Total pages in book: 115
Estimated words: 112449 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 562(@200wpm)___ 450(@250wpm)___ 375(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 112449 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 562(@200wpm)___ 450(@250wpm)___ 375(@300wpm)
Something in his tone stopped me with my hand on the knob.
“Scott Cavendish died when the container of gas placed beneath his feet exploded. It’s not surprising the other sac— victims didn’t meet the same fate,” said Sheriff Sharpe. “They were spared that addition.”
My mind worked, filtering through every second of the night before. “There wasn’t a gas container beneath his feet.”
“There was.” I turned as he removed a photograph from the folder and slid it across the table. “Buried in the sand.”
“I didn’t—”
“And we found this underneath it.”
Dad tossed the evidence bag on the table. The fucker got what he was after. My eyes bugged, brows blowing up in shock.
“I lost that,” I said, snatching up the charred remains of my wallet. “I tore the house and truck apart looking for it.”
“It was buried in the sand under Cavendish, son. You mentioned you were the one who dug his well. Poured the sand around him.”
“Yeah, but—” I snapped up, lips peeling back. “Hold the hell up. Don’t try it, old man. I told you it wasn’t me. I don’t know how that container got in there.”
He sat back, lacing his fingers on his paunch. The balance of power had shifted. And he knew it.
“Then, maybe you have a better explanation. Your wallet was found under the container. To a judge, it looks like you dropped your wallet and didn’t notice as you placed the container on top, then packed in the sand.”
Fury licked at my self-control. The man wouldn’t win any father of the year awards—for all that he thought he deserved them. But at the very least, he should know a decent father doesn’t look so smug when he accused his son of murder.
“Damn,” I said. “Sheriff truly is an elected position. All about the politics, nothing to do with the brains.”
“Careful.”
“If I lost my wallet in the middle of carrying out a brutal murder, don’t you think around the victim would be the first place I looked?” I snapped. “Here’s another for you: I tied up Cavendish, then I spread the sand, dug the well, and blindfolded him. I think he would’ve said something if he saw me shove a gas container in there.”
“There’s only your word that’s the order of events,” Dad said.
“The guys were there. They saw.”
“They could be lying to cover for you.”
I cocked my head. “Now, why would they do that?”
Jack didn’t say anything.
“The Bedlam Boys have built quite a reputation if even my own father thinks I’m a cold-blooded killer. We should do something about—”
“I want to know how. How someone can take a soul without losing their own?”
I snatched the folder, dumping out the crime scene photos.
“Son—”
“Shut up.”
“Cairo—”
“Quiet! You’ve said enough, accusing your own son of murder. The least you can do is be silent while I do your work for you.”
Silence filled the interrogation room. The only sound the shuffling of papers.
I pawed through them, looking for any sign of—
There.
Nestled in the sand and ash, was a slim piece of charred wood.
So that’s what that was.
I sat back in my seat, head bent to the ceiling, and considered, considered...
...and decision made.
“I did not kill Scott Cavendish,” I said clearly. “The four witnesses I have backing me should be enough for a jury, and for you. He did not die because of anything the Bedlam Boys did, but it’s obvious someone wants the world to think otherwise.
“After we displayed the sacrifices, we kicked back in the Drumlins and left them on their own out there for an hour. The gas containers were out there too. Someone stole my wallet and then took advantage of the perfect setup. Victim tied and blindfolded. A tub of gasoline just sitting there. We were framed.”
“Who would want to frame you? More to the point, who’d murder Scott Cavendish to do it? The only people in this scenario who have a motive are the Bedlam Boys. You’re on video trumpeting his list of crimes against you.”
I tossed the photo back on the pile. “We don’t kill for coming up short on payments. Dead men don’t settle bills.”
Dad winced. “Stop that, Cairo. Stop talking like some two-bit gangster.”
“How should I talk, Dad? We both know why I collect those payments, and why we don’t need anyone digging into them as a motive. If people knew what the Bedlam Boys really do, your right friends in the right places won’t be enough to save you losing this job, or ending up in the cell next to mine.” I neatly tucked the evidence away and slid the folder to him.
“The police are officially looking into the shitstains that crashed Ruckus and stabbed Scott Cavendish as their main suspects in his murder, and apologies go out to the Bedlam Boys for the suffering and suspicion they’ve endured. Agreed?”
It took him a minute but, jaw clenched, my father nodded.