Page 17 of Dirty Valentine
“What kind of threats?”Jack pulled out his notebook, but his eyes never left Patricia’s face.
“Anonymous at first.Notes on Thomas’s car.Emails from dummy accounts saying he should stop digging.”Another swallow of bourbon.“Then two weeks ago, he presented our findings to the historical society board.That’s when things got specific.”
“What findings?”
Patricia moved to a table buried under maps and photographs, her movements fluid despite the bourbon.“We’ve been documenting unmarked graves throughout the county.Bodies that shouldn’t exist.People who were erased from history after being murdered for their land.”
She spread out photographs.Excavation sites.Skeletal remains.Personal effects that whispered of wealth and position—gold buttons, silver buckles, jewelry that had outlasted the flesh that wore it.
“Three centuries of murder and theft, Sheriff.And certain families have been protecting those secrets ever since.”Her finger traced property lines on an old map.“Including what really happened to Bridget Ashworth’s land.”
“Tell me about the board meeting,” Jack said.
“Richard Blackwood went volcanic.Screamed about libel, about destroying family reputations.”Patricia’s knuckles went white around her glass.“But Margaret Randolph was the one who scared Thomas.”
“How so?”
“He said she went pale as death when he showed the evidence.After the meeting, she cornered him in the parking lot.”Patricia’s voice dropped, cold as winter stone.“Told him that some sleeping dogs should stay sleeping.That terrible accidents happened to people who went digging in the wrong places.”
The rain lashed the windows, and thunder rolled through the house like a warning.
“When Thomas tried to argue, she said his expertise in finding bodies might serve him well when he became one.”
“Did he report it?”
“He wanted evidence first.Real evidence.”Patricia moved to a secretary desk, pulled out a folder.“Yesterday, he was supposed to meet with the state archaeological commission.He’d found original surveyor’s notes from 1725 in the courthouse basement.Documents that proved everything—that Bridget Ashworth’s thousand acres of riverfront property was stolen using forged documents.”
She handed Jack the folder, and I saw his jaw tighten as he scanned the photocopies.
“Mrs.Whitman,” Jack said carefully, “we’ll need Thomas’s phone records, appointment calendar, any notes from recent meetings.”
“I’ll pull it all together.”She set down her empty glass with a soft click.“Sheriff, my husband knew the risks.He went anyway because he believed the truth mattered more than his safety.”For the first time, something flickered in her eyes—not grief, but rage.“Don’t let them bury this along with him.”
“We won’t.Is there someone you can call?”
“My sister in Richmond.”Patricia’s spine straightened like she was preparing for battle.“I’ll be fine.I always am.”
The words hung in the air like a confession.
Outside, we ran through the rain to the Tahoe, water streaming off our jackets, the smell of ozone sharp in the air.
“That was interesting,” Jack said once we were inside, his tone deceptively mild.
“No tears.No shock.No questions about how he died.”I watched Patricia’s silhouette appear in the window, backlit and motionless.“Just straight to who and why.”
“Could be shock.”
“Could be.”I turned to face him.“Or could be she’s been expecting this.Could be she already knew.”
Jack’s fingers drummed against the steering wheel—his tell when his mind was racing.“Phone records.Alibi.Financial records.The works.”
“She didn’t kill him,” I said, surprising myself with my certainty.“But she knows more than she’s saying.”
“Agreed.”Jack started the engine.“The question is whether what she’s hiding is relevant to his murder or just to their marriage.”
Lightning illuminated the world in stark relief—the house, the trees, the rain—before plunging us back into darkness.In that brief moment of clarity, I saw Patricia still standing at the window, watching us leave.
A woman carved from stone, waiting for her moment to strike back.
