Page 25 of What She Saw

“He did. He thought it would be over and done with before anything bad happened.”

On the fifth anniversary of the festival, Mayor Briggs had shot and killed himself. He was found lying in his backyard, a .45 by his right hand and a bottle of Jack Daniel’s by his left. The concert that was supposed to solve so many problems condemned the small town to fifteen years of purgatory.

“Bailey Briggs Jones took over the family business.” I’d not asked Bailey about the concert yet, but that would come soon.

“That’s right.” He leaned forward, threading meaty fingers. “You’re on a fool’s errand, Sloane. You’re going to stir a lot of bad memories, get a few clicks, and then you’ll move on. You won’t be around to see the wreckage.”

“The wreckage has followed me ever since.” I drew in a breath and met his gaze. “I’ve spent my entire life wondering if she’s dead, alive, suffering, or living a better life without her child.”

Paxton sat back in his chair. “I’d think this would be the last place you’d ever want to be.”

“I tend to run toward trouble.”

“There’s no trouble here,” he said. “Dawson is a peaceful town.”

“It looks very serene.” Not all murder scenes were dark alleys. Some were nice homes. They were places of work, favorite neighborhood parks, or tree-lined jogging trails. Murderers didn’t need to set the stage to do their thing. Anytime, anywhere.

He settled his elbows on his desk. “How long are you going to be in town?”

“A week or two. I want to get to know Dawson and talk to the folks who were at the festival thirty-one years ago.”

“They aren’t as easy to find.”

“I’ve found a few.”

“I heard someone rented Sheriff Taggart’s cabin.” Sharp-eyed and a little flushed, he seemed annoyed. “Was that you?”

I focused on an award behind him on a credenza. A service award from the Rotary Club. The year was 2022. There was a framed image of a football team. 1988. I suspected Paxton was in the cluster of boys somewhere. He was as much a part of this town as the roads and bridges. “That was me.”

“Why? Sheriff Taggart’s been dead five years.”

“Thought I’d get a little insight into him. Maybe I’ll catch some of his vibe.”

“You know he shot himself in that cabin. He sat on the front porch and put a revolver to the side of his head.”

“That explains why the place is haunted, right?”

Paxton shook his head. “I’m not giving you access to the sheriff’s case files.”

“I’d be surprised if you did,” I said. “Most jurisdictions don’t welcome me.” My research often began with one cop who’d never been able to forget a case.

Paxton rose. “Thanks for coming, Sloane. But I think we’re finished here.”

I stood, taking a moment to settle my bag on my shoulder. “Thanks for your time, Sheriff Paxton.”

“Best of luck to you,” he said. “Don’t speed in my town.”

As I made my way down the hallway, I caught Paxton’s reflection in a framed picture in front of me. He had stepped out into the hallway, and he watched as I reached for the security door. It was locked, trapping me inside.

I glanced to Jennifer, but she didn’t meet my gaze. Irritated, I stared at her as I rattled the door. When she set down the receiver, she exhaled a breath and pressed the buzzer.

I crossed the lobby and stepped outside. The sun was bright and the sky clear. The mountains, now my temporary home, skidded across the skyline. The distance didn’t feel that far as I stared at the ridge. But as I drove out of town, I realized how isolated I was in Taggart’s cabin.

Chapter Nine

CJ Taggart

Friday, May 20, 1994, 6:00 p.m.