Page 12 of Trace of Doubt
We ended the call. My family meant a lot to me, but between Andy marrying my ex-fiancée and Brice’s jabs, my brothers had a way of making me feel like day-old coffee grounds.
A vehicle engine rumbled a familiar sound. Through the barn’s opening, I saw Edie Campbell approaching on foot. “Morning, Edie. You doing okay?”
“Better than I deserve. Hey, I wanted to ask you a favor.”
I laid the brush on the trunk outside Big Red’s stall. “I’m listening.”
“I came from visiting Shelby Pearce. Thanks for showing her a warm, Valleysburg welcome.”
“No problem. She’s a nice lady. I intend to visit again.”
Edie moistened her lips. “She’s gotten off to a bad start. Someone shot out my SUV tire when she was with me last night, and today someone shoved a note under her door, letting her know she wasn’t welcome.”
“Why?”
She flushed. “Honestly, she came from a rough past.”
“Aw. An abusive ex?”
“Something like that. I’m concerned about her.”
“Edie, did she report it to the sheriff?”
“My brother responded to the call.”
“If I see or hear anything suspicious, I’ll let the sheriff’s office know. In the meantime, I’ll look in on her.”
“Thanks. I need to get back to the office.” She drove off.
Shelby was released yesterday and already she’d taken a prime spot on a shooter’s hit list. But someone had threatened her more than once. Perhaps an accomplice who wanted all of the stolen cash? Or a person invested in protecting Shelby’s family? Or someone taking a stand against crime in Valleysburg?
I’d find out.
8
SHELBY
I stepped onto the porch of my cabin, the lure of freedom pulling me into her spell. I never wanted to take the beauty around me for granted.
I removed my worn journal from my backpack. Settling on a rocker, I opened my journal, an old friend that’s always available for conversation, and clicked the pen. The chorus of insects reminded me of childhood days at my grandparents’ farm west of Houston. Sweet memories of simpler days.
Four years into prison life, I decided to record my thoughts and emotions, more to help me process my past choices than anything else. In the eighth year, I admitted journaling wasn’t filling the hole in my heart. Jesus stepped in and became my mother, father, sister, and friend. A few times a week, I allowed myself the luxury of writing down thoughts and happenings. But never in the light-filled joy I knew this very moment.
I wrote of my experiences since yesterday morning. Enduring resistance and persecution after prison had been on my radar. I’d been counseled about the likelihood and thought I was prepared. Officer Hughes had the hostility gene going for him, and Denton McClure was at the opposite end of the spectrum. But I didn’t trust either man.
I headed into my bedroom and returned my journal to its new home, a narrow drawer in my nightstand. A long walk to clear my mind pushed to the surface of my want list. But Officer Hughes hadn’t returned with the bicycle and leaving made me look like a coward. Which was partially true.
An oncoming vehicle barreled up the drive. Officer Hughes had arrived. At least he wasn’t part of an angry gang. He might be worse if my suspicions were true.
I met him at his cruiser, and he powered down his window.
“I appreciate the loan of your property,” I said.
“Thank my irresponsible sister. I’d rather you walked. Make sure you buy a lock and chain. I get real upset when my property’s abused.” The vertical lines between his brows dug deep. The world must disappoint him on a daily basis. He carried the bicycle onto the porch.
“Would you like to sit and talk?” I hoped his animosity toward me might take a positive spin.
“My favorite place to visit with a killer is behind bars.”
