Page 20 of Traitor
Chapter Seven
Peyton
Ford hoversin my peripheral vision and even though I know it’s foolish, I can’t help but feel threatened. He saved me. I’d be dead if he hadn’t found me. But that doesn’t do anything for the survival instinct inside of me, telling me to run away from him as fast as I can.
Men like Ford are dangerous. Not just because of what they’re capable of physically, but because when I’m around him, it’s so easy for me to forget my better judgement.
When I get to my feet, needing the space or to move, it’s like he’s a satellite anchored to my position. He turns to me, his eyes watchful, waiting.
“I’m going to go get in some clean clothes,” I announce. “I’ll be back before the police get here.”
“Of course,” Nell says. I can tell she wants to hover, but she lets me go. She scurries to the counter and retrieves another keycard. I’d left mine with my purse and the bags of food and goodies in the car. “Here you go.”
Grateful for the reprieve, even for a moment, I hurry up to my room and close the door firmly behind me.
Keep yourself busy.
That’s the only way I know to keep from dissolving into a sobbing mess, so I go to the clothes I neatly folded and put away in the dresser. I choose a pair of jeans and a soft cable-knit sweater along with new underthings. My wet clothes land in a pile underneath the bathroom sink. I wish I could burn them, forget tonight, and act like none of it ever happened, but I can’t. I make a mental note to bring them to the dry cleaners. Maybe they can get the smell out. My hair is a drenched, tangled mess, so I take the time to brush it out and pull it into a sleek ponytail.
The process of dressing and grooming calms me enough to face going back downstairs. A man in his mid-thirties in a dark brown uniform, with a walkie at his shoulder and gun at his side, stands at the front desk deep in conversation with Ford. The woman and child—Ford’s family? I wonder—have disappeared. Nell is hovering about ,tidying the great room in a nervous habit that reminds me all too well of my own mom’s tendency to clean when she was nervous.
Ford’s eyes nearly pin me to the floor when he spots me at the foot of the stairs. “Sheriff Hadley, this is Peyton Rhodes, a guest here at the lodge. Peyton, this is Paul Hadley.”
I hold out my hand, thankful it stopped shaking. “Sheriff,” I say.
“Got somewhere private we can talk, Collier?” the sheriff asks.
Ford studies me a moment longer, then jerks his head behind him. “Yeah, you can talk in the back. Nell, will you keep an eye on things out here?”
“Of course, Boss.” Nell sends me a sympathetic look.
Sheriff Paul Hadley isn’t intimidating, per se. Around five ten with dusty blond hair, desperately in need of a trim, and watery blue eyes. When he turns to hold the door open for me, I’m close enough to see the dusting of freckles along the bridge of his nose. He’s not quite as imposing as Ford, with less brawn and a more lackadaisical air. I’ve gotten good at judging people, or at least getting an impression of them, and Sheriff Hadley strikes me as an efficient man. The kind of guy you judge as affable at first until he proves himself to be more observant than you’d expect.
The room Ford’s taken us to must be his office. It smells like him and I almost wish he’d brought me somewhere else. Being in a space where he spends so much of his time feels too intimate. The desk is what I guess could be described as organized chaos. Papers litter its surface in haphazard piles, punctuated by pens and paper clips. It strikes me there isn’t a personal touch, no photographs; or homemade knickknacks. No military service medals. I’d imagine he spends a lot of his time in here, but there’s nothing personal adorning his desk. I wonder if he’s trying to hide his past or if he’s that much of a loner.
Ford offers me the big comfy chair behind his desk, but I shake my head and take one of the two guest chairs. The sheriff takes the other.
“Why don’t you start at the beginning?” Sheriff Hadley suggests.
I knot my fingers in my lap and struggle for the right words. They tangle up in my throat and spill out over my lips. I try to relate all the details with as little emotion as possible, sticking to the relevant facts. As I talk, Ford goes to a little mini fridge on a counter behind his desk and retrieves a couple bottles of water. He places one in front of me, then Sheriff Hadley. I pause speaking long enough to wet my throat. When I’m finished, the two men share a glance and silence settles over the room.
“So you didn’t get a good look at either of them? Not enough to identify them?”
My head drops. “No, I’m sorry. They were too far away for me to get a good look at them.”
Sheriff Hadley turns to Ford. “Where were you in all this? Did you see the assault, the murder, too?”
Ford shakes his head. “No, I came up after. I found Ms. Rhodes in the water. She’d hit her head and fell into the lake.” He sips at his water and crosses his legs. “I didn’t see anything on my way down. There were no boats on the water when I got there.”
“What about the boat?” Hadley asks. “Did you see where it went, Ms. Rhodes, or where it came from?”
I take a sip of water. “No, it was already there when I got there and I didn’t see which direction it went after.”
The questioning. That’s what I hate the most. I hated it before and now I hate it even more. The sly looks like they don’t quite believe me. Having to prove myself, that I’m telling the truth. It causes bile to rise in the back of my throat.
“Could you tell whereabouts on the lake? Distance, direction?”
Closing my eyes, I try to remember where the boat had been. “From the dock it was at eleven o’clock, closer to the far side of the lake.” I open my eyes and send them both an apologetic look. “I’m sorry I’m not of more help. It all happened so fast.”