No One but You--A Novel Page 8

  A search for “Dawson Reed” called up several links. She clicked one after the other and read, with fresh eyes, what she’d given only a cursory glance before.

  Silver Springs Man Denies Killing Couple Who Adopted Him featured several quotes attributed to Dawson. “I would never hurt my parents. I loved them,” he said, and, “I didn’t need to kill anyone in order to inherit the farm. Time would’ve taken care of that whether I wanted it to or not.”

  That made sense to her. Murder did seem like a drastic approach for a son who was set to inherit anyway. But the police claimed he wasn’t willing to wait. They said that after Dawson achieved a master’s in environmental science and management at UC Santa Barbara—quite an accomplishment, considering he’d spent his high school years at a boys ranch—he started working for a lighting conservation company, also in Santa Barbara, until he got into a disagreement with the owner and was fired after only eight months. Discouraged, since he couldn’t make a go of life even with a degree, he returned to Silver Springs to work for his parents.

  Although that sounded plausible to Sadie, Dawson painted his personal history in a different light. From what she could piece together, he said that he argued with the owner of the lighting company because the guy was bilking the local utility out of thousands of dollars on various state-mandated rebate programs. And it wasn’t because he couldn’t get a job that he came back to Silver Springs. He’d barely started to apply when he realized that his parents could no longer manage the farm on their own. So he gave up the life he was going to pursue to come help them.

  Devil...or saint?

  With a frown, Sadie opened a Word document and began to write down the various points so that she could keep them straight. On the night in question, the police said Dawson went to The Blue Suede Shoe, a local bar that offered live entertainment on the weekends, where he watched a Lakers game on the big screen and played pool with Aiyana’s oldest two sons, Elijah and Gavin Turner. He left at eleven-thirty and stopped by the gas station to fill up before going home. The police admitted they couldn’t figure out if he planned the murders in advance, or if he decided to kill his parents on the spur of the moment, but while everyone was sleeping, he took the hatchet from the woodpile in back, attacked his parents in their bed and then called 9-1-1 to report that there’d been a break-in and he needed an ambulance.

  Both Lonnie and Larry were dead by the time police arrived to find Dawson cradling his mother in his arms. “Although that might sound like a touching act, there were no tears in his eyes,” Detective John Garbo, whom Sadie had once met at a picnic, said. “His emotion felt fake to me.”

  Had Dawson been insincere? Or was it the police who had it wrong? Everyone reacted differently to grief. Maybe he’d been in shock after seeing such a horrifying thing.

  Dawson agreed with everything they claimed about the night of the murders up until he left the gas station. At that point, he said he was approached by a tall, wiry man with brown eyes, dark hair and a scraggly beard, who asked for a lift to Santa Barbara. Dawson told him he wasn’t going that far. The guy indicated a friend lived much closer and climbed in, but as Dawson drove, his passenger began to act more and more irrationally and wouldn’t name a place, other than Santa Barbara. Dawson said the hitchhiker kept showing him the map of where he wanted to go on his phone, saying he had to get to a friend’s place, so Dawson told him to call that friend and ask him to come, but the hitchhiker wouldn’t. They were at the edge of town when Dawson finally insisted he get out. The man refused and an argument ensued, followed by a scuffle, during which Dawson managed to pull the guy out of his truck so that he could take off.

  Because of the difficulty of dragging a grown man from the passenger seat through the driver’s-side door, the police found that part of Dawson’s story highly suspect, but Dawson looked plenty strong to Sadie. She thought the police actually made a better point when they argued that it was too much of a coincidence that some hitchhiker would be able to find Dawson’s house. Dawson had an answer for that, too, though. He said he had various documents in his truck—a couple of work orders, even a bid for solar on the house—and one must’ve fallen out during the scuffle. His guess was that after he drove off, the hitchhiker simply used the address on that lost work order to find his house.

  Sadie supposed that could’ve happened. Dawson drove a work truck, likely kept various things he thought he was going to need on the dash or seat, and loose papers could easily blow out or get dragged out amid a tussle.

  Either way, he never changed his story. She felt that was important, even if the police didn’t give him much credit for that. As for the rest of Dawson’s explanation of the night’s events, he said he wasn’t far from home when that disagreement occurred. Once he got the guy out, to avoid leading him right to the farm—and because he didn’t realize something with his address had already fallen out—he went back to town, where he drove around listening to music while waiting for the stranger to get wherever he was going. He even stopped at Gavin’s house, but Gavin wasn’t back from the bar.

  When Dawson drove home, he didn’t see the hitchhiker along the way, and he quit worrying—until he walked into the house and noticed the back door standing open. Once he saw that and his mother’s purse dumped out on the kitchen floor, he rushed upstairs to find Angela asleep in her bed, his parents bleeding in theirs. Although he felt as if his father was already dead, his mother was making a gurgling sound. He was cradling her in his arms, trying to comfort and encourage her, when she died.

  “Heartbreaking either way,” Sadie mumbled, rubbing her eyes. She wanted to continue her research. There was so much left to read. But it was one o’clock and she’d had a long day, with another one to follow.

  After saving her document, she set her computer on the coffee table and slipped back into her room but still didn’t rest well. Frightening images of opening that locked door at the top of the stairs at the farmhouse and finding two mangled bodies filled her dreams—along with the sound of Sly laughing at her.

  Just before her alarm went off, she startled awake on her own. She’d been having a different nightmare by then, one in which Dawson was standing over her while she slept—lifting a hatchet.

  6

  Work at the diner proved uneventful, and much slower than the day before, so Sadie was able to leave early, swing by the store for the beer Dawson had requested and the hardware store to pick up a few items and arrive at the farm on time. She got the key to the house from Dawson, who was working in the same field as yesterday, and let herself in. Then she mixed up a quick bowl of chocolate chip cookie dough. Dawson had told her he didn’t need lunch. He’d packed himself a sandwich using some of the leftover roast she’d made for last night’s dinner—he seemed to really like the roast—but she figured he’d be ready for a snack in a couple of hours. Since he was keeping her on instead of hiring someone else, she wanted him to be glad, and everyone loved her cookies. Sly still asked her to bake them for certain events. Anyway, a small treat was about all she could think of to thank Dawson—partially because that was the best she could afford.

  After she cleared away the dishes he’d put on the counter since she left last night, and cleaned up her mess with the mixing bowl and beaters, she decided to vacuum and dust the downstairs and wash the windows. The place needed a good de-webbing, too. She’d purchased a brush with a long handle at the hardware store so she could reach the corners.

  Throughout the house, but especially in the living room, several pictures had been taken down. The wallpaper wasn’t quite as sun-bleached where they’d once hung. She guessed they’d been destroyed by vandals, were among the bits and pieces Dawson had swept up and dumped out, and felt sad that people would do such a thing. Destroying the house and its furnishings wasn’t right even if Dawson was a murderer. Trespassing was a crime. So was the destruction of private property. What made them so confident t
hey knew what happened here, anyway? What if he was innocent? And what if the items destroyed were treasured family heirlooms? Those items had belonged to Angela, too, who was absolutely innocent.

  At least Dawson still had most of his parents’ furniture. The word murderer had been engraved in the coffee table as well as spray-painted on the front of the house. But she was going to take care of both those things. She’d purchased paint at the hardware store when she bought the de-webber, felt it was especially important she get the letters off the front of the house before she left today. Not only would having them gone make her more comfortable coming to work, she couldn’t imagine the sight of them would impress anyone who visited to make sure the house was ready for Angela.

  The first batch of cookies came out as she finished sanding the top of the coffee table. She’d ruined the finish, of course, but the sight of bare wood beat what’d been there before. Who wanted to be constantly reminded of someone else’s judgment—someone who probably didn’t know one way or the other?

  She’d bought some stain at the hardware store, too, so she could cover the damage. Even if it didn’t work perfectly, she was glad she’d obliterated that word. She couldn’t believe Dawson would mind.

  She stopped working on the table long enough to put some cookies on a plate, pour a glass of cold milk and take them outside.

  She could tell Dawson was surprised when she called out to him. Chances were he hadn’t expected to see her again until he came in for dinner. But she figured her timing was good. He was breathing hard when she reached him—sweating, too. As far as she was concerned, he was running himself ragged.

  “What’s this?” he asked as she drew close.

  “I baked some cookies.” She offered him the plate but kept the milk so he’d have a free hand with which to eat. “Here’s hoping you’re not opposed to having a little treat now and then.”

  “I’d never turn away homemade cookies. I haven’t had anything like this since...”

  When his words fell off, she guessed he’d been about to say, “Since before my mother died,” which gave her the impression he really missed Lonnie. That was another reason she didn’t think he’d killed her or his father. Although he seemed cautious when it came to revealing emotion, he seemed to be sincere in his love for them, seemed to miss them.

  “Sly insisted I enter this recipe at the county fair,” she said as he took his first bite.

  He swallowed. “And?”

  She regretted mentioning the county fair. That she cared about something so inconsequential made her sound like a hick, especially considering the fact that he had a better education than she did. But she was nervous. He was so good-looking that he made her self-conscious. Those eyes of his...

  No wonder the women on the jury had been blamed for his exoneration.

  She cleared her throat. “I won.”

  He took another bite, then nodded. “I’m not surprised.”

  Maybe he didn’t think it was a stupid comment. Tough to tell. She ventured a smile. “I’m glad you like them.”

  “How are things at the house?”

  “Good. I’m working on the downstairs. I should get most of it done today. But...”

  When she paused, he glanced up from the plate. “What?”

  “I noticed that you have a new washer and dryer.”

  “Someone filled the other ones with dirt and who knows what else. I wasn’t going to mess with trying to clean them out.”

  “That wasn’t right. I’m sorry.”

  “They were old, needed to be replaced, anyway.”

  “Still.”

  He reached for the milk and took a long swig. “We all have our problems, remember?”

  “That was a pretty dumb thing for me to say.”

  His eyebrows slid up.

  “I was nervous when I made that comment. I feel terrible about what you’ve been through.”

  He studied her as if weighing her sincerity. “Thanks,” he said at length.

  She accepted the glass of milk so he could finish the cookies. “Anyway, I was wondering if I could do some of my own laundry while I’m here. I have a small stackable set at my house, but there’s something wrong with the washer. It’s not getting our clothes clean.”

  “Of course. Do as much laundry as you’d like.”

  “I appreciate that.” She’d brought her and Jayden’s dirty clothes with her, in case. Now she could get the bag out of her car. “Where will I find your hamper? I’ll wash your stuff while I do mine.”

  “There’s a pile of clothes in the corner of my bedroom. I’ve been meaning to buy a hamper. Haven’t gotten around to it yet.”

  “I can get one when I’m in town sometime, if you’d like.”

  “Sure. That’d be great.” Finished with the cookies, he downed the rest of the milk and handed the dishes back to her. “Those were delicious.”

  Perhaps it was a simple thing, but she was happy she’d managed to please him. “I’m glad.”

  She was on her way to the house when he called out to her.

  “How’d it go with your ex last night?”

  She shaded her face as she turned back. “Better than expected. He knew he had no business coming over here, that I was angry with him for doing that, so he was trying to be charming.”

  “Charming means he has hope.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “He’s still trying to win you back.”

  “Yes.”

  “Is that a possibility?”

  “Not if I can help it. That’s why I’m here.”

  He scratched up under his hat. “He didn’t give you any grief about working for me?”

  From the moment she’d let him know about the appointment. But she couldn’t repeat most of what Sly had said. “A little. He asked me to go down to the police station with him so I could talk to the detective on your case.”

  A muscle moved in Dawson’s jaw. “And? Did you agree?”

  “No.”

  “Because...”

  “I already know what they’re going to say.”

  * * *

  Sadie wasn’t in the house. Dawson could smell dinner simmering in that old Crock-Pot she’d brought over, but she didn’t answer when he called her name. He found a receipt she’d left on the counter. Apparently, he owed her another $78.08 for supplies from the hardware store, so he left a $100 bill beside it. There was no note to indicate she’d left, though, nothing else.

  He checked the front window to see if her El Camino was still in the drive. It was. And when he went to the laundry room off the back porch, he saw a stack of little boys’ clothes folded on top of the dryer he’d missed when he came in.

  So where was she?

  “Sadie?” He moved back toward the front of the house.

  No answer.

  While in the kitchen again, he removed the lid on the slow cooker to see what she’d made for dinner and found some giant meatballs bathed in tomato sauce. A bowl of plain pasta sat on the counter with tin foil over the top. Garlic bread that looked and smelled as if it’d just been pulled from the oven waited nearby.

  He’d been served plenty of spaghetti in jail, but he could tell this meal wasn’t going to be anything like that tasteless mess.

  He cut off a chunk of meatball so he could taste it. “Damn, that’s good,” he muttered.

  Thinking she might’ve decided to clean his room or Angela’s, he went upstairs. She’d made great strides on the first floor. He liked the lemon smell of the furniture polish and the astringent scent of the disinfectant. But, from what he could see, the only thing she’d done upstairs was his laundry. His clothes, folded as neatly as her son’s, waited on the bed.

  On the way back down, he paused in front of his parents’ bedroom. He do
ubted she’d go in there—hoped she wouldn’t—and was relieved when he tried the handle. Locked, as usual. She wasn’t in any of the bathrooms, either. She wasn’t anywhere in the house.

  Had she gone outside, looking for him?

  “Sadie?” He let the screen door slam as he went out back. “Sadie, where are you?”

  “Here!”

  At last, he got a response. He followed her voice around to the front, where he found her on the roof, painting over the graffiti on the house.

  “How’d you get up there?” He squinted to see her clearly in the fading light.

  She gestured to the far side of the porch. “I climbed.”

  Using the railing and then the overhang. Whoever had defaced the house had probably gotten up the same way. He’d used that makeshift ladder to sneak out of the house when he was in high school, so he supposed he shouldn’t be too surprised. “You need to come down before you fall and break your leg or worse. The moss on those shingles can make them a lot slicker than you might expect.”

  “I’m being careful.”

  “I can cover that up myself. I just didn’t have the right paint.”

  “This isn’t a perfect match, but I took a chip from the lintel of the back door when I left last night, so it’s not bad. Better than leaving it as it was.”

  “I’ll finish up,” he insisted.

  “Don’t make me stop in the middle. I’m almost done. Why don’t you go eat? Dinner’s in the kitchen. No need to let it get cold.”

  Still a little nervous that she might come sliding off the porch and land on her back or head, he frowned as he watched. “I saw it, but I’m staying right here so I can help you down.”

  “Don’t worry, I’ve got it.”

  “Trust me. Climbing up is a lot easier than coming down.” He’d almost broken his own neck on occasion—and that was before he’d arrived at whatever party he was heading out to, so he hadn’t been drinking. Some nights when he returned it was a miracle he’d been able to climb back up at all.