Page 94 of Indigo Ridge (The Edens 1)

I swallowed my doubts as I parked beside Briggs’s truck. The spot where the fire had been on Sunday was now a circle of black grass. In its center remained a pile of gray ash. The charred limbs had been hauled away. Even days later, I swore I could smell the scent of burning pine.

I walked to the cabin, stepping beneath the overhang. Before I could knock, it flew open and Briggs Eden’s broad frame crowded the threshold. Would Griffin look like him in thirty years? They had the same nose. The same shape to their lips. But Briggs had a rough edge, maybe from living alone for so many years.

“Hi.” I held out a hand. “I’m Winslow Covington. We met the other day. I came up here with Griffin.”

Briggs’s gaze dropped to my outstretched hand, then back to my face. “Who?”

“Winslow Covington. I’m Quincy’s new chief of police.”

There wasn’t a flicker of recognition.

“I was up here the day of the fire.”

“Oh, uh . . . sorry.” He shook his head, then fit his large hand over mine. “I just woke up from a nap and I’m a bit fuzzy. You know how that goes.”

“Sure.”

“Come on in.” He stepped back to wave me inside. “Winslow, was it?”

“That’s right.”

“Can I get you some water?”

“That would be lovely. Thanks.”

He moved to the kitchen and pulled two unmatched glasses from a cabinet.

The cabin smelled of bacon grease and fried eggs. My stomach squeezed—I hadn’t eaten since lunch yesterday.

A cast-iron skillet sat on the range. There was a mason jar on the kitchen counter filled with picked wildflowers. The main room was one wide-open space with the kitchen and a dining table to one side. Opposite was a living room with two couches and a TV angled on a stand in the corner.

The coffee table had two books stacked neatly on the surface. The DVDs below the television were arranged in a perfect line. There was a bookshelf against the wall, but unlike the rest of the house, its shelves were chaos.

That bookshelf looked like it belonged in my home or office, not this tidy cabin. There was a bundle of rolled newspapers. Scattered paperbacks. A hammer that looked new. A jigsaw puzzle. A jar of pens.

The clutter was senseless. Where other people had a junk drawer, Briggs had junk shelves. There was a pile of unopened bills. A pocketknife that had seen better days. And a purse.

Why would he have a purse? And why did it look so familiar? I took a step closer, inspecting the smooth, camel leather with exposed chocolate stitching at the seams.

“This is beautiful.” I lifted it from the shelf, turning to hold it up to Briggs. “Your wife or girlfriend has exquisite taste.”

“I’m not married.” He chuckled, bringing me over a glass of water. “Not anymore. My wife left me ages ago. We, uh . . . we had some problems. Turns out, being a bachelor suited me just fine.”

I smiled and sipped my water. It wasn’t like I could ask him if he’d beat her and that was the reason they’d had problems. Today’s visit wasn’t to confirm or deny Frank’s gossip. Briggs appeared lucid. Today was to feel him out. And maybe find out why he had this purse.

“Did you make this, then? Are you a leather craftsman?”

“Lord, no. I’m too impatient to master a craft. I was built for manual labor.” His face changed as he chuckled. The rough edges softened. The crinkles at his eyes deepened. “I found that on a hike around Indigo Ridge. Thought it was too nice to leave on the trail.”

There wasn’t a smidge of dirt on the bag. Either he’d cleaned it after finding it.

Or . . .

I didn’t want to think of the alternative. I didn’t want to think that this purse hadn’t been found, but kept as a souvenir.

“Would you mind if I looked at the lining and the inside?” I asked.

“Go for it.” A phone chime came from the back of the cabin. “Let me go get that.”