Indigo Ridge (The Edens)

“Can I get you a cup of coffee or water?” I asked Briggs.

“No. But thanks.” He shook his head, glancing around my office. His large frame consumed the chair across from my desk. It had looked just as tiny the day Griffin had sat there too.

“I appreciate you coming down here with me today.” The smile I sent him was infused with as much warmth as I could muster.

Briggs motioned to the purse and wallet on my desk. “So you want to talk about these?”

“Yes.”

Both articles were sealed in evidence bags. When I’d arrived at Briggs’s cabin an hour ago, I’d simply asked if I could have them for an investigation. He’d agreed, saving me the trouble of requesting a warrant. Then I’d asked if he’d come to the station with me to discuss how he’d come upon them. Again, he’d agreed.

He was focused and sharp today. Like yesterday. When I’d knocked on his door this morning, he’d joked about having more police visits in the past week than he’d had his entire life.

It was easy to see why Griffin loved his uncle so much. Even riding in my unmarked Explorer—in the front passenger seat, because while I had concerns, I wasn’t going to stuff him in the back—he’d talked to me the entire drive to town, asking me questions about how I was liking Quincy and telling me stories about his life spent on the ranch.

He seemed like a gentle man. A person who lived alone because he was content with his own company. A brother and a proud uncle—most of the stories he’d told had included one or more of his nieces or nephews.

It felt wrong to have him here, to be discussing ugly things. Or maybe it felt that way because of Griffin’s reaction.

“Would you mind if I recorded this conversation?” I asked, reaching for the handheld recorder beside my phone.

“Not at all.”

“Thank you.” I put the recorder between us, then hit the red button. After a quick introduction, stating our names and the date, I described the purse and wallet for the record. “You said that you found both of these articles while hiking, correct?”

Briggs nodded. “I did.”

“Where were you hiking?”

“Indigo Ridge. I’ve hiked around that area my whole life. It’s a favorite spot. The views from the top are magnificent.”

“I bet they are. Maybe one day I’ll make it to the top myself.”

“I’ll take you.” A genuine offer.

“I’d like that.” A genuine reply.

If Briggs took me hiking, I doubted he’d push me off the cliff.

Wouldn’t there be a twist in my belly if I feared this man was a murderer? Wouldn’t there be a nervous zing through my veins? There was nothing. My instincts said that something about Lily Green’s death wasn’t right. Yet as I sat across from a man who shouldn’t have had her wallet, a man who lived the closest to the place where she’d died, not a single cell in my body warned that he was dangerous.

Yet I wasn’t paid to rely solely on instincts. I was here because we followed the evidence. The trail had led me here. I’d keep going until I reached a road block.

“Briggs, I’m sure you know this, but there have been three women found at the base of Indigo Ridge.”

“Yes. It’s awful. These kids . . . they’re just kids.” Heartfelt sympathy filled his voice.

“It is awful.”

A crease formed between his graying eyebrows. “You don’t think I had something to do with it, do you? I never even knew those girls.”

“Tell me more about how you found the purse.”

He cocked his head, staring at the object in question. “I thought you wanted the purse because it was stolen or something. Same with the wallet. Figured you’d tell me when we got here. I get it now. You think I had something to do with those girls, don’t you?”

Instead of answering, I leaned forward, bracing my elbows on the edge of the desk. “When did you find the purse?”

“I’m no killer.” He gritted his teeth, not answering my question. “I’m losing my mind. I’m losing myself. That’s a humbling realization for a man. To know that there’s not a damn thing I can do to stop it. I’m facing my own mortality, Ms. Covington. Not murdering innocent girls.” The color in his cheeks turned pink. His shoulders stiffened.

“Let’s just talk about the purse.”

“Whose was it?”

“Harmony Hardt.”

He dropped his gaze. “Was that the woman Harrison found? Or Griffin?”

“Griffin,” I answered. “When did you find this purse?”

“What day is it?”

“Wednesday.”

“Sunday.”

That was the day of the fire. “You’re sure? This past Sunday?”

“Yes. I went for a hike early that morning. Came home. Put them on my bookshelf to sort out later. Went outside to do some yard work, and well . . . you were there.”

Then he’d had an episode.

“Was the wallet inside when you found it?”

“No.”

“Where did you find the wallet?”

“Same place on Sunday. Both were together.”

Harmony Hardt had died years before Lily Green. Those pieces shouldn’t have been together.

Unless Lily Green had kept a purse like Harmony Hardt’s. I’d assumed at first that the H monogram had been for Harmony but maybe it was the designer’s logo. When I’d gone to identify the purse, I’d started with Harmony’s mother. When she’d recognized it, I hadn’t cross-checked it with Melina Green.

I’d be making a stop after taking Briggs home. And doing more research on the origin of this purse.

“Did you find the purse or wallet first?” I asked.

“The wallet. It was right in the middle of my usual trail. Nearly stepped on it.”

“Where was the purse?”

“In a bush about thirty feet away.”

“On the trail?”

He nodded. “Yes.”

My mind was racing, possibilities and scenarios flashing like a strobe light. There was no reason that he should have found both articles so close together.

Briggs could be lying, though his admission only made it more suspicious. A more believable lie would be that he’d found the purse years ago and the wallet more recently, both on completely different trails.

Assuming it was the truth, why had they been together?

Could this be part of the suicide pattern? Maybe one of the kids had started it as a symbol, to leave something behind. But that didn’t make sense at all. The purse was in too good condition if it truly was Harmony’s.

And after Lily, we’d all gone around the area, looking for evidence. I’d spent hours up there searching for her shoes. The reason I hadn’t found them was likely because Briggs had beaten me to it. But I hadn’t found the purse or wallet either.

Who else had been up on that ridge?

“Is your trail well known?” I asked.

“Not really.”

“Did you find the boots in the same area?”

“No. They were closer to my cabin in a field. I probably would have missed them except they were by a cluster of wildflowers and I stopped to pick a bundle.”

I’d have to scout both locations. Maybe there was something else left behind. Maybe there was more. “The trail where you found these.” I gestured to the purse and wallet. “Is it the trail that leads to the cliff? The one from the road?”

“No, they’re separate. You can get to the cliff from my trail, but it’s the long way around. There’s a cut across to the one you’re talking about that’s about two hundred yards from the cliff. I rarely take it because I head up higher.”

Paths swirled like spaghetti noodles in my head as I tried to visualize what he was talking about. “Is there a map that shows any of this?”

“No, but I could sketch one out.”

I opened my desk drawer and pulled out a notepad and a pencil, then slid them over to Briggs.

While he went about drawing the map, I studied his face.

Was he guilty? Did he do this?

I’d asked those questions before, in different interrogation settings.

Once, I’d questioned a man who’d been accused of raping a woman in an alley behind a downtown bar in Bozeman. He’d been so cooperative. Seemingly so innocent. So distraught over what had happened because the victim had been an acquaintance from college. Yet he’d done it. He’d looked me in the face and sworn to me that he’d had nothing to do with it.

It was my nature to believe there was good in most people, but I hadn’t believed that son of a bitch for a moment. DNA had confirmed my instincts.

Did he do this?

In that bastard’s case, yes.

With Briggs? No. Maybe. I don’t know.

If there wasn’t a doubt about his mental capacity, it would be a lot easier to decide. But what if he’d done something terrible and couldn’t even remember doing it? What if he’d gone out hiking and run into a girl on the wrong path? What if he’d gotten violent with her?

What if he’d gotten violent with his wife and Frank had been right, that he’d driven her away? Or what if Griffin was right about Frank and this was all just gossip spewed in a small town by enemies?

The truth was probably somewhere in the middle, hidden for me to find.

Briggs finished his sketch and handed me the notepad. The map was simple and concise. He’d circled the area where he’d found the purse and wallet. He’d marked where he’d found the boots. From how he’d drawn the map, there really was no reason that the girls would have gone on his trail. If they’d parked on the road and taken the same trail that I’d taken to look over the area, they shouldn’t have even gotten close to where Briggs had found the purse and wallet.

Unless he was lying.

He’d had that wallet for days, allegedly. He’d heard about Lily Green’s death. Why hadn’t he immediately brought it in?

“Did you look through the wallet?” I asked.

“No, I, um . . . I was going to. Then I sort of forgot about it.” He rubbed the back of his neck. “After the fire.”

“The purse is in good condition.” I pointed to the handbag. “It doesn’t look like it’s been outside long.”

“Probably hasn’t. Leather like that would be ruined in a spring rainstorm.”

Either he’d had it longer than he’d claimed. Or someone had put that purse on the mountain along with the wallet. Yes, both could be Lily’s. But even then, she’d died early last month. We’d had rain showers since her death. That purse and the wallet should be in worse condition if they’d been outside since June.

There was a chance they’d been sheltered from the worst of the elements, maybe shaded under a tree. Assuming the purse was Lily’s. Assuming she had taken the wrong trail. Assuming that she’d tossed the purse and wallet aside before going to the cliff.

Too many assumptions.

“Have you seen anyone hiking in that area lately?”

Briggs shook his head. “It’s private property. Only person who regularly goes there is me.”

“You’re sure?”

He locked his eyes with mine and understanding crept into his gaze.

If there was evidence of anything sinister, he’d be my primary suspect. He had the means. The opportunity. The only solid element missing—the key element—was motive.

Trespassing was weak but a possibility. Maybe he’d seen someone on his ranch and he’d gone into a rage.

It was thin.

I hated thin. It usually meant I was missing something.

The uneasy noise in my head was beginning to scream so loud I wanted to plug my ears.

What the fuck was going on? If Lily really had committed suicide, someone might have been with her that night. She’d had sex with someone.

Briggs?

That would explain why none of her friends had noticed a boyfriend. Maybe she’d been sneaking up to the mountains for an affair with a much older man.

Maybe . . .

There were too many maybes. But if he’d had her boots up there, it made sense why her feet hadn’t been shredded. She’d been wearing them until, what? He’d pushed her? He’d tossed her over the edge?

“Can you tell me where you were the night of June first?” I asked, hating the way his shoulders slumped.

“Home.”

“Alone?”

“As far as I remember.”

“Were you doing anything? Reading? Texting? Movies?”

He met my eyes and there was so much embarrassment in his face that my heart twisted. “I don’t do much these days. I’m, uh . . . I’m sure I was home. But I don’t remember exactly what I was doing.”

“Fair enough.” I gave him a sad smile. “It’s hard to remember specifics that long ago.”

He dropped his gaze to his lap.

It was his relationship to Griffin that made me hurt for Briggs. It was the reason we were in my office and not an interrogation room with another officer as a witness.

“That’s all the information I need for now.” I stopped recording and locked the recorder away, then picked up my keys. “I’ll take you home now.”

He stood, wordlessly, and followed me out of the office and to the parking lot.

There were no officers in the bullpen, only Officer Smith stationed at the door. I’d picked this hour specifically, not wanting there to be an audience when I brought Briggs in.

The drive to the cabin was a stark contrast to our trip into town. Briggs kept his hands clasped tightly in his lap, like a pair of invisible handcuffs were clasped around his wrists.

When I stopped in front of his house, he reached for the door, but hesitated, looking at me for the first time since we’d left the station. “I don’t think I hurt those girls.”

The uncertainty in his words was a knife to the heart.

Lost for words, I had nothing to say as he shoved out of the cruiser and disappeared into his home.

I stared at the cabin’s closed door for a long moment.

You never knew what happened inside the walls of a home unless you lived there. But in Briggs’s case, I could guess he lived—preferred—a simple life.

He was like his nephew in that way.

The urge to rush to Griffin, to have him wrap his arms around me and chase away this sick feeling, was so strong that when I drove to town, I had to keep both hands on the wheel to ensure I stayed on course.

He was mad. I was angry.

There’d be no comfort in his arms today.

The station was still quiet when I returned. I sat at my desk and replayed the recording from my discussion with Briggs. Then I got to work.

The purse and wallet were taken to be fingerprinted. Even with the recording, I made notes of exactly how my discussion with Briggs had come about and how I’d found the items in his home. Then I left to visit Melina Green at work.

Melina was at the nurses’ station when I arrived at the nursing home, smiling as she chatted with a coworker. Her smile fell when she spotted me. Melina recovered quickly, waving as I approached, but the damage to my feelings was done.

I’d forever be the face of the worst day of her life.

It was my burden to bear.

She was getting back on her feet and I was an unwelcome reminder of her pain. As time went on, there’d be others like Melina. Others who’d wince when they saw me enter a restaurant. Others who’d turn the opposite direction when they spotted me walking down the sidewalk.

“Hi, Melina. Sorry to bother you. Can I have five minutes?”

“Of course.”

I didn’t bother with small talk as I pulled her aside and showed her the video of the purse. She didn’t recognize it and assured me that if Lily had purchased that handbag, she was the type of daughter who would have loved showcasing it to her mother.

There were tears glistening in Melina’s eyes when I said goodbye.

It was early in the afternoon when I left the nursing home. There was paperwork to do at the station. Reports waited for me to review. The city’s budgeting process was beginning for the next calendar year, and I needed to wrap my head around the fiscal data Janice had prepared.

But I didn’t return to my desk.

I drove home, needing a couple of hours alone behind my own walls to let my feelings breathe. Then I’d go see Pops and cook him dinner.

Except time alone was not in my future.

Griffin’s truck was parked in front of my house. The moment I eased into the driveway, he stepped out of the driver’s side and marched to my porch. Even with my doors closed, I could hear the stomp of his boots on the sidewalk.

I dragged in a fortifying breath, summoning no energy for this fight. I hadn’t slept much last night at the hospital—not only because of the stiff hospital chair but also because I’d agonized over how to tell Griffin I was bringing in Briggs for questioning.

Without a word, I joined him on the porch, fit the key into the lock and walked inside.

He followed me to the living room, waves of fury radiating off his chest.

I let my purse plop to the floor by my shoes, then faced Griff, ready to get this argument over with.

It would likely be our last. This was the end.

Later tonight, when I was alone in my bed, I’d mourn the loss of Griffin. My rugged cowboy who carried so much on his broad shoulders. I’d miss him. I’d cry for what we might have been. Probably more than I’d cried over Skyler.

Even furious, Griff was handsome. His chiseled jaw was clenched. His eyes, hidden beneath that baseball cap I loved so much, were ice cold.

“You talked to Briggs.” It was an accusation, not a statement.

“Yes.”

“Mom and Dad called their lawyer. He’s to be present for any other discussions you have with my uncle.”

“That’s fine. Briggs could have asked for a lawyer to be there today.”

Griff looked at the wall, his jaw pulsing as his nostrils flared. “It’s all over town. I stopped by the coffee shop. Lyla said she’s been asked about five times why Briggs was arrested today. So now my family is fielding phone calls, having to tell everyone he wasn’t arrested and it was just a routine meeting.”

Goddamn Officer Smith. He was the only one who’d seen me escort Briggs into my office. Not even Janice had been around, having taken a lunch break. Smith, that asshole, was going to learn a lesson in confidentiality first thing tomorrow morning.

“I’m sorry. I tried to be discreet.”

“Discreet would have been having that conversation anywhere but at the police station. Discreet would have been telling me first.”

“I did tell you first,” I hissed, stepping forward to poke a finger in his chest. “I came to you this morning. Do you really think I want to make Briggs look like a fool?”

He didn’t answer.

“I’ll take that as a yes.”

“I know how this town works. There’s a lot of gossip.”

“Something you’ve explained to me many times. Which was why the only person in the station was Officer Smith. I questioned Briggs in my office with the door closed. No one was present. I recorded the discussion. Me and me alone. But I have a job to do.”

“A job.”

“Yes, a job.” I tossed up my hands. “Do you know how many rules I broke by telling you first? If anyone ever found out, my investigation would be compromised.”

“What investigation? What do you think you’re going to find? Those girls killed themselves, Winn. It’s fucking sad. It’s fucking horrible. But it’s the fucking truth. It was suicide.”

“But what if it wasn’t?” My voice bounced off the walls. “What if it wasn’t, Griff?”

“You think my uncle killed them?”

“No, I don’t,” I admitted. To him. To myself. “That doesn’t mean I can ignore the questions. What if? What if it was your sister who you’d found on Indigo Ridge? What if it was Lyla or Eloise or Talia? I cannot live with the what-ifs. Not when I might have the power to erase them.”

He expelled the air from his lungs in a whoosh. “I’m not faulting you for the questions. Just the manner.”

“I can’t be a police officer for everyone in Quincy but not for you. And if you actually took a step back, stopped acting like a stubborn mule and remembered that I’m more than just the woman sharing your bed, you’d realize that what you are asking of me is impossible. That’s not who I am, Griffin. That’s not who you’d want me to be.”

“I’m not—”

“You are.” I sighed. “You are.”

He froze. Heartbeats passed.

Any minute, he’d walk out the door and out of my life. It hurt already, to lose him. God, it hurt.

Except he didn’t leave me. His frame sagged and he tore off his baseball cap, sending it sailing across the room. Then he dragged a hand through his dark hair. “You’re right.”

The relief was so profound I laughed. “I know.”

He planted his fists on his hips. “I’m pissed.”

“Deal with it.”

“I will.” Griff’s arm wrapped around my shoulders and he hauled me into his chest. “Sorry.”

Maybe I should have fought for more than a one-word apology, but two seconds against his warm, strong body and I let it go. After Pops and his heart attack, two sleepless nights and the discussion with Briggs, I didn’t have the strength to argue with Griffin. So I wrapped my arms around his narrow waist and pressed my cheek against his heart and just . . . breathed.

“You have me twisted up, woman. So fucking twisted up.”

“Want to unwind? Call it quits?”

He leaned away and his hands moved to my face, his fingers threading through the hair at my temples. “I don’t think I could quit you if I tried.”

“Even if we fight?”

“Especially when we fight.”

It wasn’t a declaration of love. It wasn’t a lifelong commitment. But that statement moved me so much that tears flooded my eyes.

My parents used to fight. Mom had called it normal fighting.

In high school, when all of my friends’ parents were getting divorced, I’d fret and convince myself that my parents would too. One night, I’d overheard them arguing about something. The details had faded with time, but when my mom had found me in my room later that night, crying, she’d sat down on my bed and promised that the argument was normal fighting.

She’d told me that one day, she hoped I’d find a man who’d fight with me. Who’d love me even when he wanted to strangle me. Who’d never quit fighting because what we had was worth a few angry words.

“I don’t want to quit either,” I whispered.

“Hey.” His thumbs caught the two tears that escaped. “You can’t cry, Winn. It destroys me. Don’t cry, baby.”

I sniffled away the sting in my nose. “It’s just been a long few days.”

“Lean on me.” He kissed my forehead, then hugged me again, squeezing so tight that if my knees buckled, I wouldn’t drop an inch.

I leaned on him.

And for the first time in a long time, I knew the man holding me tight wouldn’t let me fall.