Free Distant Blood by Jeff Abbott

Whatever big proclamation Mutt had planned would be eclipsed by my announcement. Iwasn't about to be intimidated by bloodied Hallmark cards. I'd teach these folks to try to bully Jordan Poteet.
    Or, perhaps, I reflected, I wouldn't have to make the accusations myself. If I told Uncle Mutt what'd been happening, he'd explode and he could play bad cop. He'd even be more likely to spot the culprit than I would. The Goertzes were obviously much more likely to be browbeaten by Mutt than by me. I congratulated myself on the excellence of my idea. Unless they were one of those families that stuck together through sick and sin. Probably not, given the sniping over cocktails.
    I headed back downstairs, to find that the gathering in the den had spilled out onto the wraparound porch, where the family watched the setting sun turn the Gulf waves molten with light. The den had emptied, except for Rufus Beaulac lolling in a chair, drinking beer and watching a Rangers baseball game on a huge television.
    “Where's Uncle Mutt?” I asked.
    He waited until the batter swung and missed before he answered. “Off in the kitchen, helping the cook.” He giggled. “Yeah, he's probably helpin' her slice and dice and julienne-fry. Can't hardly lose no more fingers, can he?” Rufus was either well on his way to inebriation or fancied himself damn funny. His comment produced a gale of laughter, but only from him.
    “And which way's the kitchen?”
    He gestured with the beer can. “Go back through the entrance hall, the big dining room, then to your left. Kitchen's back there.”
    I followed his directions, ambling through rooms full of antique furniture, all arranged with a careful eye to give the entire house the rough ambience of a hunting lodge. The dining room was large, as befitting houses of its era, and I gently pushed on the service door that led to the kitchen.
    I saw them before they saw me—Uncle Mutt talking softly, his voice cajoling, his hands on the soft shoulders of a young woman who was stirring food in a pot. She leaned slightly back against him and laughed at his whisper.
    “No, Emmett,” I heard her say clearly, her voice a sweetbell. She could not have been over twenty-five. I could not see her face, but her hair was long and ebony, tied back in a ponytail.
    He laughed quietly and whispered again, rubbing his palms against her smooth hips. I could imagine the heat of her body. She laughed, leaning her head back against his shoulder as he wrapped both arms around her.
    I stepped back out of the kitchen, an intruder in a private moment, letting the door ease back into place. Uncle Mutt murmuring sweet nothings to a woman a third his age? No wonder this family was so god-awful tense. And I thought I knew, with a blush, exactly what his momentous announcement might be.

SUPPER WAS EXCRUCIATING. Not that the food was bad; hardly so. The pork tenderloin was tender and delicately spiced, the green beans freshly steamed and brimming with flavor, the marinated carrots chilled and tangy, the salad crisp, the wines Texas-made, dry and flavorful.
    But I expected a family dinner to be convivial, a chance to laugh and hear time-honored stories that are customarily retold at these gatherings. The web of love that meshes a clan together should shine at these moments, even when relatives sometimes don't always get along.
    The reunions on my mother's side of the family were long, joined moments of happiness in my memory: good food, restless play with my cousins, jolting laughter from the adults. When I'd attended Poteet reunions, my cousins and I would often be convulsed in laughter, remembering some anecdote connected to Uncle Bid or Aunt Pearl or Cousin Maggie. The stories were never new, and therein lay their charm. You learn a lot from a family's laughter.
    The Goertzes were not one for familial chortles. The clink of fork against plate remained the dominant noise. I wondered if my own presence caused this recalcitrance; after all, I was