Chapter 42 Jesse
CHAPTER FORTY-TWO
Jesse
Saturday
I know something’s off the second I see Wyatt’s notebook.
Not the vet one, the clean one with dosage charts and emergency numbers, but the other one. The thick, soft cover kind he only pulls out when his brain is chewing on thoughts it won’t let go of.
He’s hunched over the kitchen table, glasses sliding down his nose, pen moving like he’s afraid to stop.
“Hey,” I say, keeping my tone light. “Either you’re inventing a new form of math, or something’s wrong.”
He doesn’t look up. “Both could be true.”
That’s confirmation enough.
I pour coffee, slide into the chair across from him, and wait. Wyatt’s not the kind of man you rush. You give him space, let him line the pieces up in his own head.
Finally, he exhales and pushes the notebook toward me.
“I didn’t want to loop anyone in until I was sure I wasn’t chasing ghosts,” he says. “But I don’t think I am.”
I glance down.
Notes. Dates. Names. Arrows connecting things that don’t want to be connected.
Bonnie Kentwood.
Fire… logging road.
No inquest.
Land parcels.
Old debts?
My jaw tightens.
“Wyatt,” I say carefully, “why do I feel like I just walked into a true crime podcast?”
He huffs. “Because I’m very bad at dramatic presentation.”
“What is this?” I ask.
He finally meets my eyes. “Abilene’s family.”
Wyatt taps the edge of the notebook with his pen, not looking at me. “Okay. So. This started as curiosity. That was the lie I told myself.”
I lift my mug. “Naturally.”
He exhales. “Bonnie Kentwood’s death was ruled an accident. Everyone knows that part. No foul play. Clean ending.”
“But,” I say, because there’s always a but.
“But the paperwork is thin,” he says. “Too thin. No inquest. Just… a decision. Made quickly.”
“How quickly?”
Wyatt flips a page, pushes it toward me. “Same week.”
I frown. “That’s fast.”
He nods. “Exactly. And then there’s the land.”
“The land,” I repeat, already annoyed on Abilene’s behalf.
“Her grandmother owned parcels people didn’t realize were valuable yet,” Wyatt says. “Timber adjacent, close to routes that later got developed. Quiet money. The kind people argue about without putting it in writing.”
“So people were circling.”
“People were watching,” he corrects. “And there were old financial disputes. Not lawsuits, those would’ve left records, but handshake debts, shared investments, rivalries that never quite died.”
I lean back, processing. “And Bonnie gets hurt. Fire. Suddenly, no one wants to ask questions.”
Wyatt finally looks up at me. His eyes are tired but sharp. “Suddenly, anyone who asks gets told they’re disrespecting a grieving family.”
I swallow. “That’s a hell of a shield.”
“Yeah,” he says quietly. “It works really well in small towns.”
I drum my fingers on the table. “So what are you saying, exactly?”
“I’m saying I don’t know if anyone caused it,” Wyatt says carefully. “But I don’t believe everyone was honest about what happened. Or why.”
“And Abilene?”
His jaw tightens. “She deserves the truth. But not fragments. Not rumors that’ll just lodge under her skin and fester.”
I nod slowly. “So you’re collecting the whole picture before you hand her a single piece.”
“Yes,” he says. Then, softer: “Or before it finds her first.”
I stare at the notebook again. Names. Arrows. The shape of something unfinished.
“Well,” I say finally, “this is officially above my pay grade.”
Wyatt snorts faintly. “Same.”
“But,” I add, meeting his gaze, “you’re not wrong to be worried.”
He closes the notebook as both a decision and a boundary. “That’s what I needed to hear.”
I take another sip of coffee. “So what’s the next step?”
Wyatt hesitates.
And that hesitation tells me everything.
“There’s someone who might know more,” he says. “Or might’ve known more back then.”
I raise a brow. “There always is.”
“Yeah,” he says. “And they’re usually the ones everyone agreed not to listen to.”
The screen door creaks before I can ask the obvious follow-up.
Marshall steps into the kitchen, rain jacket slung over one shoulder, hair damp because he probably walked straight through powerful rain.
He clocks the tension immediately. Wyatt’s closed notebook, my coffee untouched, the silence stretched just a little too thin.
“Well,” he says, setting his keys down. “Either someone died, or you two are about to tell me something I don’t want to hear.”
Wyatt glances at me.
I jerk my chin toward Marshall. “You’re here. Might as well join the conspiracy.”
Marshall’s mouth quirks, but he pulls out a chair and sits. “Try me.”
Wyatt hesitates just a beat, then slides the notebook back across the table, opening it again. “I’ve been looking into Bonnie Kentwood’s death.”
Marshall stills.
“Okay,” he says slowly. “That’s… not nothing.”
Wyatt gives him the condensed version. The accident ruling, the missing inquest, the land, the money.
I watch Marshall as much as I listen. The way his shoulders tighten. The way his jaw locks, filing this away under threat assessment.
When Wyatt finishes, Marshall exhales through his nose. “Yeah. I’ve heard some of that.”
Wyatt’s head snaps up. “You have?”
“Not details,” Marshall says. “Just… noise. Growing up. My dad talked about the fire once or twice.”
“What did he say?”
Marshall leans back, crossing his arms. “That it was tragic. That people should’ve left it alone.” He pauses. “And that Carl Benson knew more than he ever admitted.”
Wyatt’s pen stills mid tap. “Carl Benson?”
Marshall nods. “Dad’s friend. Drinking buddy back then. He said Carl was around a lot. Around Mara. Around the Kentwoods.” His eyes flick between us. “And that when Bonnie died, Carl ended up catching heat he never really deserved.”
“Or deflected,” I say.
Marshall shrugs. “Maybe. But my dad never thought Carl caused it. Thought he knew something, though. Or at least knew who did.”
Wyatt leans forward. “Did your dad say what?”
“No,” Marshall says. “Just that it got messy. And that when people started pointing fingers, it was easier to shut the whole thing down.”
I rub my face. “Of course it was.”
Wyatt nods thoughtfully. “Carl still drinks at the Silver Bit.”
Marshall’s eyes meet mine.
I don’t smile. “I was hoping you’d say that.”
Wyatt glances between us, already knowing where this is headed. “I’m not bringing Abilene into this yet.”
“No,” I agree. “You’re not.”
“And I’m not going,” he adds firmly. “I stay here. With the kids. And I’ll go through these notes again and again.”
I stand, grab my jacket. “Then it’s settled.”
Marshall pushes to his feet beside me. “If Carl’s talking, it’ll be there. And it’ll be because he’s had one too many.”
Wyatt’s gaze sharpens. “Be careful.”
I meet his eyes. “Always.”
As we head for the door, it all settles heavy in my chest. Land, fire, silence, and the woman standing unknowingly at the center of it.
Whatever happened back then didn’t stay buried.
It just waited.
And now it’s starting to breathe again.
We don’t have to look for Carl.
He spots Marshall the second we walk in.
Carl’s still at the far end of the bar, same stool, same usual whiskey, but his posture changes the moment Marshall comes into view. He straightens a little, squints, then lets out a low, surprised laugh.
“Well, I’ll be damned,” he says. “If it isn’t Tom’s boy.”
Marshall slows, a careful look settling into his expression. “Carl.”
Carl shakes his head, studying him, lining past and present up side by side. “You got his shoulders. And that look. Like you’re always waiting for something to go sideways.”
Marshall’s mouth twitches. “Guess some things stick.”
Carl lifts his glass in a small salute. “Your old man was my best friend.”
I slide onto the stool beside Carl without ceremony. “Jesse.”
He glances at me, then nods. “You’re the carpenter.”
“Guilty.”
“Tom talked about you,” Carl says. “Said you were good people. He was usually right.”
Marshall orders drinks without asking. Carl doesn’t protest.
We don’t start with questions. We start with memories.
Tom yelling at a busted fence, Tom refusing to sell land on principle, Tom showing up with a six-pack and no plan except we’ll figure it out.
Carl’s voice roughens around the edges when he talks about him.
He rolls his glass between his palms, eyes going distant. “Your dad used to say this place was where stories came to die. Folks came in loud and left quieter.”
Marshall lets out a short breath. “Sounds like him.”
“Yeah.” Carl’s mouth twitches. “He had opinions.”
The bar noise swells and recedes around us. Laughter, a chair scraping, Riley calling an order. Carl watches the surface of his drink as if it might rearrange itself into something useful.
“He always said people remembered the wrong things,” Carl continues. “Fights instead of reasons. Endings instead of what came before.”
Marshall stiffens just slightly. I see it because I’m watching for it.
“We’ve had some rough times,” Carl says, not looking at either of us. “But losing your dad was the worst.”
Marshall nods. “It was.”
Carl sets his glass down, fingers remaining at the base. “But he was here for the other bad time. For when it got… quiet afterward.”
That’s when I feel it—the shift. The narrowing.
“After what?” I ask gently.
Carl finally looks up. “After Bonnie.”
The name settles into the space between us. Marshall doesn’t look away this time.
“That’s why you’re here, right?” Carl asks. “I knew this would come up again. The moment I heard Mara was back in town.”
I lean forward, careful. “Wyatt’s been looking into what happened. There are… gaps.”
Carl huffs a humorless laugh. “There always were.”
Marshall’s voice is calmer, but I hear the tension in it. “You knew my dad. You know I’m not here to stir up bullshit.”
“I know,” Carl says. “That’s why I’ll talk.”
He takes a long drink, then wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. “I dated Mara for a while back then. Thought I was in love. Probably was, in the way you are when you’re young and convinced intensity counts as compatibility.”
“And Bonnie?” I ask.
His expression softens. “Bonnie was different. Always trying to keep the peace. Between Mara and me. Between her and Elias. Between everyone.”
“There was tension,” Marshall says.
Carl barks a short laugh. “That’s putting it politely.”
“Mara hated Elias,” Carl continues. “From day one. Said he wanted ownership, not partnership. Said Bonnie was bending herself smaller to fit into his life.”
“And you?” I ask.
“I was stuck in the middle,” he says. “Which made me real convenient when things went bad.”
Marshall’s gaze sharpens. “The fire.”
Carl nods. “People needed someone to blame. I was around a lot. Knew the roads. Knew the land. And I’d pissed off more than a few folks by not picking sides.”
“You didn’t have anything to do with it,” Marshall says.
Carl shakes his head. “No. It was an accident. That’s what it was ruled, and that’s what it was.”
“But,” I say.
He grimaces. “But people knew more than they said. Or thought they did. In this town, silence passes for kindness.”
“What happened after?” Marshall asks.
Carl’s shoulders sag. “Mara left. Packed up like the place had burned her too. We were already cracking, but that finished it. She didn’t want to stay somewhere that pretended nothing had happened.”
“That’s it?” I ask.
Carl meets my eyes, tired but honest. “That’s all I’ve got. No grand secret. No confession. Just an accident everyone decided not to question too hard.”
We sit with that.
When we finally stand to leave, Carl clears his throat. “Your dad would’ve hated this,” he says to Marshall. “All the half-truths.”
Marshall nods. “Yeah. He would’ve.”
Outside, the night air feels sharper somehow.
“Well,” Marshall says, hands in his pockets, “that helped.”
I snort. “Define helped.”
He glances at me. “You believe him?”
I think about Carl’s face. The grief. The certainty. The gaps.
“I believe he’s telling the truth,” I say slowly. “I just don’t think it’s the whole one.”
Marshall exhales. “Me neither.”
Because accidents don’t fracture families in that way.
They don’t send people running. They don’t echo for decades.
Something happened. And whatever it was, it’s still casting a shadow—one long enough to reach Abilene.
That’s what scares me.