me.
His shirt, wet from the rain, is plastered to his chest. Beads of water cling to his eyelashes.
His hair is slicked back. Most men would look like a drowned rat.
But Chet only looks better for it—wet and sharp, as brilliant as a knife’s edge. And possibly just as dangerous.
He keeps his voice low, a whisper meant for me alone. “Hey. Don’t say anything more unless he asks for it. Please?”
I nod, feeling heat at the base of my neck, a memory of his mouth on my skin, my pulse still unable to let the night before go.
His tone is hard to read. Protective? Annoyed?
Does he think I’m about to blow up his perfectly curated narrative, or does he actually want to shield me from this little police procedure? What kills me is that I have no idea.
“Can one of you show me where the hoof knives are stored?” Theo asks.
“That would be in the tack room,” Axel Rose says. “Right this way.”
“Great,” Theo says. “Ms. Poole, how about you follow us? I still have a few more questions for you.”
Hmm . . . Is Theo leading Grace back there so he can talk to her without Chet hearing?
It’s just me and Chet now. He doesn’t look at me at first. He stares into an open stall, where Copper Cash chews intently at straw, blissfully unfazed by human drama.
“Thank you,” Chet rasps, “for not mentioning last night.”
“Okay, but why the secrecy?” I ask this under my breath. “And what did Mason mean when he was going on about—”
“Jane.” Chet cuts me off, grumbling my name. Then he sighs. Color rises in his cheeks. “Forget about Mason. He’s full of shit.”
“Is he?” I glare at Chet, imploring him to meet my gaze. “Or are you hiding something big?”
Chet flicks away a drop of rain that clung to his eyelash. “Come on. If I were hiding something big, would I throw a huge party and invite my family?”
“Perhaps,” I say. “I’ve got no clue how your mind works. But I just lied for you to Theo, and I hate lying—especially to the police.”
His hands are shoved so deep into his pockets, it looks uncomfortable. “I’m sorry,” he says. “Really. I guess this should be a wake-up call. I’m not good for you, Jane.”
Wait. Hold on. That’s not the reaction I was going for. “I’m an adult,” I tell him. “I decide what’s good for me.”
His laughter sounds desperate. “Maybe. But I have some say in the matter too. And you and me—we’re a terrible idea.”
It’s like I’ve been punched in the stomach. All the wind is knocked out of me. I try to respond, but even if I could find the words, I can’t breathe well enough to speak.
But then Theo comes out of the tack room. Grace follows, rigid and weirdly floaty, like she’s capable of rising above this tense situation. Axel Rose makes a beeline for the feed room.
“Just a couple more things,” says Theo, his eyes darting between the three of us. “Ms. Poole, you said you heard a commotion and looked out your window? What did you see, if anything?”
Grace’s mouth purses. “Just people moving around. Someone was running—maybe two someones. I didn’t recognize them. But there’s no reason why I would.”
Theo jots a single note. “Okay. Chet, can you show me your security setup?”
Chet nods. “I don’t have cameras around the blue barn yet. But I’ll show you the footage I’ve got. It’s in my study.”
They leave together, Theo’s sheriff boots squeaking on the barn floor. Grace exhales, loud. Her hands tremble just a little. She leans back on the bench. “That was stressful,” she says, not exactly to me. More likely, she’s talking to herself.
Suddenly, the rain stops. But Miss Adele still seems restless. “Excuse me,” I say. “Time to get to work.”
I saddle up Miss Adele and take her for a ride. She gallops along the newly soaked dirt. The trees still drip with rain, wetting my hair. That should distract me, but it doesn’t. Both my head and my heart are sick with worry—an anxious certainty that I have no idea what will happen next.
And I’m afraid to find out.