FRIDAY, 11:45 A.M.
UNCLE JERRY’S HOUSE
Sitting on the porch of the home where she grew up, Harper could feel the national forest seemingly close in on her. Locusts buzzed, oblivious to her presence. Heath hadn’t appreciated that her mind had immediately gone to Pete when she’d seen those initials in the pipe. But she knew he would talk to the sheriff about that too. What would happen? Was the law coming down on his ranch right now in search of Pete? She couldn’t be the only one to think of him, what with that bomb at the ranch. At least they weren’t there at the moment.
No. They were at her old house. She wished she hadn’t come back today, after all.
She shouldn’t be sitting there if Uncle Jerry was a murderer because she could potentially destroy evidence. But this wasn’t an official crime scene. So she was going to sit on the porch if she wanted to, because . . . no.
Just, no. He wasn’t.
How many times had she lounged on this porch growing up? Listening to the sounds of the woods? Unaware that her familiar home and the life she’d known would be ripped out from under her in one fateful moment.
All the energy had long ago drained from Harper. What were they even doing here, looking at her old house like it could be a crime scene?
They couldn’t wait here forever for a warrant to come through, or for Jerry Johnson to show up. Where are you, Uncle Jerry?
She leaned back on her elbows on the edge of the porch, her feet on the steps, and heard a creak behind her. Harper peered over her shoulder.
Hmm. The door had cracked open—a shift in the wind? Pressure on the porch enough to ease it open? Before Heath had driven up and drawn her attention away from the house, she’d rung the doorbell but hadn’t actually knocked. Maybe it hadn’t been closed all the way to begin with? Harper stood and approached. She glanced at the others. Heath was on the phone trying to get someone onboard for a warrant to search the house. Liam was casing the forest, looking for those bullets shot from the rifle.
Everyone was preoccupied. Too much was happening all at once, and now she wished she’d gone with Lori.
What if Uncle Jerry was hurt? His truck could be in the shop, for all she knew. Gently, she stood up, pushed open the door, and stepped inside.
“Uncle Jerry?”
She was his niece, after all. She was worried about him, truly she was.
Once she was inside the home, there was no turning back. Memories flooded her. The good ones and the bad ones. Momma and Emily. Daddy sitting in his recliner after work, watching the news.
Mom and Dad fighting. They loved each other—Harper knew that—but they argued more often than not. An old musty smell accosted her, that and too many dirty clothes and dishes. She crept forward across the creaking, scratched wood floor.
She shouldn’t be in the house. Harper knew that she shouldn’t be intruding, but an invisible force was compelling her forward in search of Uncle Jerry. Or . . . truth.
“Uncle Jerry?” Now that she was inside, the house had an empty feeling. She sensed that she was alone. That he wasn’t lying on the floor unconscious or injured.
What if he came home and found her here? Would her presence in his home affect any evidence against him if he was the killer?
Why was he living here? Why did Mom tell them she had sold the place without any mention of him? Or had he bought it from someone else? She crept forward, a force driving her as if she were Emily the mystery writer in search of answers about what had happened that night. In search of answers about who had killed her father. But she wouldn’t find them here and now.
If only she had looked to see who had shot her father before she’d hidden away. But maybe it was like Heath said, and she would have been killed too if she had seen the person who killed her father.
Since the incident that night long ago, Harper had so many unanswered questions. Too many fuzzy memories. At the end of the hallway, a door was closed.
Her old room where she’d hidden and cowered under the bed as she stifled her sobs for fear the shooter would come for her too.
If she opened it and went inside, would the memories drive her to her knees in anguish? Would being in her room serve as a traumatic stressor and send her back to the place she’d fought to escape? Or maybe she would remember something she’d forgotten that night—a memory she’d shoved deep inside.
Despite the dread creeping up her spine, Harper continued forward down the narrow hallway. No family photos remained on the walls, though now that she thought about it, she distinctly remembered that her mother had left pictures on the walls the day they’d moved.
Harper had never once wondered what had happened to the things they had left behind. She had assumed that, somehow, her mother had taken care of it all.
At the door, she pressed her hand against the old, splintered wood. She gasped as a memory flooded her mind. Daddy’s words that night. “I know what you did.”
A lump filled her throat. All she had ever remembered was the shot fired and her father dropping to the ground. Never the words—until this moment.
And if she entered the room, would she remember more?
Harper pushed the door open and stepped into a room that looked nothing like her old bedroom. Workbenches and machines took up the space. Rifles and gun barrels. Black powder. Supplies for making bullets.
Harper covered her mouth. So he’s a hunter. He makes his own rifles. So what?
Heath stepped up behind her. “We have a warrant. Taggart told us to go in. I think you found what we came for.” He turned her to face him and gently gripped her shoulders. “This doesn’t mean he’s the killer, Harper.”
“But”—she pointed to a hiker’s pink backpack—“it’s not looking good.”
“I don’t think the sheriff wants you in here. The truth is, I don’t want you here either. You’re too close to this. Detective Moffett is on her way.”
She nodded in full agreement. “This used to be my room.”
“You shouldn’t have come inside. I’ll escort you back to the truck. I could sit with you until Moffett arrives and then I’ll take you back.”
“No, it’s okay.” She handed the camera over. “You take a few for me.”
Nausea erupted, and Harper fled the room. She wished now that she’d gone back with Emily. This was too much. Before exiting the house, she hesitated. She had to see Mom and Dad’s old room. A quick peek. Had to be Uncle Jerry’s room now.
She made her way down another short hallway and stepped through the open door.
Liam stood in the middle of the room. Arms crossed, he stared at the walls, which were covered in diagrams and newspaper clippings. In addition, supplies were scattered on a table at the far end. Pipes. Gunpowder. Fuses.
Liam looked at the walls. “What is this?”
“I know exactly what it is. My mother has some of the same clippings in a shoebox. This bombing happened right before Daddy was killed. I never understood why they argued about it, but it tore them apart, I think.”
Harper took a closer look. Bomb-making instructions were spread out on another table. “What—is he trying to become some kind of copycat of the Firebomber in targeting the train depot and Heath’s cabin?”
“Could he actually be the Firebomber?” Liam asked. “As far as I know, the FBI never found him.”
She eyed photographs of selected parts and supplies that presumably were used to make a bomb. “I think we should get out of here. He’s gone. Maybe it’s a trap. He’d wanted us to come back to see him.” What kind of sick psychopath was her uncle?
“You’re right. We’ll let the powers that be know about what we found. The only thing missing is the man behind the bombs.” Liam followed Harper out of the room, down the hallway, out the door, and onto the porch. Harper kept going. Marching. Hiking. She had to get as far away as she could.
Uncle Jerry had not only tried to kill her, but it looked like he was a domestic terrorist. And he’d been using her old house as his command center. On his cell, Liam stopped next to Heath’s truck. Heath jogged toward her. She stopped where the drive met the road.
Heath’s boots crunched as he jogged, and then he slowed and stepped up behind her. “They had actually taken Pete in for questioning, but I told them what we found. They’ll be here soon, Harper. Let’s get you away from this before they get here. I know they’ll want to question you since he’s your uncle, but that can come later.”
“It all makes sense now,” she whispered to herself.
“I’m so sorry.”
“That night, Dad said, ‘I know what you did.’ And someone killed him. Momma took us away, and she was devastated about Dad’s death, but her friend . . . the one who died from a bomb blast. Maybe it wasn’t a friend, but instead it was her brother, Jerry, who had died to her, though he was still very much alive. Maybe she had discovered her brother was the Firebomber and Dad had confronted him and was murdered for it.”
“Come here.” Heath turned her to face him, then pulled her to him.
“But this. Those walls in the bedroom. It’s like a memorial to the Firebomber.”
“I think it’s more than a memorial, Harper. It’s a game plan.”