Free On Her Father's Grave (Rogue River Novella Book 1) by Kendra Elliot Page A

her window had answered the mystery of how the window had been broken. Mrs. Simmons had accepted the funnel and held it to her ear before Stevie had even said a word. When she’d commented that she needed to buy one of her own, Stevie told her to keep it. She’d pick up another at the hardware store. Make that several. She’d stick one in each car and stash a few extras in the office. Surely Mrs. Simmons wasn’t the only one around Solitude with poor hearing.
    She slammed on her brakes and gasped as a shiny black truck laid on its horn, flying past her a split second before she backed into the street.
    If I hadn’t been paying attention . . .
    The truck hadn’t even slowed. She’d caught a glimpse of a familiar face as he swore at her out his open window.
    It was the guy Kenny had brought in yesterday morning . . . Ted Warner. The one Kenny was afraid had been about to hit his kid. After Ted’s arrest, he probably didn’t have much patience with the Solitude police force.
    She took a deep breath, checked both directions, and backed out. She could see the truck far ahead. Perversely she stepped on the gas, wanting to scare him a bit. Nothing hit the pit of your stomach like the sight of a cop car in your rearview mirror. He wasn’t speeding much. Perhaps five miles an hour over the forty-five speed limit. Not enough for her to pull him over. Sunlight bounced off his bumper and momentarily blinded her. She got close enough to see his plate and backed off.
    Nice truck.
    Small Town Rule #3: New car? Things must be going well.
    She followed for another minute, hanging back until he pulled into a long dirt driveway. Stevie slowed down, eyed the mailbox number, and studied the tiny home set back from the road. It was a double-wide trailer. It’d probably been new and fresh at one point, but now it screamed neglect. In one long glance she saw it needed paint, new steps, new roof, and many hours of a gardener’s attention.
    She continued another half mile down the road and pulled off to the side, punching his plate into her computer. The truck was the current model year and registered to Ted Warner at the address she’d just passed.
    A lot of people bought new cars. But something had been said yesterday morning when they were all at the police station that had given Stevie the impression that Ted didn’t work. Perhaps Loretta brought home the bacon? Still, the sight of the new truck bothered her. She made a U-turn and drove past the home again. This time she spotted the big barn set back from the home, and the familiarity of the shape of the building kicked her in the chest like sharp heartburn.
    It looks like . . .
    She blocked it out of her mind and focused on the road. Sweat bloomed in her armpits. Coincidence. A lot of homes had outbuildings just like that. Especially here where most of the homes sat on isolated five-acre lots. There were probably fifty homes in a ten-mile radius that had the exact same setup as Ted Warner’s.
    But there hadn’t been many in LA. Real estate was hard to come by. And the rich had snapped up the spacious lots, leaving few run-down, pathetic-looking homes sitting on smaller acreage in her patrol area.
    She’d been the first to arrive at the LA address at the request of dispatch. According to dispatch, Officer Paul Verde wasn’t responding to radio calls since he’d called in his arrival at the address. Paul’s patrol car was parked to one side of the long driveway. Paul had been responding to a strange-odor complaint from a delivery service. Stevie had arrived, notified dispatch of her arrival, and waited for backup, but she hadn’t seen Paul.
    It’d been a squat-looking house, desperately in need of some TLC, with a large barn set back and to one side, just visible from Stevie’s position.
    Exactly like the setup of Ted Warner’s place.
    She’d stepped out of her vehicle and hollered for Paul. The lot had been silent. No one came to the front of the home. She went up and