Page 75 of Lock ’N’ Load

Trista looked up from reading. “How old was the boy when his father was murdered?”

“About eight. Nice kid. Smart, too. Got good grades, respected his elders. Everyone had high hopes that Billy would turn into something a whole lot better than his POS papa.”

Matt flipped to the second page of the report. “The murder weapon was a deer-gutting knife. Any prints on the knife?”

“Not many.” Underwood nodded. “Someone had cleaned the knife but didn’t do a good job. We got a couple clear prints. Only they came back not on file.”

“You think the wife, Erica, killed her husband?” Trista asked.

“She was always the number one suspect. There were even bloody footprints in her size on the kitchen floor. But after the murder, no one ever saw Erica or Billy Jr. again. They disappeared into thin air. There was a BOLO out on them for years. After a while, people began to forget there’d been a bloody killing in their community. Besides, the guy was bad news, so no one except for Will’s brother—Avery—really cared whether his killer was caught. The only reason the investigation went on as long as it did was because Avery and the old sheriff used to be friends.”

Matt held up the enlarged color photo of the knife. “These prints are pretty small.”

Sheriff Underwood nodded. “That’s another reason why the sheriff at the time figured Erica had killed Will herself.”

Trista flipped to the page in the report Matt was referring to, and as her stomach lurched, she was grateful they hadn’t stopped for lunch. The blade was long and ugly, with smudged, bloody fingerprints.

Matt massaged his chin as he continued staring at the photo. Then she realized he was staring at her. Her hands, more specifically. “Hold up your hand.”

As soon as she did, he looked alternately from the photo, to her hand, then back to the photo. He pursed his lips, deep in thought.

“Something on your mind, Sgt. Connors?” Underwood rested his elbows on his desk, leaning forward.

“Have you ever considered anyone else as a suspect other than Erica Sands?” he asked, finally looking up.

“Not really,” Underwood said. “The keys to Will’s old truck were missing, and neither Erica nor Billy Jr. ever showed up in a hospital. Why do you ask?”

He held up the photo. “These prints are small. They could belong to a woman. Or, they could belong to a small child.”

Trista widened her eyes. “You don’t think the boy killed his own father, do you?”

“I doubt it,” Underwood said. “According to witnesses, Billy adored his father. Will never touched the boy and was careful to take his anger out on Erica when Billy wasn’t around. Besides, the coroner puts the time of death at ten a.m. Billy would have been in school at the time. That was confirmed by his teachers and several of his friends.”

Matt made a sound in the back of his throat that told Trista he didn’t necessarily agree with the sheriff’s assumption about the identity of the killer. “Erica Sands would be about seventy by now, and the boy would be around forty-eight.”

“That’s right.” The sheriff nodded. “What are you getting at?”

“I don’t know,” he answered, although she could tell something had piqued his curiosity.

As Matt and the sheriff continued discussing the case, Trista flipped through the remainder of the report, noting that Erica Sands was indeed a small woman, not much taller than five feet. Then she looked at the other photos, one in particular. That of Will Sands lying in a pool of blood, his eyes open, yet sightless. It reminded her all too much of Thomas George’s body, minus the blood. But both men had been murdered.

Matt stood and held out his hand to Underwood. “Thank you for your time.”

“Any chance you can tell me why all the sudden interest in a forty-year-old murder?” the sheriff asked as he shook Matt’s hand.

“I wish I knew,” Matt answered, dropping his copy of the report onto the desk. “But if we get any leads, we’ll let you know.”

“I’d sure appreciate that.” Underwood stood and turned his back on them, a clear signal they should leave now and take the other copy with them.

Minutes later, they were back at the truck letting Sheba out to stretch her legs in the park next to the sheriff’s department.

When Trista opened the door to get out of the truck, Matt stopped her. “Wait here. I don’t want you exposed any more than necessary.”

Reluctantly, she stayed in the truck while Matt jogged around the park with his dog. Sheba raced in front of him, her nose to the ground as she followed one scent after another before finally stopping to relieve herself.

Matt’s stride was long and graceful. Athletic, like that of a thoroughbred racehorse loping effortlessly around a track. As she continued watching, she was struck by the incongruities of this man. For someone so big and strong, he’d been infinitely gentle with her last night, both physically and emotionally. He’d been taken aback at discovering she’d been a virgin, but there’d been no judgment, not of her, anyway. He’d seemed more shocked that she’d chosen him to be her first.

A breeze rustled the tree behind her, blowing strands of hair in front of her face. Speaking of faces, Matt was so handsome and confident he could have any woman he wanted and yet he believed he didn’t deserve her. She was the one who should be totally in awe of the fact that this beautiful man wanted her, not the other way around.