Her Last Cry by Pamela Fagan Hutchins

Author:Pamela Fagan Hutchins [Hutchins, Pamela Fagan]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 2024-01-16T00:00:00+00:00

THIRTY-EIGHT

Delaney walked out to the barn after getting Kat settled with Skeeter, Duds, and Carrie. The teenager seemed like she was suffering from the kind of hangover that was worse than any punishment Delaney could dish out. Delaney nodded in satisfaction. It served the girl right.

Despite the roads, Delaney was taking Shotgun Shelly into the department today. She did it every chance she got. The snow had stopped falling, but the temperature had dropped further. She wasn’t surprised when the refurbished Chevelle SS refused to start. Luckily, she was prepared for this winter phenomenon, and she opened the hood, took off the cover to the carburetor and air filter, and sprayed a few three-second bursts of starter fluid into the carburetor’s primary intake. She pumped the gas throttle a few times then turned the key. The engine caught and she gave it more gas until it was running smoothly. One more trip out to replace the cover and close the hood, and then she was off to town.

Today was going to be a long day. Normally, she treasured Sundays at home with the girls. Luckily, working Sundays was an exception, not the rule. Working weekends at all was unusual. But in their small town, when it came to homicides, it was all hands on deck. The Annabeth and Brock cases were doozies. She was worried about Zeke. Upset with Leo. Apprehensive about her upcoming showdown over the adoption. There would be no rest, no relaxation, no family time.

She locked Shelly’s doors in the parking lot at work and trekked in kicking snow. Murder in a small town. In her small handful of years as a patrol deputy before she’d pursued self-sanctuary on the ice roads, there’d been very little violent crime. Murders were unheard of. Why the recent change? There were fewer than twenty murders annually in the entire state of Wyoming, including the notoriously dangerous Wind River Reservation. But just last year, there’d been nine in Kearny County. Well, not nine that were recorded as murders on their death certificates. Two went down as accidents—Coltrane Fentworth and a Kearny city cop. Another as suicide—Crispin Allen. Delaney knew the truth about those three, though, even if she couldn’t prove it beyond a reasonable doubt. That truth led back to her brother and his involvement in every single case. Even with only six official murders in their county, it threatened the state’s average for the previous year. This year wasn’t off to a better start, either. Annabeth. Brock, if his death wasn’t suicide. That was two in January alone. Would that mean twenty-four by year-end? She hoped not, for the sake of their citizenry as well as for her Sundays at home.

She toed snow off her boots then pushed through the door and wiped her feet on the mat inside the vestibule.

Clara smiled as Delaney walked through the lobby. “Good morning.”

“What are you doing here on a Sunday?” Clara kept the most regular schedule of anyone in the department.

“Leo’s letting me trade some hours.

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