The Last Landry. Kelsey Roberts

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      Detective Rollins won, mostly because he was seated in the kitchen as if he had some sort of God-given right to be there.

      In my house. Thinking I was involved in the deaths of my parents. Shane saw red and stuffed his hands into his back pockets just in case he couldn’t contain the very real urge to punch the guy.

      “Mr. Landry,” the detective acknowledged, not bothering to stand as he continued to flip through a file Shane immediately recognized. Thanks to their mother, each brother had a thick box filled with childhood mementos. Shane suspected she’d done it just to make sure each of them felt special. It was her way of acknowledging each of her boys as an individual. Priscilla had always sworn that someday they’d all thank her for her efforts. It stung to know he’d never have the chance.

      Shane felt a poignant, visceral pain at the sight of the familiar handwriting on the side of the box lying open at the detective’s feet. His dad used to tease his mom about her appalling handwriting—said it looked as though a fly had fallen into the ink and crawled across the page.

      Ah, man… To his heart and mind his mom hadn’t died fifteen years ago, but two weeks ago, and he still felt raw.

      Seeing that box anywhere near this guy who apparently thought he was guilty of parenticide made Shane’s eyeballs throb. Without letting the detective get further than a greeting, Shane glared down at him. “You’re way off base.”

      “Maybe,” the officer said with a shrug. “You weren’t a very good student, were you, Shane? You don’t mind if I call you Shane, do you?”

      “Yes, you can call me Shane, and no, I wasn’t a great student. But since you’re looking at my old report cards, you already know that.”

      “Have a seat,” Rollins suggested, his tone revealing nothing. “We need to talk about a few things.”

      Reluctantly, Shane yanked out his customary chair and joined the detective at the table. “You think I killed my parents because I got bad grades?”

      “I wanted to give you an opportunity to talk. Clear up a few things.”

      “Like?” Shane was eyeing the man cautiously. Clayton had warned him not to speak to the cops, but Shane failed to see the harm. After all, he hadn’t done anything. Well, nothing illegal.

      Rollins closed the file, laced his stubby fingers together and rested them on top of the table. “Why would someone accuse you of the murders?”

      “I have no idea. The reward, maybe?”

      The detective nodded, then flipped open a small notebook. “Tell me what you remember about that night fifteen years ago.”

      “I wasn’t here that night,” Shane reminded him, annoyed that he was being asked to repeat facts he knew full well were part of the missing-persons report filed fifteen years earlier. “I moved out that day.”

      “What precipitated the move?”

      Shane kept his gaze level, while his heartbeat faltered. “It was time,” he said easily. “I was eighteen.”

      “You stayed away for five years. Why was that?”

      “I wanted some space. Out on my own. I can give you a list of the ranches I worked during that period, and there are any number of people who will vouch for me.”

      An uncomfortable silence stretched out before Rollin sighed pensively and asked, “How come a guy whose family owns one of the biggest spreads in western Montana runs off to work as a hired hand for someone else?”

      “That’s the reason,” Shane answered confidently.

      “Why be the help when you can be the boss? I don’t get that. Someone wanted to hand me a ranch on a silver platter, you better believe I wouldn’t up and decide to do grunt work.”

      “I’m not sure why this is such a tough concept for you to grasp.” Shane felt a whole slew of unpleasant memories churning in his stomach. “I wasn’t the boss. My father was. As far as I knew, he’d continue to be the boss, so the fact that I left should be enough to convince you that I couldn’t possibly have been involved.”

      “That’s certainly one way to look at it.”

      Anger washed over Shane as he again was treated to an noncommittal response from the detective. “It’s the only way.”

      “Okay.” Rollins stood with a grunt, started toward the door, then glanced back. “I should ask, Shane, how did you get on with your parents?”

      Guilt assaulted him. “Like any eighteen-year-old.”

      “Could you be a little more specific? Good, bad, what?”

      Shane’s mind played a series of video clips. Happy memories interspersed with some that weren’t so happy. Then the chilling details of that last time he’d seen his parents alive. “More like okay. I was a pretty volatile kid. And stubborn. A lot like my father, actually.”

      “Really?” Rollins pried. “How so?”

      Meeting the man’s gaze, Shane answered, “He taught me not to suffer fools gladly. Is there anything else?”

      “Not right now. Maybe when I get results back on the items we’re taking. One of the officers should be in with an inventory for you to sign.”

      “Whatever.”

      “I’m sure we’ll be talking again soon, Shane.”

      Defiantly, Shane replied, “I’ll be right here.”

      He was right there ten minutes later when the phone rang. Shoving aside the promised inventory sheet, he grabbed the receiver with such force he sent the base unit sailing across the counter. “Landry.”

      “Shane!” Taylor wailed into the phone. “Are you okay? Are the police still there?”

      “They’re gone. But forget about the police. A note? A knife? What the hell were you thinking, Taylor? And why didn’t you say anything?”

      “I don’t believe this! You’re yelling at me?” she huffed as she raked her fingers through her hair. Hair that was blowing all over the place. Because she was outside. In the cold. With no coat. In the middle of blasted nowhere. Smelling whatever possibly toxic chemicals were leeching from the metal drums littered everywhere. Saving his butt. “You ungrateful jerk!”

      “Don’t even go there,” he warned, his bellowed words echoing in her ear. “Details, Taylor. Right now, before Seth gets there. I don’t want to hear them secondhand. Not like I had to hear from Clayton about the note and knife you got. How could you keep something like that from me?”

      She was so angry she wanted to scream. Instead, she very childishly hung up on him, and in an even more childish move, she went over to a nearby, rusted-out barrel and kicked it. Hard. Which accomplished two things: her toe hurt and she had an ugly scuff on one of her favorite shoes.

      When her cell phone vibrated as it played Beethoven’s Fifth, she purposefully waited to answer until the last possible second before it СКАЧАТЬ