my father’s will. That would be me. Not his half-brother.”
Thomas shifted his grip, obviously intending to search Burton’s pockets, but Daralyn stopped him. “No. He has to do it. Please.”
When Burton stared into Daralyn’s face and she didn’t so much as flinch, that was when he knew he was beat. Rory saw his gaze sweep back over the assembled townsfolk and their united front. Which included Owen.
The sheriff wore his uniform and leaned on the bumper of his patrol car with an impassive expression, arms crossed over his chest.
Burton shot a nervous glance at Marcus and Thomas, then brought his gaze to Rory’s face once more. Rory knew he saw that they weren’t bluffing. If he came back again, he wouldn’t leave here alive. And Rory wouldn’t lose a moment’s sleep over it.
He’d been raised to believe in God’s judgment. Which meant he fully believed God sometimes used other people to mete out that judgment. He’d pay good money to be Burton Moorfield’s.
Burton reached down, fished in his pants pocket. Pulled out his keys. The keychain was an orange car-shaped piece of rubber, probably from the mechanic’s place where he’d last had his beater car serviced. He took two keys off the ring and held them out. “Guess it’s yours now, then.”
Daralyn took the keys from his hand without touching his fingers. “Goodbye.”
She turned, walked back through the group. Everyone watched as she reclaimed her bike, straddled it and pedaled away, her ponytail fluttering.
Brick assisted Marcus in escorting Burton back to his car, while Thomas returned to Rory. As he stood on one side of Rory’s chair, Rory’s mother on the other, Thomas squeezed his shoulder. “Go be with her,” he said.
Rory didn’t hesitate. He’d done what needed to be done for Daralyn here. Now she needed him for something else. He could trust his family to have their backs.
He knew where she was headed, but since her childhood home wasn’t far from where they’d set up the blockade, she beat him there. As he pulled into the driveway, a scattering of gravel taken over by weeds, he saw her bike leaning against the warped boards of the front porch.
He hadn’t wanted her to go in by herself, particularly in her current hard-to-read mood. But maybe she’d wanted a few minutes on her own; otherwise she probably would have still been standing outside.
When she’d lived there, her father and uncle had only done the bare minimum to take care of the place. Never any decorations or homey touches. The only thing he remembered was a candle in the window at Christmas time, and Thomas mentioning a brief glimpse of a straggly tree, when he accompanied Elaine to drop off some cookies and a Christmas card. Thomas had thought those had been Daralyn’s efforts, not the men’s.
After Oscar’s death and Burton’s imprisonment, Rory’s father bushhogged the area around the house a couple times a year to keep nature at bay. His mother kept a line item in their account books for termite service and HVAC maintenance on the place, as well as anything else needed to keep the structure sound.
He probably should have put those things together a long time ago to realize the house was Daralyn’s. If it had belonged to Burton, his parents would have let nature and the wildlife have it.
There were only three steps up to the porch. He put his ass on the second step, hauled his chair up to the porch, then put himself back in it.
She’d left the door open, either to help her feel less closed-in, or because she expected him. As he pushed over the threshold, he was able to take in most of the fifteen hundred square foot floor plan at a glance.
It was a two-bedroom one-story, with a bathroom, living room and kitchen. The living room had a couple pieces of furniture, upholstered in faded-to-colorless fabric. The walls had the same gray tint, though in sunlight and with a proper cleaning they probably were some shade of white.
No pictures on the walls. It was the habitat of two men with no evidence of a female occupant. Unless one knew where to look.
He noted a narrow twin bed in a skinny room he realized had likely been the laundry room or pantry. Her bedroom. The bed told him that, as did the lack of a door.
Plus, Daralyn stood in front of it. She was as motionless as the furniture that rested in the haze of way-too-undead memories floating in the place.