Page 28 of The Smart Killer
“You were married?”
“Was.”
“You mind me asking how she died?”
“I do.”
Noah never took his eyes off the road ahead.
“All right. I can respect that.” Porter took out his wallet. “I have a wife of my own and daughter.” He passed Noah a photo of a young redhead sitting on a swing and holding a toddler. “That’s Cary-Anne and our little one, Kelsey. She just turned three.”
“How long have you been married?” Noah asked, passing the photo back.
“Almost four years.”
“Good for you. Enjoy it while it lasts.”
“Huh?”
Noah glanced at him. “Things change. You’ll change.”
“No. Not us. We’re in for the long haul.”
“Everyone is, Porter until you come home to an empty house and a note saying you’ll hear from her lawyer.”
Porter scoffed. “Won’t happen.”
“Ah, okay, forever the optimist.”
“The what?”
“The optimist sees the glass half full; the pessimist sees it half empty, and the...”
“Realist sees both. Yeah, I heard that one.”
There was a short pause.
“Actually, I was going to say the realist sees only the glass.”
Porter frowned. “Only the glass?” he paused. “Oh, I get it. He ducks when she throws it at him.”
“No, he never got married as he was too busy working.”
Porter snorted. “Sutherland, you are something else.”
Noah gave the Bronco some gas, and they continued toward a farmhouse nestled in the forest at the end of a long driveway. When they arrived, Noah noticed a black company truck outside, the one he’d seen in the video. He parked behind it and exited, stopping only to see the contents inside. It was full of fire extinguishers, parts, and tools.
The farmhouse stood nestled among a dense thicket of towering pines and maple trees, their branches interwoven to create a natural canopy that filtered the sunlight into dappled patterns on the ground below.
The house was weathered, its wooden exterior displaying the passage of time. Paint, once vibrant, was now faded, and the porch creaked underfoot as Noah and Porter ascended the steps.
As they reached the front door, the wind rustled the leaves of nearby oak trees, casting fleeting shadows on the porch. A wind chime jangled. Noah raised a gloved hand and knocked firmly.
There was no response, just an eerie silence.
Deciding to explore further, they walked around the house, following a gravel path. There, they discovered a man hunched over a lawnmower, his hands stained with grease and grass clippings. He had headphones on. Music seeped out. He wore worn-out jeans and a faded plaid shirt, both showing signs of hard use. His once-brown hair was streaked with some grey. When he spotted them from the corner of his eye, he wiped his hands on a rag and removed his headphones.
“Kyle Branson?”
