Free B00NRQWAJI by Nichole Christoff Page B

grandmother took her seat across from me.
    “I’m afraid my grandson’s up and gone already.” She passed me a pitcher of real maple syrup. “Once that boy gets something in his head, it’s hard to get it out.”
    “Forgive me for asking,” I said, trying not to speak with my mouth full, “but do you know what he’s got in his head?”
    “Bad memories.”
    “Of Pamela Wentz?”
    “And the trouble that followed.” Mrs. Barrett pushed her plate away untouched. “This is a small town, Jamie. People here are slow to forget the past. Adam’s always been slower than most in that regard. But you might already know that.”
    “Well, I know Eric Wentz has a memory as long as a country mile. And an imagination to match it. I found that out yesterday.”
    “I take it you don’t believe Adam did that awful thing to that child.”

    Something in her tone made my fork feel like it weighed four hundred pounds. I couldn’t lift it from my plate. I couldn’t lift my eyes to hers, either. Because after my little trip to the library—and our conversation behind the house—I trusted in Barrett’s innocence. But if his own grandmother had reason not to…
    Carefully, I said, “Do you think he did it?”
    “No. Some young men can get ahead of themselves. They make mistakes and those mistakes can be hurtful. Others are just plain mean. They want to bend others to their will. They like the thrill of force and of fear. Adam’s never been either kind.”
    I released a breath I didn’t know I was holding.
    “Who, then, do you think attacked Pamela?”
    “I don’t know,” Mrs. Barrett said, her voice trembling. “But I’ll tell you one thing. Whoever he is, he’s a coward, Jamie. A coward.”
    Mrs. Barrett’s assessment stayed with me long after I helped her clear the table. It stuck with me as I headed for my car. Beyond the lady’s back door, the October air was as crisp as a fresh apple. And it was much colder than the air in D.C. Dew sparkled on the curves of my Jaguar instead of frost, though, so I counted my blessings.
    I unlocked the car, glanced at the windows over the garage. The apartment behind them was dark. I wished that meant Barrett was sleeping deep under his bed’s Lone Star quilt instead of prowling the countryside to keep tabs on Eric Wentz, but if wishes were horses, beggars would ride.
    I stopped wishing and started driving. Though it was Sunday, someone would be holding down the fort at the Sheriff’s Office. And I intended to coax, cajole, or otherwise convince that someone to give me a glimpse of Pamela’s case file. I wasn’t sure I bought Miranda Barrett’s theory about cowardice, but I wanted to know what the former sheriff had known about Pamela’s attacker. Most of all, I wanted to know why he’d never made an arrest.

    To my surprise, however, the current sheriff pulled into the parking lot immediately after I did. Luke Rittenhaus emerged from his cruiser, his familiar travel mug with the Apple Blossom Café’s logo in his hand. His face shuttered as I approached him.
    I said, “I’d offer to buy you a donut to go with that coffee, but I hate to pander to stereotypes.”
    The ghost of a smile darted across his features. His black eye certainly was better this morning. It had turned purple and green, as if it were on its way to fading altogether. I was glad of that. The less opportunity he had to recall Barrett’s bad behavior, the better.
    “I’ll pass on the donut,” he said, “but give me a rain check for a mocha cappuccino and I’m your man.”
    “It’s a deal.”
    We fell into step with each other.
    When we reached the building, he opened the lobby door and held it for me.
    “What brings you by my office so early on a Sunday?” he asked. “I doubt it was to offer me a donut.”
    “I want to see the file on the Pamela Wentz investigation.”
    At the service counter behind the plate-glass window, the same deputy I’d seen the day before, with the mustache and the