Chapter 4

The diner was twenty minutes down Route 14. The kind of place truckers stopped at for coffee and locals came to for gossip.

Grace pulled in and I parked beside her. We walked to the door together. She held it open for me.

A few people sat scattered around, mostly older men in work clothes. They looked up when we came in. Saw Grace's uniform. Went back to their food.

We sat in a booth by the window. Grace slid into one side. I took the other.

A waitress came over. Middle-aged, tired-looking. Her name tag said Betty.

"Sheriff," she said. "The usual?"

"Please. And one for her too."

Betty nodded and left.

I looked at Grace. "What's the usual?"

"Eggs and bacon. Toast on the side. Coffee." Grace leaned back against the booth. "It's not fancy, but it's filling."

I wasn't hungry. My stomach felt tight. Like something was coiled inside it, waiting.

The coffee came first. Hot and dark and bitter. I wrapped my hands around the mug. Let the heat sink into my palms.

Grace added cream to hers. Stirred it slowly.

"You remind me of someone," she said after a while.

"Who?"

"A girl I knew growing up. Tough. Smart. Didn't take shit from anyone."

I didn't say anything. Didn't know what she wanted me to say.

"She ended up in jail," Grace added. "Killed her stepfather. Said he deserved it. Maybe he did. But that didn't change the fact that she was the one who pulled the trigger."

I looked at her. "Is this where you tell me we're alike?"

"No." Grace set down her spoon. "This is where I tell you what I think happened."

My chest tightened. I set down my coffee. "Go ahead."

Grace reached into her jacket and pulled out a small notebook. The same one she'd had at the cemetery. At the ranch. She opened it. Clicked her pen.

"I've been doing this job for fifteen years," she said. "And I've learned to read people. To see patterns. To figure out who's lying and who's telling the truth."

She looked at me. Her eyes were steady. Patient.

"You're good at lying, Rowan. But not good enough."

The food came. Betty set down two plates of eggs and bacon. Toast on the side. Just like Grace said.

Neither of us touched it.

Grace flipped through her notebook. Stopped on a page. Started to speak.

Let me tell you a story, Rowan.

It starts when you were ten years old.

Your mother died. Fell down the stairs during a rainstorm. Hit her head on the concrete. The police ruled it an accident. Everyone believed it.

Except you.

You knew your father was having an affair with Jolene. You knew she was pregnant. You knew your mother had found out and confronted him.

And you knew—or suspected—that your father wanted her gone.

But you were just a kid. Ten years old. Who was going to believe you?

So you stayed quiet. Watched your father marry Jolene six months later. Watched him bring her into your home. Into your mother's house.

That's when you learned the world doesn't care about little girls.

It cares about sons. About heirs. About boys who can carry on the family name.

Jolene gave birth to Colt. Your father was over the moon. Finally, he had the son he'd always wanted. The one who'd inherit the ranch. The one who mattered.

And you? You became invisible.

Your father taught Colt to ride. Took him to town. Showed him off to the neighbors. Said things like, "This ranch will be his someday. He'll take care of it when I'm gone."

You heard that. Heard it every day.

"This ranch will be his."

Not yours. His.

It didn't matter that you worked harder than Colt ever did. That you knew every inch of that land. That you could fix a fence or birth a calf better than most men in the county.

None of it mattered.

Because you weren't a son.

So you learned to hide your anger. To smile when your father ignored you. To say "yes, sir" when he told you to muck out the stalls while Colt got riding lessons.

But inside, you were planning.

You watched. You waited. You learned their routines. Their weaknesses. Their secrets.

And then, one day, you found something.

I don't know how. Maybe you overheard something. Maybe you went through Jolene's things. But you found out that Colt wasn't your father's son.

That changes everything, doesn't it?

Your father spent seven years raising another man's child. Gave him everything. The attention. The love. The promise of the ranch.

And for what? For a lie.

You saw your chance.

You lured Colt into the barn. Told him you wanted to play hide-and-seek. Told him to hide in the feed storage room upstairs.

He trusted you. He always trusted you.

And then you locked the trapdoor.

You knew about that latch. Everyone did. Your father had been meaning to fix it for years. But he never did. Too busy with Colt. Too busy planning for the future.

The future that was supposed to be Colt's.

You left him there, Rowan. In the dark. In the heat. With no water. No way out.

You let him die.

Three days. That's how long it took.

Three days of him scratching at that trapdoor. Calling for help. Thinking someone would come.

But you didn't go. You waited. You knew Pete would find him eventually.

And when he did, you played the grieving sister. The one who was too shocked to speak. Too broken to cry.

But that wasn't enough, was it?

Your father and Jolene were still alive. Still in control. The ranch was still in your father's name.

So you planted the seed. Maybe you showed him proof of Colt's paternity. Maybe you whispered rumors. Maybe you just watched and waited for them to destroy each other.

And they did.

They fought. They blamed each other. They tore themselves apart.

And when the time was right, you set the fire.

You waited until they were asleep. You opened the gas line in the kitchen. You made sure your window in the bunkhouse was open. Made sure you'd survive.

And then you walked away.

Three bodies. Three weeks.

And now you have it all.

The ranch. The land. The future.

Grace closed her notebook. Set it on the table between us.

The diner was quiet. The hum of the refrigerator. The clink of dishes in the kitchen. The low murmur of conversation from the other booths.

My hands were shaking. I pressed them flat against the table. Tried to stop the tremor.

Grace was watching me. Waiting.

"That's what I think happened," she said.

I stared at her. My throat felt tight. My chest felt like something was crushing it.

Grace leaned forward. Her eyes never left mine.

"You think I'm a monster," I said. My voice was quiet. Steady. But my hands were still shaking.

"I think you're a survivor," Grace said. "But surviving doesn't mean innocent."

"You have no proof."

"I have instinct."

"That's not enough."

"No," Grace admitted. "But it's enough to keep me asking questions. To keep me watching. To keep me looking for the one thing you missed."

My jaw tightened. I could feel the anger building. Hot and sharp and dangerous.

She doesn't know anything. She's guessing. Fishing.

But she was close. Too close.

Grace stared at me for a long moment. Then she leaned back in her seat.

"You killed them," she said. Her voice was flat. Final. "Admit it."