Free Blood Ties by Lori G. Armstrong

three-hundred miles tries to lure vacationing families off the beaten path to Yellowstone and into their communities. Devil’s Tower, Me-dora, North Dakota, and Th
    e Little Big Horn Battlefi eld
    competed for vacationers’ dollars against the local draw of Mount Rushmore, Wind Cave, Custer State Park, Deadwood, and Crazy Horse Memorial. Before too long, the interstate would be jammed with out-of-state cars, motor homes, and tour buses. Th
    at doesn’t include the hundreds
    of thousands of motorcycles that descend on us during the Sturgis Motorcycle Rally and Races in August. South Dakota depends on tourism to survive, but few of us look forward to the increased traffi
    c and gasoline prices.

    Th
    e tip of Bear Butte poked above the ridge to the right of my exit. Kevin slowed; the car bumped over the railroad tracks and headed up the hill. Once we were inside my house, he enveloped me in a bone-crushing hug that left me breathless.

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    He didn’t say anything. If I thought about it too hard I might consider his instinctive behavior odd. So, I skipped the heavy contemplation and clutched him like the life-line he is. For a minute I secretly wished to be the type of woman to give in to a dramatic crying spell. Of course, I sucked it up, tough girl that I am.

    When I fi nally squirmed, he stepped back. “Let me ask you something. What is your gut reaction to Shelley’s story?”

    Th
    ankful that he’d switched gears, I found it puzzling he’d refer to the diffi
    cult parts of Shelley’s life as a story. Th e
    whole ordeal seemed surreal. Still, her almost militant re-telling had bothered me. “She was lying about something.”

    “What makes you say that?”

    “She got into minor details, explicitly, but the major details escaped her.” I patted my pockets for a tissue. “I think we should talk to Meredith before we approach Dick Friel at Fat Bob’s. Or should we start with Nancy Rogers?”

    “Nancy is a dead-end, especially if she didn’t stay friends with Shelley. I’ll call Meredith and see if she can meet with us Friday night.” Eyes soft, he asked, “Are you up for this?”
    “What?”
    “Th
    is case.” He watched me wipe my nose on the back of my hand and scowled before tossing me a box of Kleenex. “And talking about your rape.”

    Th
    e tensed line of his back disappeared into my 80
    kitchen. Guess the time for comfort was over.

    Kevin returned a minute later with my half-empty bottle of Don Julio tequila and two shot glasses. We were taking comfort after all, just in a diff erent form. “Would you believe me if I said there wasn’t much to talk about?”
    “No.”

    “Really . . .”

    He slammed the bottle on the coff ee table and knocked back a small shot. “Do you believe if you’d bothered to tell me this earlier that I would’ve asked you to help on this case?”

    “Yes.” Our gazes locked. Surprised by his distress, I pressed on. “I’m the perfect choice. Not only was my brother murdered but I’ve dealt with being raped . . .”

    “I didn’t know that. And stop being so goddamn blasé.”

    “I’m not.” I reached for a shot glass and poured double the amount he’d given himself. Still clutching his empty glass, he moved to the window and back.
    “No?
    Th
    is is some serious shit, Jules, and now there are issues I have to consider before I let you continue with this fucked up case.”

    “ Let me continue?” So, Kevin was upset. A barrage of swear words from Mr. Clean Mouth was my fi rst clue and the path he was beating in my shag carpet was the second.
    He paces and I hate it, so normally he refrains from doing it in my presence.

    But, why had he decided my help was now negligible?

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    Had I done the unthinkable and morphed from Julie the invincible to Julie the victim? I’d kept the incident from him not because of embarrassment, but because I couldn’t stand to be pitied.

    On Kevin’s next pass of the table he poured another shot. His face remained