Damndamndamn! Taylor raced for the phone, dialing Shane’s cell phone. One, two, three rings, then voice mail. “Wrong time to be ignoring your phone,” she said through gritted teeth as she punched in a 9-1-1 page. Next, she dialed Seth, who was, according to his secretary, in court.
Over the din of several simultaneous conversations and the violating sound of drawers being opened and closed, she opted to try Clayton.
“Justice Project.”
Relief washed over her when she heard his voice. “Thank God,” she breathed, explaining what was happening. “What should I do?”
“First, calm down,” Clayton counseled. “Then read me the warrant.”
She struggled to keep the emotion out of her voice. The first portion cited the date and time of the tip and identified the officer taking the call. Taylor swallowed, then continued, “The caller directed officers to the Lucky 7 Ranch, primary residence of the deceased. Caller identified Shane Landry as the perpetrator and claimed there was evidence contained in said residence, specifically .38-caliber ammunition matching the ammunition used in the crime.”
“Okay. There’s nothing to worry about, Taylor, because that’s the most ridiculous claim I’ve ever heard. Shane would never have killed our parents. Yes, there’s always been ammunition on the ranch but it’s locked up in the attic.”
Her blood ran cold. “The attic?” she repeated, lowering her voice to a near whisper.
“Yes,” Clayton said. “My dad was big on gun safety. He didn’t want any accidents, so the ammo has always been kept separate from the guns. My parents were fanatical about it.”
“Clayton, I—”
“Stop worrying,” he interrupted. “Everyone in Jasper knew about the house ammo rules. I remember hearing people rag on my dad when I was a kid. Folks used to say it defeated the point of having a gun when you had no way to load it in a hurry.”
“Stop!” she insisted, fairly yelling to get his attention. It worked.
“Sorry. What is it?”
Taylor’s eyes darted around to find, much to her utter frustration, that several of the officers were openly eavesdropping on her conversation—such as it was. Chief among them was the lead detective, who was standing a few feet away, rummaging through the top drawer of the highboy. “This isn’t right,” she hedged.
“Trust me on this.”
She took the cordless phone and walked out the front door, hardly noticing the cold despite her bare feet. She let Clayton drone on while she wandered out of earshot.
“…sure it is just someone hoping to collect the reward we’ve offered for information leading to an arrest. The state police are probably inundated with tips. Rollins has to follow up on them, it’s his job. And…” Clayton paused and expelled a loud breath “…this is a high profile case, Taylor. The governor and a U.S. senator attended the funeral. Rollins is probably getting a lot of heat on this one.”
Taylor felt confident it was safe to talk when she was a good ten yards from the house. “Quiet,” she snapped, her nerves frazzled. “Listen to me. I got a note. It basically said the same thing.”
“When?” Clayton’s tone registered instant alarm.
After telling him about the note and the knife, Taylor asked, “What should I do?”
“Where are they now?”
“In my purse, in the hall. Why?”
“Go back in the house. Do it now.”
“I am,” she said, briskly retracing her steps. “Then what?”
“Grab your purse and keys and go.”
“Where?”
“Anywhere,” Clayton answered. “Just get the hell out of there. Do you have a cell?”
“Yes, but shouldn’t someone be here while they’re going through the house?”
“Technically, no one has to be present. Beside, I’ll handle that. You just get out of there. Call me as soon as you’re off the ranch.”
Motivated by fear and an intense desire to protect Shane, Taylor walked back inside and nearly groaned when she found Rollins still planted in the foyer. How was she supposed to get her purse with its damning contents, with him standing right there?
Oh hell, it didn’t matter. She put the phone back on the cradle, slapped the warrant on the table and in precise, clipped syllables, said, “Excuse me.”
“Yes?”
“No,” she corrected. “I wasn’t asking a question, I want you to move.”
One bushy brow arched almost accusingly above a penetrating brown eye. “Because?”
“I don’t have to be here to watch while you harass this family.”
“This family?” he repeated, new interest flaring in his eyes. “I was under the impression that you were an employee.”
“I—I am. A very loyal one. One that will go screaming to the press if you and your goons don’t leave this home exactly as you found it when you’re finished with your little fishing expedition. So, hand me my purse and I’ll be on my way.”
He did as she asked.
Taylor’s heart was pounding as she spun and walked toward the door. She had taken two steps when Detective Rollins said, “Miss Reese?”
She stopped. So did her heart and her ability to breathe. Rollins obviously must have figured something was up. Why wouldn’t he? He hadn’t impressed her as a stupid man. Stupid, no. Wrong? Definitely.
That didn’t change the fact that she was caught. She actually entertained the notion of pulling out the note and eating it. Not smart, but better than giving this man more evidence to bolster the flawed theory that Shane was somehow involved or responsible for the murder of his parents.
Taylor didn’t trust herself not to do something rash, making it impossible for her to turn back to face the detective. Her shoulders tensed as she managed to get a single word past the lump in her throat. “What?”
“You shouldn’t leave.”
Her eyes squeezed shut. “Am I under arrest?”
“Um, no.”
She whirled around then, trying to read his expression. No such luck. “Then why can’t I leave?”
He pointed at her feet. “No shoes. Unless you make a habit of going out barefoot.”
Pressing her lips together, Taylor stiffly went to her room and slipped on some flats, keeping a tight hold on her purse. Obviously, she wasn’t suited for a life of crime. Not if her shaking hands and wobbly knees were any indication.
It felt like a lifetime passed before she was tucked behind the wheel of her car, speeding down the long drive toward the main highway. Once she cleared the iron archway that bore the ranch’s logo, she fumbled in her purse for her phone and called Clayton back.
“What now?”
“Do you know the old Hudson place?” he asked.
“Kind of.”
“Head northeast once you pass through town. It’s about ten miles up on the righthand side. Park by the tanning shed and one of us will meet you there. Can you do that?”
“Sure. There’s just one problem.”
“What?”
“Which way is northeast?”
SHANE HAD WORKED HIMSELF into an almost blinding fury by the time he shoved open the