Page 138 of What She Saw

That night I slept until about 1:00 a.m. When I woke, Grant was sleeping beside me. Cody was settled on his blanket bed. Shadows danced on the walls like specters. My mind began racing toward the case details.

Why had Brian Fletcher killed himself? He’d lived thirty-one years carrying the weight of a terrible secret. He had a good relationship with his neighbors, had been well liked by his coworkers until he retired, and volunteered in his church. He’d shown no signs of cracking. And just like that he broke like Mayor Briggs and Taggart had.

What had driven these men over the edge?

Chapter Forty

Sloane

Friday, August 22, 2025, 11:00 a.m.

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.”