Redemption At Hawk's Landing. Rita Herron

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       Chapter Three

      Her father had been murdered.

      That fact echoed in Honey’s head as if someone was pounding the words inside her skull.

      Who had killed her father? And why?

      Emotions welled in her chest as she studied his cold body. Eighteen years had aged him, but the alcohol had intensified the process, adding another ten years. The bruises and contusions on his face looked stark beneath the lights. His skin was a sallow yellow, lips a bluish purple, eyes closed as if...as if he was at peace.

      Maybe he finally was. She’d never understood the reason he drank so heavily, why his moods changed erratically, and she’d blamed herself. He missed her mother... He hadn’t wanted a child... He didn’t know how to raise a daughter, especially alone... She’d been a bad kid.

      On a more rational level, as an adult, she realized he’d battled inner demons that she knew nothing about; that alcoholism was a disease. But his behavior and his rejection had hurt.

      Tears pricked at her eyes, and she ached with a sudden longing to go back in time. To a time when she was little, and he’d carried her fishing at the pond. He’d surprised her that day by packing a picnic and taking her on a canoe ride. For a couple of hours she’d felt like she had a real family. He’d taught her how to cast a fishing rod and laughed when she’d been squeamish over baiting her own hook with worms.

      Yet that precious memory had been ruined when he’d pulled out a bottle of whiskey, consumed most of it and passed out in the sun. She’d fished alone and played at the edge of the water and pretended everything was okay. She’d gotten good at pretending.

      But then night set in and the wilderness had seemed vast and lonely and...creepy. She’d been terrified as darkness encroached and the howl of coyotes had echoed around her. She’d shaken him to wake him up so they could go home, but he’d been belligerent, cursed her then backhanded her for crying.

      He’d also been so inebriated that he’d woven all over the road and nearly crashed into another car head-on. He’d blamed that on her, as well.

      She shivered. When they’d finally made it home, she ran into her bedroom, locked the door and hid there all night and half of the next day, too afraid to come out and face his wrath.

      Honey straightened, banishing the memory to the attic of her mind with the other troubling ones that she’d packed away. No use dwelling on them. You had to play with the cards you’d been dealt.

      She’d accepted her father for what he was long ago, but a sliver of hope had remained that one day he might change and she’d have the loving, caring father she’d always wanted.

      Now any chance of that was lost forever.

      Resigned and swallowing back tears, she placed her hand against his cheek. His skin felt leathery, rough, cold in death. She had an insane urge to kiss his cheek, but refrained.

      Instead she whispered, “Goodbye, Daddy,” and left the room, shutting out this image and the pain as the door closed behind her.

      * * *

      HARRISON CONTEMPLATED HIS conversation with the ME. If they identified Granger’s killer, he could solve this case quickly. Then Honey could leave and take her tempting, pretty little butt with her.

      Harrison phoned the crime scene investigator and spoke with the lead CSI, Roger Watkins. “Did you find any forensics at the bluff where Waylon Granger’s body was discovered?”

      “Nothing on the ledge. No definitive footprints, either. We did collect a button. Looks like it came from a flannel shirt. Not Granger’s and no print on it.”

      “Hell, it could have been there no telling how long.”

      But he had to revisit the crime scene. If Granger had been hit by a rock, the perp could have tossed it far enough away so CSI hadn’t found it. That rock could be key evidence.

      The door opened and Honey appeared. Harrison’s gut tightened at the strain on her face.

      “I should be finished with the autopsy by tomorrow, then I’ll contact the crematorium,” Dr. Weinberger said.

      “Thanks.” Honey folded her arms around her waist. “I’ll be at my father’s house for a couple of days. I’m going to see what needs to be done to get it on the market.” She lifted her gaze to Harrison, a world of old hurts flashing in her big eyes, then directed her comment to the ME. “Harrison—the sheriff—has my number if you need me.”

      Dr. Weinberger gave a quick nod. “Yes, ma’am.”

      “I’ll walk you out, Honey,” Harrison said as she started toward the door.

      She stiffened as he fell into step beside her, and they walked down the hall and rode the elevator in silence. Even though the heat was stifling, Harrison welcomed the fresh air as they stepped outside. Honey’s shoulders relaxed, too.

      He followed her to a white minivan emblazoned with a graphic of a house and a company name, Honey’s Home Makeovers.

      “You own your own business?” Harrison asked.

      The anger on Honey’s face dissipated slightly and a small smile titled her lips. “Yes. Don’t sound so surprised.”

      Her defensive tone made him feel like a heel. “I didn’t mean it like that.” He shifted on the balls of his feet, hoping she’d elaborate but she didn’t.

      The familiar wary expression returned. “You said my father was pushed over that ledge. Do you have any idea who did it?”

      Her gaze met his, the past once again creating an impenetrable barrier between them.

      “I’m investigating.” He jammed his hands in his pockets.

      She studied him for a moment, her lips pressed into a thin line. He wanted to see that smile again, СКАЧАТЬ