Tin God by Stacy Green Page A

stout neck since Nick last saw him. “Oren.”
    He shook Nick’s hand with a meaty paw. “Lorie, get the boy some pie.”
    Nick sat down across from Oren. “Afternoon snack?”
    “Nothing like Lori’s fresh apple pie. Eat up.”
    Nick couldn’t stop the moan of appreciation at the first bite.
    “I told ya.”
    Lorelai set a fresh glass of lemonade in front of Nick. “Cage’ll be here soon. He called to say he was on his way.”
    “I’ll be glad to see him.”
    Oren polished off the slice of pie and leaned back in his chair, hands on his belly. His graying eyebrows knitted together. “I ain’t pussyfootin’ around. You really think the same person who killed our baby girl is here in Roselea?”
    “Cage tell you about the letter?”
    “He did.”
    Nick finished chewing, sat his fork down, and held his father–in–law’s gaze. “I do. And I’m not leaving until I prove it.”
    Oren nodded, and Lorelai busied herself at the sink. Nick knew she wouldn’t join in the conversation. Cage had told him she didn’t talk about Lana’s death. Her way of coping was to push everything aside and trod forward.
    The back door squeaked, and a tall man entered, crossing the room in two long steps. Cage still wore his uniform, his deputy badge glinting in the sunlight. He took off his gun belt and set it on the counter. “Nick.”
    “Cage.” Nick extended his hand. “Busy day?”
    Cage gulped the glass of lemonade his mother offered. Unlike his older sister, Cage had dark hair. Tall and muscular, with keen brown eyes and a perpetually stern expression, he made an imposing deputy.
    “Long day. Drunk driving accident early this morning. No fatalities but a lot of paperwork.” He tapped his uniform pocket, eyes focused on his lemonade.
    “What you got in there?” Nick asked.
    Cage dipped his hand in the pocket and then paused with a nervous eye on his mother. “You okay if we talk about Rebecca Newton, Ma?”
    Lorelei’s knuckles turned white as she crushed a dishtowel. “I thought I would be, but I can’t.” She dropped the towel onto the counter and left the kitchen.
    Oren watched her leave. His ruddy complexion had paled, his excess chin sagging. “She’d met Rebecca a couple of times but could hardly stand to be near her. Said she looked too much like Lana.”
    “I saw her picture in the paper,” Nick said. “Thought it was Lana for a second.”
    “Yeah.” Cage’s voice was strained. Oren looked out the window. Moisture glistened in his eyes.
    “No coincidences.” Nick exhaled.
    “Not in this case,” Cage said.
    “Superficial wounds?”
    Cage nodded. “Knife slashes in damn near the same spots: chest; above and below the breasts; forearms, probably defensive; upper thighs; one on the left cheek.”
    “Lana’s was on the right.” Nick’s lips were numb from mashing them together. He ran his tongue along the tender skin and tried to breathe.
    “Almost two inches in length,” Cage said. “Rebecca’s were, too.” He took a long swallow of lemonade, ice rattling in his empty glass . “What do you think, Dad?”
    Oren gripped the table and used the heavy oak to propel himself to his feet. His gut had grown so large Nick wondered how the man’s scrawny legs supported him. “I think the bastard that took our Lana from us is right here at home. He’s been hanging around all this time while the Jackson police chased their dicks in a circle.” Oren shoved his chair out of the way and duck-walked out of the room.
    “He’s right.”
    Cage rubbed his temples, wrinkles creasing his brow. “I know.”
    Nick had to stand. He moved around the kitchen on rubbery legs. “He knew them, Cage. Knew both of them.”
    “Probably.”
    “Who’s the investigator on the Newton case?”
    “Jack Charles, a veteran cop. Good cop. Decent guy.”
    “You know him?”
    “Yeah. Adams’s County Sheriff works with Roselea P.D. a lot. Dealt with him several times.”
    “Talk to him yet?”
    “No,” Cage