Page 25 of Trace of Doubt
I hurried to the living room window and saw no traces of the sender. The person had been on foot and obviously headed to the side or rear of the cabin. I drew my Glock as I slipped out the back door, hoping I didn’t confront a bullet. The quiet morning greeted me. Man-size boot prints sank into the dirt and led to the woods behind the property. I snapped a few pics of them and wrestled with the idea of trailing him. If the person was armed, the stretch of open field behind the cabin set me up as target practice.
Inside the cabin, the envelope lay on the floor with Shelby’s name written in adhesive black letters, like those purchased at a craft store. Tearing off a paper towel, I wrapped it twice around my fingers to grasp the unsealed envelope. I slipped out a card.
To the Pearce family,
No words can ease your loss
In the suicide of your daughter
Or the answer to why
Or bring comfort in the pain.
Know you are in our thoughts and prayers
In this difficult time of grief.
We all will miss Shelby.
I stared at the handwritten personalization at the top and bottom of the card. The sender had a warped sense of humor. My jaw dropped, and the card fell from my hand. What kind of sicko broke—?
Someone wanted Shelby dead and concealed the telltale signs of murder. Her time in prison raised the likelihood of her gaining enemies, and her past left a trail of hate and possibly even vengeance, but what else had she done? What information needed to follow her to the grave?
Were the jagged pieces of Shelby’s life even sharper than I’d ever considered? I’d overlooked something vital, and although what I’d witnessed today may not be connected to the missing money, I’d not sign off on this case until I had answers.
I slid the card back into the envelope, yet leaving it for Shelby to find seemed wrong, cruel. What good came from messing with Shelby’s mind? That labeled me a worse offender than breaking into her home. If she fell prey to depression again, as her prison records indicated, and she committed suicide, I’d own part of the blame.
I’d taken this journey because I believed in justice. Well, that and restoring my pride. The thought of discovering additional crimes with her name on them challenged my near attraction to her. The unknown drew me forward. I could no more abandon my quest than deny my own name.
No matter what I discovered.
I tucked the paper towel–covered card inside my shirt and made certain the interior doors were locked. Unlikely that fingerprints still existed on the card, but the handwriting could be documented in the FBI database. Enough time had passed for the sender to hoof it back to his vehicle, but clues to his name and purpose lay out there in the soft earth. I followed a trail across the back field.
Only God knows the truth, and He is Truth.
16
SHELBY
Home was often described as a state of mind. How quickly I’d embraced this cabin as my sanctuary. No dank smells, concrete, metal, harsh sounds, or fear of assault. Oh, the thrill of caressing my sweet puppy and designing jewelry.
Except this afternoon I chilled the moment I stepped inside my cabin after work.
Someone had invaded my privacy.
Fury raced through me. I’d had enough of the invasion.
The scent of the outdoors clung faintly in the air, my air. A small clod of dirt led into the kitchen and rear door by an intruder’s shoe prints. I quickly scanned the visible areas for signs of an unwanted visitor. Without a weapon, the idea of confronting the person labeled me as stupid.
I rubbed my shoulders and retraced my steps outside the cabin to my path of pine cones and sticks. Some were broken. Two setsof prints caught my attention—one had treads of a tennis shoe and the other looked like a western boot. I made my way to the woods’ edge and grabbed a fallen pine branch nearly three feet long. Having the thin wood in my hand gave me confidence that if someone attacked me, I could defend myself. Chances were, an assailant would take the limb and beat me with it.
My life had been plagued with trouble since the bus dropped me off in Valleysburg. I held my frail weapon like a baseball bat and crept through the cabin. In every room an intruder had rearranged my meticulously placed belongings, not by much, but enough for me to detect it.
I despised an unseen enemy.
The memory of my first prison beating repeated in my mind—not the cuts, bruises, and broken arm, but the violation of my spirit. An inmate bribed a guard to give her and three friends ten minutes to persuade me to talk about the missing money. I refused. At the time, I longed to forget the many hands assaulting me. The pain taught me how to avoid those who lived to do me harm. Smartened me to prison degradation. The gang set out to build an empire while I counted each day until my release.
Other beatings occurred, but none like the first.
