Page 27 of A Curse On Black Lake
Stepping under the curve of the rocks, I study the smooth surface. There is slight ridging, common from water running against the stone, like that of the Grand Canyon. Other than that, it all looks natural.
I take a step back from the rocks and put myself in the murderer’s shoes. He would have had to carry her out here or bring her on horseback. It would have been difficult to get a vehicle out here without me noticing, but it is possible. The Sheriff’s Department struggled to get a truck out here, but they did it.
If there were tracks from another vehicle, they would be gone, or ridden over by the police vehicle that was out here. I look around the outcropping of trees surrounding the rocks. But he couldn’t have made it all the way to the rocks with the vehicle, assuming he had one. So, that would indicate he carried the victim to the rocks. I wouldn’t bring Daisy up here, she could handle it, but her risk of breaking an ankle is too high. If I’m trying to dump a body and get out of here without being caught, I wouldn’t risk my horse.
There should be footprints, and hoofprints, or there were.
Clicking on my flashlight, I walk around the larger perimeter of the trees to see if I can find anything. I don’t have high hopes, but it’s worth a look.
I walk around the trees, inspecting every angle that would make sense to carry a body and not fall. If he fell, there would be more askew. He was sure-footed.
Going around the green ash and pecan trees, a breeze flows through the leaves like rushing water, stirring the branches, andright in front of me, the way the dim overcast light catches it — hair.
It reflects in the even light tone, and it’s blonde. Grabbing the baggie from my back pocket, I gingerly slip it over the strands and seal it up.
He must have carried her through here to the rocks.
Following the path to the rocks, I look for footprints, cigarette butts, trash, anything that may have come off the killer.
I go all the way up to where I found her and stop short. A sprig of lavender lays within the rocks. No one would have noticed if they weren’t looking. Lavender is nowhere on this land. It struggles to grow here unless carefully, intentionally cultivated. So, why is a dried sprig of lavender here? And what did he use it for?
Placing the sprig in another baggie I brought with me, I search the area one more time and don’t find anything else. But I found something, and it’s a lead.
I get Daisy and head back to the barn with the dogs. Tiny follows, sniffing at my heels, and when I get to the top of the hill leading to the house, I find Eliana sitting on the steps in a tank top and cut-off shorts with her bike and the slightly bent rim, leaning against the porch railing.
Chapter twelve
Killian
Shelooksupfromher hands, and I lean back on my heels.
Tiny runs up to her, and she smiles, scratching at his ears as he wags his tail. Her white hair blows in the wind, and her floral honey color skin makes my mouth water. She probably tastes sweet too.
I walk up to her on the stairs, and she gives me a small smile.
“What’s his name?” she asks.
“Tiny. What are you doing here?” I ask her.
She laughs. “He’s definitely not a tiny dog.”
“That’s what makes it funny,” I mumble, and my dad named him. He’s a White Swiss shepherd and incredibly smart. Dad wanted one because our other dog was getting older and couldn’t keep up. She didn’t die long after he did. Grief slices through my chest, and I have to take a deep breath to let the ache pass.
She crosses her bare legs, and her calf-length cowboy boots rasp against the wood stairs. I wait for her answer, afraid to get too close to her. I might be shocked again.
Eliana stares at me, unbothered by my rude attitude.
“I’m here to help you,” she says and runs a hand through her hair.
“I don’t know what you could possibly help me with,” I mutter, still staring at her hair. My eyes finally drift from the moonlit strands to her face as the sun peaks through the grey clouds and she tilts her head back, as if she’s trying to absorb the light.
“There is no way you are successfully running this ranch on your own. You have to be drowning,” she says, her eyes still closed.
My tongue skims the edge of my teeth, and I look away. It doesn’t matter if she’s right. I don’t want help, and I won’t have a ranch if I don’t protect myself from the inevitable murder charge coming my way.
“How’s your leg and your head?” I ask her.
“Oh, fine,” she says.
