Page 136 of The Woman Left Behind

He didn’t move other than to pull the phone out of his pocket and look at the screen.

It was his father.

That wouldn’t have anything to do with Sonny and Avery, but his dad had no reason to call, and Harry was a cop. Something souring in his gut told him to take it.

“Hey, Dad,” he greeted.

“Harry. Son,” his father replied.

Harry straightened, taking Lillian with him so she was sitting on the edge of the table, but his attention drifted over her head as he focused on his father.

“Everything cool?” he asked hesitantly, because he could already tell it was not.

“Harry, I brought Caro around to the house to show it to her, and, son, you need to come out here.” His father paused, then, “Don’t bring Lillian.”

Shit.

“But call one of your deputies to come with you,” his dad finished.

Shit.

THIRTY-THREE

Not Thinking Good Thoughts

Harry

Harry pulled up beside his dad’s rental car.

Caroline was in it, maybe because autumn had taken firm hold and the morning was chilly.

Maybe because of what Harry saw across the front of his house.

He reckoned it was the second one, considering the pallor of her face and the weak smile she aimed in his direction.

His father was standing several feet from the foot of the steps.

Harry got out and joined him.

Once there, he stared at the bright red spray paint, in huge letters, spelling out Back Off!!!!!!

And yes, there were six exclamation points.

All the front windows had been smashed in, some shards on the porch, but Harry could tell right away that most of the breakage would be inside, meaning someone had thrown something through them from the outside.

“Got an idea of who did this?” his dad asked tightly.

He had three, and to be gender inclusive, four.

Karl Abernathy.

Roy Farrell.

Cheryl Ballard.

And Willie Zowkower.

He was a cop, so he had cameras, and he focused on the one he had pointed at his front door.

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