Page 139 of Finding His Redemption

“What night? Dewey, I haven’t said anything about your truck to anyone.”

“Don’t lie to me!” The words exploded out of him, spittle flying from his lips. His free hand clenched and unclenched at his side. “I saw you looking at it when you drove by. That night I had to... when I made Bailee go away.”

The friendly mailman who waved to everyone, who told tall tales at the bar, who’d helped search for Oliver when he went missing—he was a killer.

“What happened, Dewey?”

His eyes went distant. “She was gonna leave me. Said she had bigger plans than some small-town nobody. Said I was just like her daddy.” He barked out a laugh that sounded more like a sob. “I just wanted to talk to her, you know? Make her see reason. But she wouldn’t shut up. Kept saying she was done with me, she had someone better, and they were done with this town.” His free hand clenched into a fist. “I just wanted her to be quiet for a minute. Just one fucking minute.”

The gas can swung in his grip, and a few drops splashed onto the floor near his feet. The sharp, chemical smell filled the air, making Nessie’s eyes water.

“But it was an accident,” he insisted. “I didn’t mean to hurt her. Then she was just... gone. And I had to do something with her. So I took her up to that service road, the one by the ranch. Figured they’d blame one of those convicts Walker keeps around.”

So he hadn’t planned to frame Jax specifically. Just figured one of the guys would catch the blame, and that was enough for him. She felt sick thinking about how casually he’d planned to destroy innocent lives.

“But then you had to go and complicate things,” Dewey continued. “Driving by right when I was coming back from the creek. I saw you slow down, saw you looking at my truck.”

“I didn’t see anything,” she said, taking a careful step toward the counter. “Not really. Just an impression of a vehicle in the brush.”

“Don’t lie!” He slammed the gas can down on the nearest table, and more of the liquid sloshed out. “You looked right at me. And then you told the sheriff you saw my truck.”

Shit. She had done that, hadn’t she? Right in front of half the town, Dewey included.

“Dewey, I swear I didn’t see you. It was dark.”

“Then why have you been talking to that federal agent?” he demanded. “I see him coming in and out of here. Why’s he asking questions about white trucks around town if you didn’t tell him something?”

Brandt. Of course he would be checking out Bailee’s murder. He’d want to make sure the town was good and safe for her and Oliver before he left. But Dewey had no way of knowing that.

“He’s not here about any truck,” she said. “He’s here because of my ex-husband. He was helping me with a personal matter that has nothing to do with you or Bailee.”

For a moment, she thought she’d gotten through to him. His brow furrowed, and the manic energy seemed to drain from him slightly.

Then his face hardened. “You’re lying. You’re all lying.”

He unscrewed the cap on the gas can and upended it, splashing gasoline across the floor in a wide arc. The fumes hit her like a slap, burning her nostrils and making her cough.

“Dewey, stop!” She backed away from the spreading pool. “Please, I swear I didn’t see anything. I won’t say anything.”

“You’re just like her,” he said, eerily calm now. “Always thinking you’re better than me. Always with a plan to get out. Well, guess what?” He tipped the can again, dousing the remaining salvaged items she’d so carefully sorted. “Nobody’s getting out this time.”

“Dewey, please. I have a son.” Her voice broke, and she hated that it betrayed her, giving away her fear. “He needs me.”

Regret flashed in his eyes, or maybe doubt—but it was gone in an instant. “Should’ve thought of that before you started talking about white trucks.”

He reached into his pocket and pulled out a book of matches. His hands were shaking so badly he had to try three times before he managed to tear one off.

“Don’t do this,” she pleaded. “Whatever happened with Bailee, we can fix it. I can help you.”

“Nobody can fix this.” He struck the match against the strip, and the flame flared to life, casting his face in a ghostly orange glow.

Time seemed to slow. Nessie watched the tiny flame waver between his fingers, reflected in his dead eyes. Then his fingers opened, and the match fell.

chapter

forty-one

Jax spentthe whole drive back to town picturing Nessie’s face when he told her about the reservation he’d made for them at a nearby steakhouse.

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