Free Wrong Place, Wrong Time by Andrea Kane Page B

daughter. Drive that bond home, and distance yourself from me. Your mother raised you. You and I are on civil enough terms for you to give me a ride up to the Pierson farm. We talk occasionally, see each other less. I care a lot. You harbor resentment. Let Meredith give you lessons. She has it down pat.”
    “Monty…”
    “I don’t blame her. She’s right. But that’s my problem. It has nothing to do with what we’re facing now. All you have to worry about is connecting with the Piersons through your relationship with Sally. My name doesn’t need to come up, except in passing.”
    “But Edward Pierson knows you’re driving up with me.”
    “His grandchildren don’t. As for Edward, I’ll tell him that as far as you’re concerned, I’m driving up to fill him in on what I saw at the crime scene. Simple and accurate, even if it is just the tip of the iceberg. And I’ll assure him I never discuss my cases. Not with anyone. Enough said — for you and for me.”
    Enough said. Simple and accurate.
    Monty’s mantra — the one Devon had heard him repeat so many times — sprang to mind, and she uttered it aloud. “Say as little as possible. When you have to talk, stick as close to the truth as possible. You’ll have less to remember. And it’ll wind up saving your ass.”
    “I couldn’t have said it better.”
    Devon inclined her head, met her father’s gaze. “You really think I can pull this off without losing it, and screwing things up?”
    “There’s not a doubt in my mind.”
    It was all she needed to hear. “Then I’m in.”
     
CHAPTER 6
     
    Edward Pierson looked pretty much like his photos. Tough. Lines etched on his face. Like an age-old rock that had been exposed to the elements and endured. Been-there-done-that-and-won kind of demeanor. Also, pretty damned steady on his feet for a guy nearing eighty who’d recently suffered a heart attack.
    Monty averted his gaze long enough to take in the dark wood and expensive leather of the gentleman’s-club-style office he’d been ushered into by the patriarch himself. He waited while Edward shut the door and turned the lock with a firm click.
    “Have a seat,” Edward instructed, gesturing at the wing-back chair across from his desk.
    With a tight nod, Monty complied, studying Pierson’s demeanor as he walked around and lowered himself into his matching desk chair. He was a hard man to read. He was obviously thrown by his son’s death — which had been confirmed earlier that day by the coroner. His complexion was a little ashen, his breathing a little shallow. Yet, at the same time, he was brusque, all business — ready to take on and combat the world.
    “I’m here as requested,” Monty began, draping his arm over the chair and lounging back in a deceptively casual pose. “Although I feel like something out of
Mission: Impossible
. My daughter drops me off at the back gate. You sneak me through the house and lock me in your office. All that’s missing is the catchy music. Why the drama?”
    “No drama.” Edward poured himself a glass of water. “Can I get you something? Coffee? Scotch?”
    “Water’s fine.” Monty watched as Edward raised the pitcher again, filling a second glass and handing it over. He noticed the older man’s hand was a trifle unsteady.
    Grief, stress — or something more?
    “Fine. You don’t like the word
drama
,” Monty conceded with a shrug. “Secrecy, then. Why?”
    “Because my entire family’s in shock. Because I don’t want them upset any more than they need to be. And because they’re only going to be told fragments of what you and I are about to discuss, and why I’m hiring you.”
    “And why
are
you hiring me?” Monty returned Edward’s curt delivery with his own. “I don’t have any more information than you have. The sheriff’s office is doing their thing — and they’re not interested in my help. As for Sally, we’re divorced. I’m not her confidant.”
    “And yet she called you when