Page 12 of What She Saw
The muscles along his neck coiled tight and tense. He wanted to ease off the throttle and not worry, not push. He’d lost big while he was in the service because he’d pressed too hard. But old habits died hard. Like it or not, he couldn’t shake the sense that trouble was circling.
Chapter Four
Sloane
Friday, August 15, 2025, 2:00 p.m.
After my desk was set up, I dumped a can of tomato soup into a small clean, dented pot. I switched on the propane burner. As the soup heated, I opened a sleeve of crackers and nibbled. The cabinets had four bowls and four plates. In the drawers, an equal number of forks, knives, and spoons. Taggart was a kindred soul.
I sat at the table and opened my laptop. Gusts of wind whipped outside, rattling the shingles and smacking the shutters against the house. The air was ripe with moisture, signaling a storm.
I was used to solitude, but I was also used to Wi-Fi to stay connected to the world. The old Timex on my wrist was more sentimental than functional.
Now, as I glanced at no bars on my phone, I reminded myself that I wanted to be here. To disconnect. But no bars meant no control. No access. That realization didn’t ease the panic clenching in my chest.
I crumbled crackers into my soup. The first few bites were hot, but the tomato-carb combo settled my stomach, and by the end, I felt more human. My stomach had been queasy for a few days. I’d ignored whatever illness it was and willed it away.
I opened my file on Sheriff CJ Taggart, the investigating officer for the Mountain Music Festival case.
Born in 1944, Taggart was a throwback to a different generation. His father had died on the beaches of Anzio, Italy, and while his mother had married again, CJ and his stepfather never got along. At seventeen, he convinced his mother to sign a waiver allowing him to join the marines. He’d served in Vietnam and been injured near Da Nang in 1965. According to his medical reports, bullets struck his right arm, left leg, and belly. Medics airlifted him to a field hospital and later to Japan to recover. After his release from the hospital in 1966, he joined the military police force in Okinawa, where he worked until 1993.
At the age of forty-nine, he’d been investigating the murder of a female soldier who’d been having an affair with a colonel. Taggart suspected the colonel. The brass told him to back down. Which he hadn’t done. The colonel kept his job, and Taggart left the marines.
After separating from the marines, he’d traveled a bit, but eventually he grew bored and started looking for a job in civilian police work.
A red glow warmed the inside of the cabin. I looked out the window to see the sun setting toward the mountains. I walked outside to the front porch and watched as the red glow sank lower until it vanished behind the mountain. Lightning streaked across the sky.
Taggart had lived in this cabin for ten years. How many nights had he sat out here and watched the sunset? Or had he been so lost in his own troubles he didn’t care to look?
A phone rang, startling me. Staring at the flickering bar on my cell, I realized it wasn’t mine. It was the yellow wall mount in the kitchen. I crossed to the phone, hesitating as my hand rested on the receiver. Weird not to know who was calling.
I lifted the receiver to my ear. “Hello.”
“Sloane.” The familiar, deep voice belonged to Grant McKenna. I pictured a tall, lean guy who wore a dark suit with a black tie. Sunglasses would have made him a perfect cast member forMen in Black.
We’d met at a crime conference six weeks ago. I’d been speaking about my recently published article inThe Washington Post. I’d investigated the murder of Suzanne Malone. Susie, as she was known to her friends, was thirteen when she went for a bike ride near dusk. She didn’t come home, and her parents called the police. Anyone who could helped search for her.
Her body was found three days later, but her killer was never caught. Grant had been speaking earlier about murder convictions without a body. When I finished my presentation, he caught me as I was exiting the dais. He’d had several pointed questions about my presentation. He’d been paying close attention. I didn’t understand his interest, and then he’d mentioned an upcoming parole hearing for Rafe Colton. My ears perked.
I’d offered to buy him a drink. We’d huddled in the bar over beers and then dinner as I drilled him for information about Colton. After we shut down the bar, we ended up in my room.
I remember the heady scent of desire and his rough hands reaching for the button on my jeans. I’d jerked off my shirt and he’d kissed the mounds of my breasts.
My jeans had dropped with one yank, and I’d kicked them off. Seconds later, he’d pushed into me, shoving my back against the wall. I’d wrapped my legs around him, pulling him in as deeply as I could. Talking about the Malone case always left me agitated, and sex with Grant was the least dangerous way for me to let off steam.
The sex had been urgent, exciting, and intoxicating. After the conference, we went our separate ways. We’d traded a few texts over the last six weeks but hadn’t spoken. If Grant had stuck to his plan, he’d seen Colton a week or two ago.
“You’ve arrived in Dawson?” His logical, steady voice was relaxed, measured.
“I was standing on Taggart’s porch. Sunsets guaranteed to wow any tourist. How did you get the landline number?”
“Doesn’t take a detective to figure out where you’d stay in Dawson. I made a call or two and got the number.”
“Aren’t you clever.”
“I don’t picture you lounging in the woods.”
I remembered how much I enjoyed talking to him. “No. I was rereading my files. I’m headed into town tomorrow to talk to Sheriff Paxton.”
