Tin God by Stacy Green

then he’d made the biggest mistake of his life, but he’d been too proud to take the words back. Besides, he had a story to chase down, and begging for forgiveness would have to wait until later.
    Later never came.
    Nick gazed out over the town Lana had grown up in. Somewhere amid the picturesque history, a killer hid. Rebecca Newton’s body was still being autopsied, but after Nick’s frantic phone call, his brother-in-law had gone to the coroner’s office to see Rebecca first hand.
    “Was like looking at my sister all over again,” Cage had said last night. “Even the purple bruise pattern on her neck looked the same. I hauled ass into the john and threw up.”
    I killed your wife again last night.
    The letter waited in his laptop case, still carefully sealed in the plastic bag. He should’ve known better than to try to fool himself when he first heard of Rebecca Newton’s murder. There were no coincidences.
    ###
    Nick’s fingers thumped unevenly on the steering wheel as he drove down the residential street. Lana’s parents lived on the outskirts of Roselea’s prestigious antebellum district. Nestled between the hulking mansions with the colonnades and pristine white columns was a beautifully kept Craftsman Bungalow with white paint and burgundy shutters. A blooming red maple dominated the yard, and rosebushes surrounded the front porch. Nick slowed to a stop.
    Nerves throttled him. He’d lingered at Annabelle’s into the early evening, convincing himself he was doing research for the case rather than stalling. But time had run out. Lana’s family had invited him for supper, and he was already late.
    He didn’t want to see them again. Their pain was too palpable. He needed to be objective. Approach Rebecca Newton’s murder like another lead, a chance to move up the food chain.
    A curtain fluttered in the bay window. Too late to turn back.
    Nick stepped out of the Taurus and was greeted by the racket of cicadas welcoming the evening. His footsteps synced with the noise as he trudged up the sidewalk.
    His pace stalled as Lorelai Foster stepped out onto the porch. Tall and willowy, her fair skin still boasting a peaches-and-cream complexion and her once-blond hair now a regal white, Lorelai had aged beautifully. This is what Lana would have looked like in another thirty years. The ache in Nick’s heart was paralyzing.
    “Nick.” She held out her arms. “It’s good to see you.” Even her voice reminded him of Lana: distinctly feminine, full of warmth and compassion.
    “You, too.” He climbed the steps and hugged Lorelai. She smelled like vanilla and apples. She’d been baking.
    Lorelai held him at arm’s length. “You look well. Bit too thin, though. We’ll be fattening you up while you’re here.”
    “I’m looking forward to it.”
    She ushered him into the house. The scent of apple pie wafted around him along with the onslaught of emotion he’d been dreading. Lana’s presence still hung over the home she’d grown up in. Her pictures displayed on the walls, stages of a life cut far too short. Her wedding picture held a place of prominence on the mantel.
    Her mother touched his arm, drawing his gaze away from the picture. “How have you been?”
    “Fairly well. Better than last year.”
    She smiled, and he noticed the wrinkles around her mouth and eyes had deepened. “Us, too. Time seems to make the loss a bit more tolerable.”
    “Is that Nick?” A deep voice boomed from the kitchen—Lana’s father. A Vietnam veteran, Oren’s gruff demeanor had put the fear of God into Nick on their very first meeting.
    “Yes,” Lorelai answered.
    “Tell him to get in here and have some pie.”
    Nick followed Lorelai into the kitchen. It looked just as he remembered, decorated with chickens and roosters. The family table sat in a nook near the back door. Lana’s father had taken up residence there, an enormous slice of apple pie sitting in front of him. He’d added an extra chin to his already