Chapter Forty Sloane
Chapter Forty
Sloane
Susan was missing. The word came in from local police, who’d done a welfare call at her house. They’d pounded on her door, and when she didn’t answer, they entered the residence. She did have a second car. And it was gone.
Grant had confirmed my interview with Colton was still a go. And now Grant, Cody, and I were on the road.
The drive to the deepest edges of southwest Virginia was a good three hours. Time to organize my thoughts. I knew this case inside and out, but I would have to pick and choose my questions if I wanted any meaningful response from Colton.
“Do they know when she left?” I glanced in the rearview mirror. Cody was snoring.
“No.”
“Why take off?” I asked. “Did the medical examiner confirm Brian Fletcher’s time of death?”
“Based on Fletcher’s liver temperature, he died at approximately six a.m.”
“That leaves a gap between Susan vanishing and her father dying.”
He sipped his coffee. I looked out the window at the passing line of trees that were thinning as we hit this patch of I-81 south. “What are you saying?”
“All she needed was three hours to drive from Northern Virginia to Dawson.”
“Are you suggesting Susan shot her father? Christ, he hid her secret for thirty-one years.”
I shook my head. “And then he made a mistake, and I found her.”
“So she drives to Dawson and kills him? That’s a big leap.”
I sipped my coffee. I didn’t feel great. “Maybe.”
Grant watched me closely. “You are pale.”
“I get this way when I work a story. Mind stays sharp. Body falls apart.”
“You were working this case when we met at the conference. You drank coffee like it was water,” he said. “What’s changed?”
“I’ve lost my taste for it.” Never to this extent, but this case carried higher stakes. “I’m sure it’ll return.”
“When my ex-wife was pregnant with our son, she couldn’t drink coffee,” Grant said.
“Pregnant?” I’d have laughed if his comment didn’t strike a deep chord. “I don’t have a taste for coffee, but that doesn’t mean I’m pregnant.”
“You’re sure?”
“I’m careful.” When we’d ended up in my hotel room, the hormones had been raging in us both. We’d not used protection the first time. Stupid, but I refused to worry about it.
He tightened his hand on the steering wheel. “Have you had a test?”
“No. Why would I?” I glanced at his coffee. My stomach tumbled. “I mean, it was only one time when we got a little careless.”
“Once is all it takes.”
I shook my head. I didn’t need this now.
“Sloane, it wouldn’t hurt to check.”
Pregnant. A baby. My eyes closed. Fear and worry rushed me, knives out and screaming.
I wondered if this sense of disbelief was how Patty had felt.
Sara said that Patty at eighteen had accepted me onto her ragtag team without question.
She’d had no idea how to make it happen.
But she had. And if it came to it, so would I.
Damn it. This was the last thing I’d expected today. “Let’s talk about this after the interview.”
“Is the baby mine?” he asked.
“You’re jumping ahead. There is no baby.”
He nodded. “But if I’m not wrong . . .”
“Is this conversation really necessary?”
“It is.” Dark glasses made it hard to read his expression as he stared ahead.
I plucked at a loose thread on my shirt hem. “Then you would be the daddy.”
He drew in a slow breath. “Okay.”
“Just like that? You look so calm.”
“I am. What about you?”
I sighed and glanced back out the window. I drew in several deep breaths. “Team Outcast might get a new member.”
“Okay.”
We didn’t talk anymore. And did my best to forget about what we’d just talked about.
Rafe Colton was not on death row. Because the bodies had not been found, their absence had planted enough doubt in the jury’s minds. They’d sentenced him to life in prison, but not to death. That made today a little easier. Visiting a lifer was difficult, but not impossible.
From the moment Rafe Colton had entered prison, he’d put his charm to good work.
He’d been a model citizen for almost thirty-one years, and everyone from the guards to the warden liked him.
They enjoyed his easy demeanor, his talent for defusing tense situations, and his ability to mix with any of the prison gangs.
His Friday guitar concerts had always been a hit.
A few times, visiting artists who’d at one point done prison time paired up with him, and they’d jammed for the prisoners.
He was the cool everyman, just like he’d been on the outside.
In a world of violent offenders, he’d used his charm to win hearts and minds and whitewash over dead women, rapes, and lies.
Grant and Cody dropped me off at the front door. Grant promised to wait. I didn’t know what to say, so I thanked him. As I walked toward the prison gates, I didn’t dare look back at him or Cody. This moment was as close to domesticated as I’d ever come. And it scared the shit out of me.
I went through the security routine, and forty-five minutes later, I sat at the small desk on the other side of a glass partition.
The seats to my right and left were filled with two women.
Each looked as if she was in her fifties or sixties.
Gray hair, skin deeply lined, and resigned expressions testified to the weight of having an incarcerated loved one.
My father had been imprisoned in Tennessee since 1996. I had never asked Sara if I could visit him. I knew her well enough to realize she’d have said no. But for all the fights we’d had, that one never came up.
Once, I’d bribed a police clerk to let me read Larry’s criminal file. My bio dad had walked into a Chattanooga bar, gotten drunk, and then, with lightning speed, gutted three men with a hunting knife. The patrons had subdued him, the cops came, and his life on the outside ended.
In prison, Larry had a record of violence. He’d never get parole, and he’d never see the outside again. Suited me just fine. I’d never missed him, and the way I saw it, if Patty was dead, he had no right to walk around free after how he’d treated her.
Kids had teased me about not having parents. Their smug expressions and know-it-all tones had pissed me off. Why were they better than me because their mothers hadn’t gotten murdered, or their fathers hadn’t sliced three men to death?
When the playground turned ugly, I struck back. After I punched the first boy in first grade, I got suspended, but few tested me after that. And for those who did, I found more subtle forms of revenge. I had my faults, but I knew how to protect what was mine.
The door on the other side of the glass opened, and three prisoners were escorted to their seats. Two were hulking men in their thirties or forties. Their arms and necks were covered in tattoos. If anyone conjured an image of a lifer, it would be these two.
The third man was different. He was trim, fit, and his thick hair, now gray, skimmed his shoulders. The gray didn’t make him look old but cooler, hipper, in a Bon Jovi kind of way. If he were on the outside, the ladies would still be chasing him.
His gaze skimmed the interview tables and their occupants. Without hesitation, he moved toward the seat across from me. He sat, grinned, and studied me. He reached for the phone on his side of the glass. I did the same with mine.
“Sloane, I feel like I know you.” Colton’s voice rattled like smooth gravel.
Charm was one of the coping techniques I’d learned on the first-grade playground. And because I didn’t feel guilt, I could smile. Hours of practice had forged the perfect grin. “I could say the same.”
“I’ve read all your articles. You’re a terrific writer.”
“Thank you.”
“You do an excellent job of getting into the minds of killers.”
“The victims, too, I hope.”
“Of course. But all writers start with victims. They gloss over what drives the killers. And let’s face it, without the killer, there’s no story.”
I thought about Patty staring into Colton’s eyes as he drove into her while another person watched the scene. “They’re people, too. They have needs, wants, and desires.”
“Exactly.” He threaded his fingers, flicking a thick shock of gray hair off his forehead. “So, after all these years, you’re here. What took you so long?”
“I’m writing about the Mountain Music Festival.”
“Ah, the Festival Four. The Lost Ladies. A great deal has been written about that case. I’ve been interviewed by a few writers over the years.”
“The story comes and goes in popularity. People are fickle. They care about a case one day and not the next. I try not to chase the trends.”
“Most writers tried to link me to the victims. They were very predictable. Finding the smoking gun was their ticket to stardom.”
“What brought you to Dawson? What was it about that tiny town that was so appealing?”
He relaxed back in his seat. “Beautiful setting. The mountains are stunning. And it’s close to Roanoke, Charlottesville, Richmond, and DC. It made sense.”
“You organized other festivals before this one.”
“I did. They didn’t do as well. But I was learning.”
“You don’t know what you don’t know, right?”
“Exactly. A little like writing?”
I chuckled. “Read any of my early stuff, and you’ll see I had a few things to learn.”
We chatted about my career. He was interested in the Susie Malone case. He smiled when he mentioned the random fire in the storage unit that had exposed the pastor’s cache of trophies.
I shrugged, smiled.
He laughed. “You’re a pistol.”
“You had casual relationships with the Festival Four, right?”
He didn’t shut down but, instead, seemed ready to talk.
“I didn’t really know these women.” He held up a hand.
A handcuff rattled. “I’ll amend that. I did know your mother.
I saw her a couple of times at the diner.
And at the hamburger stand. She was always hustling.
I admire that kind of work ethic. It’s rare. Especially today.”
“That’s not what you told Taggart.”
He looked amused. “Seems fitting I’d tell you more about Patty.”