North Country(68)

“I knew Terry might show up.” Though, if I’m being totally honest, the second I laid eyes on Logan at the door, I accepted that it wasn’t the only reason, whether I wanted to admit it to myself or not. I reach for his forearm, my fingertips grazing his hot skin. “I needed to see—”

He steps back abruptly. “We’re not doing this.”

I let my hand drop to my side. “We kind of already did.”

“Yeah, and it was a huge mistake, like you said. Look what it already could have cost you.” He shakes his head slowly, as if deciding something. “Don’t come looking for me. You need to stay away. We both need to move on.”

Unexpected tears prick my eyes. He thinks he’s protecting me. “Logan, I know why you’re doing this—”

“It’s how it has to be. It’s how it is.” His face sets with grim resolution, and I imagine it was the same stubborn expression he wore when he wrote that five-word letter all those years ago, when he crushed my heart the first time.

And now he’s doing it again. I didn’t think there was anything left to break, and yet the sudden, unbearable ache in my chest tells me otherwise.

Movement catches my eye. Carson watches us through the windowpane, his chin resting on folded arms.

I may have arrived famished, but all thought of food is gone. “Enjoy your night.” I turn and march down the porch steps.

“Wait, where are you going?” Logan calls out with exasperation. “At least have dinner.”

“Give your parents my apologies,” I throw back, rushing for the safety of my house as the tears flow freely.

I guess the Landry dogs are eating very well tonight.





Chapter 23





Emery




I park my SUV behind Terry’s vehicle and cut my engine.

He meets me on the sidewalk, removing his aviator sunglasses to study the unassuming brown-brick bungalow that I’ve visited a dozen times over the years. To anyone walking by, all they’d see is another family home with the pickup truck in the driveway, children’s bicycles and toys strewn haphazardly on a sizable front lawn next to a row of obsessively manicured bushes. Big Hank can often be seen out here in his pajamas on Saturday mornings, snipping away at wayward growth, a cigarette hanging from his mouth.

“Quaint,” Terry murmurs. “How many of these Murphys live here?”

“Twelve, as far as we know. Big Hank and his wife, Janet, plus Hank and his youngest, Kyle. Two of Ian’s kids, plus their girlfriends and kids. Ian’s oldest, Axel, lives in the apartment above his towing company.”

“One big happy family.” Terry eases open the metal gate. The chain-link fence that surrounds the property has been a bone of contention around the neighborhood for years, with people claiming bylaw infractions. Unfortunately for them, the unsightly barrier has been grandfathered in and as long as it’s in good operating order, Bylaw can’t do anything about its lack of aesthetic appeal.

The gate swings with a screech and, seconds later, two mastiffs appear in the front bay window, their hot breath fogging up the glass as they bark.

“And two large dogs,” I add.

“They look friendly.” Terry gestures ahead of him. “Please. After you.”

“The chivalry.” I lead the way up the path.

Terry closes in beside me quickly, flipping through his notepad. “I don’t think I’ve had a detachment commander come to question witnesses on an investigation before.”

“Like I said, the Murphys are a special breed. I know them, you don’t, and we don’t have time to waste with their games.” I speed up, not giving him a chance to respond. He hasn’t brought up yesterday’s encounter on the Landry porch, but I know it’s coming.

I point at the rickety storm door. “I’ll let you do the honors.”

With a smirk, Terry raps his knuckles on the glass.

A crash sounds against the other side of the solid wood door as the two dogs barrel against it, their clawing enough to unease even the most assured person.

Terry takes an instinctive step back.

The wooden door swings open and a looming figure appears in his standard-issue wrinkled T-shirt, jeans, and black socks. A thin clear tube settled under his nostrils connects to the oxygen tank he often totes around. “Can I help you?” Big Hank shouts over the barks, holding the storm door closed so the dogs don’t push through.

Terry introduces himself.

“Can’t hear ya!” Big Hank holds up his free hand to cup his ear. “What are you selling? No, sorry, I don’t want any. Thank you!” He pushes the wooden door shut but not before his lips curve with a smile.

“Big Hank is aptly named,” Terry muses, his notepad still in hand.

“He might actually be smaller than the last time I saw him.” At over six feet tall and with a prominent belly, he could give Benny the Hulk a run for his money.

“And he does this every time?”

“Every time.” I let my smile peek through. At least he’s consistent.

Terry smacks his lips, the first sign of irritation I’ve seen yet. “So, now what? ”

I don’t answer, waiting for the barking to wane, then stop altogether.

That’s when I move in, rapping my fist against the door, extra hard.