CHAPTER 1



"My father didn't kill himself." The kid's voice crackled with pubescent hormones. But other than the wavering voice, he had an unflinching determination. It was the third time he'd made the statement since showing up at my sister's house this morning.

The kid was twelve, and staring at me through a clump of blond hair that fell over his right eye. He was in dire need of a haircut. But I'm not the fashion police so it didn't matter to me if he got one or not.

"Look … Tatum, sometimes we don't always understand why people do the things they do." My own voice was scratchy from morning grogginess.

"He didn't kill himself." That was number four. Not that I was counting.

"Gypsy—can't you just hear him out?" My sister, Rhonda, asked. She joined me and the kid at her kitchen table.

It was 8:00 A.M. I was functioning on two hours' sleep after an eighteen-hour drive. Plus, I was still on my first cup of coffee.

"There's a lot more to it than just Ryce's death," Rhonda said.

"Who's Ryce?"

"My dad," the kid said. "Ryce McCallen. And he didn't kill himself."

Five.

"I meant to call you a couple weeks ago when Tatum told me about everything that had happened," Rhonda said. "And then when you showed up on my doorstep this morning at four-thirty, I thought, wow, divine intervention." She gnawed on her bottom lip, a habit she'd picked up during our messed-up childhood. It meant she wasn't sure. I'd think twice, too, before considering my presence divine intervention.

"Look, kid. I hate that your dad's dead. But I don't know what you want me to do about it."

"You're a private investigator. I want you to prove he was murdered."

Sure. And after that, I'd look into something simple like JFK's assassination. I scratched my chin, the morning stubble pricking my hand. Maybe I should have stayed in Vegas. There, people just wanted me dead. They didn't want me to actually work. "Homicide investigations are complicated. They're not easy to—"

"I have detailed notes."

Of course he did.

"Plus, I have the files of the cases he was working when he died."

I hated to ask but curiosity got the better of me. "What cases?"

"The eight missing girls."

I scratched my chin again. "Why didn't he just turn it over to the police?"

"He was the police." He rolled his eyes, an annoying rite of passage at his age.

Rhonda jumped in to defend the eye-rolling action. "He told you all this. It was before the coffee." She nodded quickly, like that made everything okay.

I was drawing a blank. "Refresh my memory so I'll feel better about saying no."

Tatum scooted his chair closer. "My dad was a deputy with the Winkler County Sheriff's Department. Back in the spring, my friend told me about her sister and how she'd gone missing. I told my dad about it and he started his own investigation, outside the department."

"Why didn't he go through the proper channels?"

He and Rhonda glanced at one another like they were sharing a secret. "He didn't trust them."

A paranoid cop who commits suicide. Unfortunately, it wasn't that unusual. "And you think this is related to your dad's death?"

"My dad didn't hang himself. He would never have left me like that."

I never thought my dad would leave of his own accord, either, but he did. Packed a bag and walked out. Just like that. In that respect, I could relate to this kid. "Look, Tatum, we don't always know what's going on in someone's head." I tapped my finger against my temple for illustration purposes.

"If he wanted to kill himself, why didn't he swallow a bullet like most cops would do? Why'd he hang himself?"

The kid had a point. I needed more coffee. I pulled myself up and slowly moved to the coffeepot on the counter. After pouring a fresh cup, I stood there a moment staring out the window of the house I grew up in. The house, and the care of our eighty-year-old grandmother, now belonged to Rhonda and her husband, Rodney. My mother lived a maintenance-free life in a condo in Kermit when she wasn't working at the hospital; my father was who knows where. We weren't so unusual. Still, I left Wink, Texas twenty years ago with no intention of ever coming back. And yesterday, or was it the day before—hell, I'd lost track of time—I left Vegas and probably shouldn't go back. Not if I enjoyed living.

"Gypsy?" Rhonda's voice reminded me I wasn't alone in the kitchen. At thirty-six, she was two years younger than me and as far as kid sisters go, she was a keeper. She avoided trouble like the plague, volunteered at the adult enrichment center, and taught math to hardheaded know-it-all sixth graders like Tatum at Wink Elementary as a career choice. And some called me stupid for going into the private investigation field.

I took my coffee to the table and resumed my position of avoidance. "Look, Tatum, I don't know how long I'm going to be here. I'm kind of on vacation," I lied.

"We'll pay you." He obviously didn't understand the concept of a vacation.

"Tatum lives with his grandfather. It's just the two of them now," Rhonda said, giving me that look that said there was more to this story and she'd explain later.

I didn't care if the kid lived with a tribe of pygmies. I had my own problems. I didn't know if I was even going to be alive tomorrow. I had issues with committing to anything other than lunch plans.

"They didn't even investigate it and grandpa says suicides are always investigated," Tatum said matter-of-factly.

"Who didn't investigate it?"

"The sheriff's department. They didn't even do an autopsy and grandpa says you always do an autopsy with a suicide."

I pushed my hand through my bed-tangled hair then took a long sip of coffee. "There's a lot of reasons they don't do an autopsy."

"But we requested one. They told us there wasn't any need and before we could insist on one, they had already made all the arrangements."

"Who made all the arrangements?"

"The sheriff's department."

I tried to hold in the surprised expression my face was fighting to show. I didn't want to give him the impression he had piqued my curiosity. With a stone face, I asked, "The sheriff's department made your dad's funeral arrangements?"

He nodded. "Sheriff Denny said it was too much for me or grandpa to have to handle. He said he didn't want us to have to worry about it—with all that we'd been through, he said." The corner of his lips pulled upward in a sneer. Despite my best effort not to, I was beginning to like this kid.

"Is there a reason Grandpa couldn't make the arrangements himself?"

He shook his head and the blond clump of bangs swept his forehead like a broom. "Me and Grandpa could have made them. Sheriff Denny wouldn't let us."

"Tatum's grandfather, Burke McCallen, is a retired deputy himself," Rhonda added.

"He got shot in the back and can't walk now. He uses a wheelchair to get around."

I held a swallow of coffee in my mouth before letting it go down as I tried to wrap my brain around this latest disclosure. After a moment, I swallowed. "He was shot in the line of duty?"

Tatum and Rhonda both nodded.

"He walked in on a break-in," Tatum said.

A deputy shot. In Wink, Texas. That certainly wasn't something that happened every day.

"They catch the guy who did it?"

He nodded.

So Grandpa's in a wheelchair and now Daddy's dead. Unless Mom was somewhere in the picture, the Department of Social Services would probably be involved at some point in the near future. "Where's your mom?"

He shrugged his bony shoulders. "Last I heard, in San Antonio with some rodeo guy."

"Were your mom and dad divorced?"

He shrugged again. "I guess. I don't remember much about her. She left when I was three."

I was twelve and Rhonda was ten when our dad left. I remember Rhonda crying. I remember wrapping my arm around her shoulder, holding back my own tears. I was the big brother. Big brothers don't cry.

"No aunts or uncles, cousins?" I asked.

He shook his head. "Just me and Dad and Grandpa. Well, me and Grandpa now. But we do okay. I do most of the cooking and cleaning. He does the bills and stuff."

Ahh. Denial. It'll get you through for a while. Then one day your world comes crashing in on you and you wake up wondering why you didn't see it coming. Been there, done that, and no plans to go again.

"So will you take a look at my Dad's files? He was on to something. I know he was."

"I thought you wanted me to look into your Dad's suicide?"

"It's all connected. And he didn't kill himself."

That was number six. Not that I was counting.



Copyright © 2014 by Lynn Chandler Willis