Page 63 of What She Saw
Whatever the truth was, Taggart wasn’t hopeful Amy would file charges against Billy. The couple likely operated in a circle of violence that wouldn’t end until Amy left or died.
The medics arrived at the tent. As the techs spoke to Amy, Paxton led Billy to the waiting police van. It took another half hour to get the young woman out of the tent. She didn’t want to leave, and when they strapped her to a gurney, she screamed.
This wasn’t Colton’s doing, but he’d set the stage for this disaster. Taggart noticed Colton speaking to a truck driver and jogged over to the vehicle. The driver was Kevin, one of last night’s security guards.
“Where’s he going?” Taggart demanded.
“He’s helping the road crews move the equipment out. I’ll be back.” Colton nodded toward Billy. “What’s the deal with that?”
“Guy says a man tried to hurt his girlfriend.”
Colton shook his head. “Guys like that always blame someone else.” His brow furrowed. “This festival was supposed to be about peace and love and togetherness.”
That would have been the case if he’d had more security. “You didn’t get any other complaints of attempted attacks?”
“Nope. But I’ll ask the crew if they heard about anything like that.” Colton banged the flat of his hand on the top of the truck.
Kevin slipped the gear into first and punched the accelerator. The wheels spun in the mud. He put the truck in reverse, backed up a fraction, and then shifted back into first. He gunned the engine. Tires spun. Mud spit out. He repeated this seesaw back and forth for a couple of minutes until the truck and trailer popped out of the sloppy rut.
Colton stood back, his hands in his pockets. He watched the truck and trailer move toward the fire road. He didn’t take his gaze off it until it vanished down the road.
Colton looked pleased with himself. Despite the chaos surrounding him, he was happy. That happiness wasn’t going to last. If he’d made money on this event, he’d better hang on to it. The lawsuits were going to eat him alive.
Chapter Twenty
Sloane
Sunday, August 17, 2025, 5:00 p.m.
Amy Wheeler lived an hour west, near Staunton. When Taggart had found her in the tent, she’d been disoriented. He’d assumed she was high, but she’d been suffering from a concussion. Later, he’d interviewed her in the hospital. But she didn’t remember what happened or how she’d ended up with the Depot T-shirt that was later confirmed to have been Patty’s.
Amy had broken it off with Billy almost thirty-one years ago. And Billy had died in 2020 of a heart attack. At the time of his death, he’d been high on meth and lying on a lounge chair in his backyard. Bob Marley had been playing on his phone and burgers sizzled on the grill.
Taggart had questioned Amy again about the T-shirt and the man who’d tried to hurt her. She’d never been able to provide specifics. And as other leads had rolled into his office, Amy had been forgotten. No one had interviewed her since.
I hoped thirty-one years had helped Amy’s memory.
I pulled up in front of the garden shop located on a rural route. The entrance had a fantasy kind of vibe, with vines snaking over a tall arch. I drove past water features and potted trees toward the large greenhouse.
Out of the car, I surveyed the lush greenery. I liked plants. But they didn’t like me. They tended to die when they came into my orbit. I could almost hear the last plant I’d owned screaming for help as I carried it out of the plant shop.
Shifting my sunglasses on top of my head, I crossed the graveled lot into the greenhouse. The woman behind the register had long gray hair tied back with a red bandanna. She wore overalls and a black T-shirt covered in small words. I thought I made out the wordPeaceon one of the sleeves. The last thirty-one years hadn’t been so hard on Amy that I couldn’t recognize her.
I picked up a plant and studied its delicate flowers. “Don’t worry,” I whispered. “I’m not buying you.”
I moved toward the register. “Hey, can I ask you a question?”
The woman looked up and smiled. “Sure.”
“You look like you know plants.”
“I own the place.”
“How long?”
“Twenty years.”
“How delicate is this plant?” I set the plastic pot on the counter.
