40
Hope. Heartbreak. Healing. Welcome to Shereford, New Hampshire.
Mandy didn’t think the Chamber of Commerce was going to change the town’s motto to that just yet, but certainly she didn’t think it was a bad idea as she drove through the village, looking its quaint snowy best, then headed up to Widow’s Ledge.
It’d been a helluva past two months. From hordes of media to swarms of investigative bodies to just about every true crime aficionado in the free world descending upon their tiny mountain town en masse.
Ironically enough, it was everything Mason Carhart had always wanted for their community.
The historical society president had survived the ordeal with most of his body intact—bruised forearm from the dog’s crushing grip, grazed shoulder from Adams’s wild shot—though his precious reputation was ruined, not to mention his days of freedom over.
It’d taken four days of grueling interrogation before the pompous ass had finally confessed it all.
Yes, he’d been at the Dixons’ property that night.
He’d headed out earlier in the day to search Widow’s Ledge for a cave he’d read about in family records, the location of a lost fortune, according to his ancestor.
The storm had hit sooner than he’d expected, forcing him to take cover in the neighboring woods.
He’d been considering knocking on the Dixons’ front door and begging for shelter—he could discreetly keep an eye out for the recently discovered journal Janet had mentioned while he was there—when suddenly a lightning strike had exploded the old oak at the end of the Dixons’ drive.
Next thing he knew, the family had poured out the front door, rushing forth with flashlights to excitedly check out what had happened, dog in tow.
The moment they’d passed him by, he’d gazed back at the dark, empty house and realized this was his chance.
The diary, the infamous Dixon diary, which might hold the final piece of the puzzle…
Of course he’d gone for it. Stripping off his muddy shoes and socks. Entering through the back. Bumbling through the shadowy kitchen, where he’d promptly sliced open his foot on some damn kids’ toy.
Then hopping around, knowing he was making a mess, but in for a penny, in for a pound. No way he was leaving without his prize. It had to be sitting out somewhere close as Janet had claimed to be reading it.
But damned if he could find it.
Finally, frustrated and increasingly anxious, he’d been forced to abandon his efforts. Quickly yanking on wet socks and shoes, coming around the house, he immediately spied Dave Dixon rushing down the driveway carrying a child in his arms.
Dave had taken one look at him and started yelling. What the hell, Mason had assumed.
But now, understanding what had happened minutes before—Austin striking one of the kids with his car, then wildly shooting off his gun—it might’ve been help, help.
Mason hadn’t known that part. Certainly he hadn’t heard the accident; given the chaos of the storm and his own intense, panicked focus, he’d never registered the sound of a car crashing nor distant shots fired.
For the record, the driveway was quite long!
Now he was confronted by Dave Dixon rushing straight toward him, shouting accusations.
Mason had panicked. Dave Dixon charged forward, and Mason discharged his weapon, ostensibly in warning.
Except the man had gone down. And when Mason had approached, rain sluicing from his face, to stand above the bodies of Dave and his daughter…
Mason had registered blood. So much blood, leaking from the daughter’s chest.
He’d killed a kid. No doubt about it. He’d shot and killed a Dixon.
Just as Dave Dixon’s eyes had snapped open and peered directly at him.
Mason had acted out of self-preservation, plain and simple. He fired directly into Dave Mason’s temple. Just as Janet and the older daughter ran screaming toward him…
Once again, in for a penny, in for a pound.
When he was done, he’d suffered a moment of panic. But then, the more he thought about it…
Not like there was anyone out in this weather. No chance of witnesses or neighbors responding. Play it smart and he could survive this. Just had to keep a calm and cool head. One step at a time. He could do this.
He retrieved his spent casings, debated returning to the house, but given that he was now soaked to the bone and covered in God knows what, he figured any additional efforts to clean up his mess would do more harm than good. In the end, he’d simply retrieved his ATV and headed home.
He’d waited the entire next day for news of the family’s discovery.
When sirens finally started screaming through the village shortly before dusk, he’d been amazed it’d taken that long.
But that hadn’t come close to the shock he’d felt when he tuned in to his police scanner only to hear babbling about missing persons, an entire family vanished.
The Dixons had somehow recovered? All six of them? Made it to a hospital?
He’d spent the next forty-eight hours on pins and needles, furiously debating all options. But then days turned into weeks, with no sign of the Dixons materializing.
Gradually, he’d convinced himself the evening had been some kind of fever dream. He’d imagined the entire thing. Because surely he wasn’t the sort who killed an entire family. That would be evil and outrageous. Right?
For the record, ballistics proved that eight-year-old Josie Dixon had been shot by a different weapon than the rest of her family.
Austin hadn’t gotten off in the end, either.
He’d hit a kid with his vehicle. Then in the ensuing panic, he had shot and killed her as well.
And poor Dave Dixon had just been looking for help with his grievously injured child.
If Mason had simply rendered assistance, God knows if the Dixon parents would’ve registered the reason behind his sudden appearance at all.
But Mason had done what he’d done. And then Isla, in her attempts to mitigate the damage…
Eventually, the town had quieted back down. Life returned to normal. And Mason resumed trying to locate a single cave in a valley surrounded by mountains.
For thirty long years.
He genuinely hadn’t known about the witch in the well. When the Collinses had arrived and, within a matter of days, uncovered that two-hundred-plus-year-old secret, he’d been genuinely excited. Surely this must be the Continental currency break he’d been waiting for.
Then to discover the damn Dixon journal had been sitting right under his nose in the historical society’s library the entire time without him ever realizing it. Beyond infuriating.
It finally occurred to him, if he couldn’t access the source material, he could at least access the people who had the source material.
So why not tell the Collinses all about the legend of the lost Continental currency.
They seemed bright enough. Make them do the work, then he’d swoop in and claim the treasure as his own.
Except…
No treasure. No notes. He’d knocked out Theo with his shovel, shot Raquel, and then dug and dug…
No iron chest, wooden box, hell, sealed crockery. Nothing, nothing, nothing.
If anything, Mason had seemed more pissed about that than being taken down by a dog and currently facing life in prison.
Mandy was convinced no one in her town was entirely sane.
Betty had taken the news of Mason’s actions well enough. The woman had appeared genuinely shocked, then appalled, then just plain disappointed.
Mandy had gone over for one of their dinners last week. The air between them remained strained. Too much water under the bridge, too many secrets revealed? Time would tell.
Now Mandy turned down the Collinses’ long, snaking drive. Reaching the house, she barely had her vehicle in park when the front door opened, and Mr. Man, infamous canine opportunist and now legendary attack dog, came sprinting out the front door, tail wagging furiously.
He pranced all around Mandy until she produced the obligatory dog cookies. Crunch, crunch, gulp, then Mr. Man happily escorted her up the front steps. Theo stood in the doorway, looking like he’d just helicoptered in from the Alps. The man really was too handsome for words.
He grinned. She held up a hand.
“Nope, not even looking at you. I’m here for your wife.”
He opened the door wider, ushering her in.
Raquel was propped up on the sofa before a roaring fire.
Her face held more color than the last time Mandy had visited.
Also looked like she might have put on a desperately needed pound or two.
The woman had spent two weeks in the hospital, Theo nearly frantic with worry as she’d made it through emergency surgery only to come down with an infection.
The man had stayed glued to her side, sleeping with his head on the edge of her bed, regardless of how many times the nursing staff tried to shoo him away.
Now, Raquel greeted her with a tired smile.
“Would you like some soup? Theo made chicken and wild rice. Versus chicken noodle. Versus chicken broth. When I finally get off this sofa, I’m never having soup again.”
“I happen to be a master souper,” Theo informed them.
“I want solid food.”
“Maybe next week.”
Raquel shook her head, but her gaze still softened as she glanced in her husband’s direction.
Mr. Man, who’d clearly heard this argument before, jumped onto the sofa and curled up at Raquel’s feet.
“I see you’re winning the no-dog-on-the-furniture war,” Mandy observed.
“Service canines don’t count.”
“Of course.”
Mandy took a seat in one of the wingbacks, balancing her hat on her knee. “How goes the media battle?”