might take this situation seriously. Do you want me to call them?”
“No,” he said, so sharply I jumped.
He rubbed his forehead, then added, “Not yet. It’s too soon for them to look into Greta, and we both know they won’t do anything about Lula.”
“Do you think Greta was kidnapped for knowing too much about Lula?”
“I don’t know,” he said with a sigh. “We need to go see Melody and get more answers.”
I agreed, but I couldn’t help wondering if he was now trying to find Lula and Greta to protect his friend, because I was certain Max was involved in this somehow. It was only a matter of how deep.
Chapter Seventeen
Marco may have gotten Melody’s number, but he didn’t call her before we left the tavern. I didn’t question him—he was the deputy, and he knew her besides. He likely had his reasons. On the way to Ewing, we passed the state park where we’d had our showdown with Carson Purdy. Marco cast a quick glance in that direction and a tiny shudder rippled through his body.
I put a hand on his arm, and he reached his left hand over his chest to cover mine. He only kept it there for a moment, and neither of us said a word, but the unspoken message sunk in deep. We shared a bond after that night. But I wondered if this would break it.
Marco would always be loyal to Max. I was loyal to him too, but Marco and Max shared a deep-seated connection that seemed to transcend man-made laws.
Was that why Marco had gone into law enforcement? To protect Max?
I wouldn’t let myself dwell on the fact that Max had fired me. As drunk as he’d been, Marco might be right: he might not remember firing me. But I would.
A few miles past the state park, Marco turned left on a narrow road that didn’t even have a street sign.
Trees edged up to the sides of the road, and its gravel shoulder couldn’t be wider than about six inches. We were out in the middle of nowhere, but then again, everywhere out here felt like the middle of nowhere.
After we’d driven about a half mile and only passed three houses, I asked, “How’d you know how to get here without an address?”
“Oh, Melody Hightower’s been on my radar for a while now. I didn’t have her phone number, though, so it seemed like a good excuse to get it from Angie.”
I was about to ask why he was aware of her, but he’d just pulled up to a rusted mobile home nestled in a clearing in the trees. A chicken coop sat next to the house, surrounded by thin wire, and over a dozen chickens squawked at us as we got out of the truck. The entire yard was a giant mud bath.
Why hadn’t I thought to bring my snow boots? When I opened the door and stepped down, my foot sank a good inch. Leaning into the hood of the Explorer, I made my way to the front of the vehicle. Marco was having trouble finding purchase with his crutches as he tried to get to the front porch.
I was about to call him back, worried he’d fall and hurt his leg even more, when the front door opened. A woman wearing a pink fuzzy robe and slippers appeared in the opening, pointing a shotgun in our direction.
“What are you doing on my land?” she called out in a scratchy voice that sounded like it should have belonged to someone who’d smoked for thirty years. Her short blonde hair was sticking up every which way, and she looked about as far from the collected, polished Greta as a person could get.
“Melody,” Marco called out, lifting his hands up to the side of his head. “It’s me. Marco Roland.”
She frowned and squinted at him. I got the impression she needed glasses.
“What are you doin’ here, Marco?” She sounded leery, and perhaps with just cause—if she knew his name, she likely also knew he was a deputy sheriff, and she had the look of a woman who liked to skirt the law.
No wonder Marco knew where she lived.
“I’m here to ask you about Greta. Put your gun away.”
She seemed to consider his request, but it didn’t stop her from walking out onto the porch and resting the barrel of the gun on her shoulder. A medium-sized golden dog slipped out of the door and stood by her side, the hair on its