Page 84 of Deeper Than the Dead

He chuckled. “Really? I’ve kept up with you, too, Vee. I know just how good you are at what you do. In my humble opinion, there’s no way you’ve missed the signs.”

Humble? Ha! The man didn’t have a humble bone in his body.

“You’re right.” She summoned all the anger simmering inside her. “I wouldn’t miss the signs. So maybe you’re just seeing what you need to see to close your case. I’m fairly certain all eyes are on you right now. ‘Will he be able to see the truth when it comes to his former lover? Will he see that justice is served? Can he really fill Walt Fraley’s shoes?’”

He bowed his head in acknowledgment. “Now those were some seriously low blows.”

“Our father did not murder anyone,” Vera snapped, tired of this back and forth. “Eve and Luna didn’t murder anyone.”

He looked at her then. No, not looked at ... looked inside her. “Whatever you think you know, understand this: They’re going to dissect the lives of everyone around these remains,” he insisted, as if she didn’t know how these things were done. “They’re going to question every single person who knew Sheree and the other vics, as soon as they’ve been identified. And then they’ll go after anyone close to them. Because they will conclude exactly what I have: whoever did this did not do it alone, and they were familiar with this cave.”

“I am well versed in how the FBI works, so my advice,” she offered, “is to do your best to find what you need to find. The problem is, you’re not going to find it where you’re looking.”

She had nothing else to say. Not to him or to anyone else.

For Vera the real trouble in this tangled mess was the extra sets of remains. There was no way a killer brought remains all the way out here without some idea of where he intended to plant them.

An organized killer didn’t work that way, and this killer had definitely been organized.

Whoever took the lives of these victims knew about the cave ... obviously knew her parents and the farm.

That meant only one thing to Vera: it had to be someone close to them.

28

Fraley Farm

Jenkins Road, Fayetteville, 5:00 p.m.

Bent braked to a stop and turned to Vera. “You sure you want to do this?”

Vera got it that he really didn’t want to. He’d thrown out that question already when she first mentioned the idea. They walked away from the cave, and she asked—no, demanded—to see former Sheriff Fraley. Maybe the request came at that moment only to get under Bent’s skin after the way he’d grilled her, or maybe all his queries had been a reminder of things she didn’t want to examine too closely. Either way, this was something she needed to do.

And if he was intent on clearing her family as he said, he needed this as much as she did.

“Why wouldn’t I?” She angled her head and pointed a questioning glare at him. “Is there some reason I shouldn’t?”

She had spoken to Beatrice earlier today. She’d seemed eager to help. The former sheriff had been resting. Hopefully, he was up by now and Beatrice had discussed Vera’s request with him.

Bent shoved the gear shift into Park. “I guess not.”

He was frustrated, maybe even a little angry. Join the club.

She opened her door and got out. Without waiting for him, she strode toward the house. Walter “Walt” and Beatrice Fraley owned a sizable property with a couple of barns, a big old farmhouse, and a half dozen or so cows grazing in a distant pasture. Massive trees shaded the house. Flowers bloomed all around the porch. Beatrice’s doing, probably. The woman had always kept a vase of flowers on her desk every day at school. She and Vera’s mother had that in common. The truck that had been in the drive earlier was gone now. Vera hoped that was no indication the Fraleys weren’t home. She needed that list. Hopefully, there had been time for Beatrice to speak with her husband about Vera’s request.

Today’s visit with Beatrice had been relaxed and friendly, the way Vera remembered her former teacher. When she and Florence had delivered that casserole, however, Vera had sensed something troubling Beatrice. She’d obviously been uncomfortable with the way her friend had conducted herself. Vera’s gut clenched when she thought of Florence Higdon. Like her husband and son, the judge, the woman was utterly full of herself. But she was Luna’s boss—one who would be retiring soon. Luna loved her work at the library. She would be stepping into that position. Vera did not want to do anything to screw that up for her.

Vera waited at the front door until Bent caught up with her. When he did, she gestured to the door for him to knock. Since she had told him about the earlier visit, she didn’t understand why he was so hesitant about this one.

His gaze sticking to hers, he opened the screen door and knocked on the wood one behind it. He kept that steady watch on her until a voice on the other side of the door shouted, “It’s unlocked. Come on in.”

Maybe Bent worried his presence would make the visit feel like an interrogation.

Whatever his hesitation, he opened the door and waited for her to step inside first. She walked past him and into the long narrow hall.

“In here,” the feeble voice called.

Vera was startled at how weak the man’s voice sounded. She entered the room on the left, where he waited in a wheelchair. Like her father, Walter Fraley had aged far beyond his years. But then, ill health did that. Multiple sclerosis was a hideous disease. The frail man before her was proof.

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