“No, but perhaps the timing of them is. All these years we’ve believed Sam was killed by a drunk driver. What if the whole incident was set up to look that way? What if he was actually lured out onto that dark, deserted road so he could be murdered?”
Shane realized he was gaping and that he wasn’t the only one who was astonished. Even poor Otis looked perplexed.
“There was no indication of that,” Shane said. “None. It was just a hit-and-run. Everybody agreed.”
“Yes, they did,” Jamie said, stepping up beside the older woman. “But they also agreed that my brother was the driver of the car that hit him. What if that really was a frame job? And suppose my father was gotten out of the way, like my aunt thinks he was, before my mother ran away to save herself?”
“That’s ridiculous.”
“Then prove it. To both of us,” Jamie said, reaching for Marsha’s hand and giving it a squeeze of encouragement before she added, “And to yourself.”
“I don’t find it necessary to prove anything to myself, Ms. Henderson, or Nolan, or whatever name you choose to use for convenience. I was beginning to think you were going to be reasonable about all this.”
“I am being reasonable. I didn’t even know your father left behind notebooks until now, so I certainly couldn’t have coerced your mother into asking for them.”
“So you claim.”
“I don’t lie.”
Shane stood firm, wondering what it would take to win their argument. “Neither do I.”
“Fine. Then get the storage boxes.”
“I’m not sure where they are.”
The second he spoke he suspected he had just lost their current battle of wits. When Jamie Lynn began to smile at him, he was certain.
“Really?” she asked. “I thought you didn’t lie.”
“I don’t.”
“You mean you don’t usually, right?”
Shane uncrossed his arms, hooked his thumbs in his jeans pockets and struck what he hoped was a casual pose. “Sometimes a small fib is necessary in order to look after those we care about.”
“Ri-i-i-ight.”
Not only were her dark eyes sparkling, she was clearly enjoying his mistake. Well, too bad. He was sticking to his first reaction. Handing over those notebooks would be the worst thing he could do for his mother. He’d looked after her for years, before she’d married again, and he didn’t intend to do anything that would hurt her now.
A chuckle came from the largest recliner in the living room, drawing everyone’s attention. Otis was not only laughing, he began to applaud. “Good one, Jamie girl.”
“Thank you. I try.”
Shane glared at his stepfather but refrained from comment. After all, Mom loved the guy, and Otis wasn’t a bad choice as a pleasant companion for her twilight years. It was the old man’s odd sense of humor that sometimes went too far. Like now.
Chuckling again, Otis waggled his bushy gray eyebrows. “Don’t bother giving me a dirty look, son. Just see that you remember this conversation the first time you catch our boy in a whopper.”
Realizing that Kyle was paying close attention to the adults while grinning at his papaw, Shane backed down. “You’re right. Since I don’t want my son to lie, I’d better set a good example. I think I can locate those boxes of Dad’s things if you’ll give me a couple of days. They’re probably buried under piles of other stuff in the back of my barn.”
Everyone was grinning except him. And with good reason. Not only was he hesitant to dig out the old handwritten notes, he loathed reading them. His mother wasn’t the only one who had relegated her memories of the late sheriff to the past.
Shane had lost more than his father when Sam had died.
He’d lost his only hero.
SEVEN
Jamie hated to be idle for an hour, let alone days. Quiet time gave her too much opportunity to remember how much she missed the kids she’d worked with in preschool before taking this leave of absence to sort out her family’s troubles.
As soon as her truck was ready, she picked it up and drove straight to the courthouse, marching directly to the clerk’s office.
“Hello,” Jamie said with a smile. “I phoned a few weeks ago about getting some old records of the Henderson trial. My name is Nolan.”
“I’ll need to see some identification,” the pleasant, middle-aged woman said. “Since I don’t know you, I mean. Usually, the folks who come to us are locals.”
“I used to be,” Jamie told her, producing her driver’s license. It had occurred to her to keep her real identity as secret as possible, but she quickly rationalized that the people who already knew who she was were the only ones she needed to fear.