Henley shook his head. “You won’t believe me. No one ever believes me.”
“That’s not true,” Santos said in a rush. “Your mother believes you, I believe you.”
Henley gave a bitter laugh and kicked over a nearby gas can and it exploded with a loud pop. Jackson Henley watched, mesmerized, as the fire rushed toward him. The flames, following a frenetic path across the ground, coiled their way around his ankle like fiery snakes and slithered up his leg.
Agent Santos tossed her gun aside and rushed toward Henley. Using her jacket, she tried to smother the flames that covered Jackson’s leg and had jumped to his arms.
A rush of firefighters in protective gear came toward them. Someone pressed an oxygen mask to her face and she was lifted to her feet.
Anguished screams filled her ears. Jackson Henley was alive, and he would tell them what happened to Becky Allen.
40
Present Day
Training her flashlight on the man, Wylie examined his face more closely. He was twenty-two years older, of course, and his hair had receded, exposing a broad, heavily creased forehead with a sparse whorl of gray hair. But there was no denying who it was—she could see the thick, rough scars just below his jawline. She had seen his picture a thousand times on the news, in the newspaper clippings she kept over the years. This was Jackson Henley, the man who murdered her family, had taken Becky, and now he was back to claim her.
Wylie fought the urge to smash him in the face with her flashlight. To kick and beat him until he was as bloody and broken as her parents and brother were. She wanted him dead. But she had to hold her fury in check, at least for now. She needed to make sure he didn’t come inside the house.
“I saw the wreck and thought someone might need some help down here. I was just getting ready to knock.”
“No, we’re fine,” Wylie managed to say, then mentally kicked herself for signaling that she wasn’t there alone. “My husband and I are just fine,” she lied hoping that would do the trick and he’d just leave.
“That must have been one hell of a crash,” Jackson said. “I saw some lights. I thought any survivors might have come here to get out of the storm. It’s the closest house to the wreck. I didn’t think anyone was living here right now,” he said, removing his stocking cap from his head.
Jackson didn’t recognize who she was or at least made a good show of pretending not to know her. Wylie and her grandparents had left the area soon after the funerals. She’d been gone for over twenty years, and no one here knew that Josie Doyle had come back to town as Wylie Lark.
But Wylie had been watching Jackson Henley. She drove past his home—the same one that he’d lived in with his mother. He had cleaned up most of the junk—the tires, the farm equipment—all gone. All that remained were a few vehicles parked in his yard. What she hadn’t known was that he was a snowplow driver.
“Anyone from the crash show up?” Jackson asked.
Wylie paused before speaking. If Jackson had been watching her as closely as she had been watching him, he’d know that she didn’t have a husband, that she was here all alone. She had been so careful though not to have any interactions with the locals. All her interviews for the book had been done months ago by phone. She hadn’t wanted anyone to know who she really was.
“No,” Wylie said as casually as she could. “I checked and it looks like help got to them before I got there. It was really nice of you to stop by.” She had to find a way to get him out of here.
“My name is Jack—I live just a mile down the road,” he explained. “I didn’t know anyone was renting this place. Like I said, I saw the wreck and just wanted to check on things.”
“I’m Wylie,” she said, and Jackson didn’t flinch. “My husband and I are renting the house.” Maybe he really didn’t have any idea he was standing in front of the woman whose life he ruined, but Wylie was sure that he knew that Becky and her child were in the other room.
“Actually, I could use your help,” Wylie said. “We’re out of wood and I don’t want to wake my husband up to help me bring it in. Maybe you could carry in a few armfuls?” she asked, hopeful that her voice sounded natural.
“Sure thing,” Jackson said. “Just point me in the right direction.”
“It’s in the toolshed over there. Come on, I’ll show you.” Holding her breath, Wylie led Jackson through the storm to the old toolshed, a small sturdy building between the house and the barn. She had no idea if her plan would work but it was all she had.