Chapter Thirty-Seven
“Was his face long or round?”
Drew squinted. “Round. Pudgy. And he had freckles across the top of his nose and cheeks.”
Beth sketched, feeling rusty. “I feel like someone else would be better at this.”
“It doesn’t have to be perfect, remember?”
But it felt like it did. There was so much riding on this.
She listened closely as he told her what he remembered. Every once in a while, he’d get quiet, lost in a memory. She’d wait patiently for him to continue, praying this brought him the closure he needed.
“Have you ever told anyone about any of this?” She kept her gaze on the sketch pad as she shaded the man’s left eyebrow.
“No.”
The one word said so much. He’d bottled it up all these years, but he’d trusted her enough to break his silence. “I’m glad you told me.”
“I am too.”
She prayed he saw that self-preservation, not cowardice, had driven him to bury these memories. That lie he’d believed had robbed him of years of living.
Beth stopped shading the face of a pudgy man, young, maybe late teens, with a stout nose and thin eyebrows.
“Are you sure the expression is right?” she asked. The man she’d sketched didn’t look angry, but sad. It took a special kind of evil to harm a child—maybe Beth had gotten it wrong.
Drew took the paper and studied it. “No, this is right. He looks mean to me. You don’t think so?” He turned the drawing toward her.
Drew saw the man differently. Like a child might. Beth stilled, but before she could respond, the front door opened. Bishop still stood on the porch. It had been over an hour since he’d gone outside to give them some time alone.
Oops.
“I assume you’ve had enough time to chat?” he asked, hands on his hips, looking a bit disheveled.
“Bishop, I’m so sorry you’ve been out there this whole time.” Beth stood. “Come in.”
He shuffled through the door and turned his attention to Drew. “Do you want to tell me now why you were down at the station yesterday?”
Drew stood and handed him the drawing. “I remembered something.”
Bishop studied the paper, eyebrow raised, but no recognition on his face. “Who’s this?”
“Was hoping you could tell me.” Drew shoved his hands in his pockets.
Bishop took another look, then shook his head. “Doesn’t look familiar, but I can show it around. Who is he?”
Drew explained his memory of the man hiding in the stables and watching him and Jess, and Bishop agreed he was certainly a person of interest.
“It’s hard to say whether or not anyone will recognize him now. It’s been a really long time.” Bishop must’ve caught the look of despair on Drew’s face, because he quickly added, “But this is the first solid lead we’ve ever had in this case. Good job, man.”
A commotion on the porch drew their attention outside, where Birdie was stumbling up the stairs.
“Oh, thank heavens, you’re okay. I just heard about the damage from the storm.” The poor woman looked terrified.
“We’re fine, Birdie. I suppose we should be thankful no one was hurt.” But even as she said the words, Beth felt anything but thankful. She was happy no one was in the barn when the tree went through the roof, but not happy at the decisions ahead of them or the knowledge that she was about to lose the life she’d grown to love.
“Did you just find out about the storm?” Drew asked.
“Heavens, no. I was in my fallout shelter.” She looked at Drew. “I told you I was stocked up. I enjoyed myself so much down there, I just came up an hour ago. Cricket had left frantic messages on my machine. The whole town’s buzzing about the damage to your farm.”
Beth could imagine. The people of Willow Grove had been as excited about their grand reopening as she and Molly were. Selling to Davis wasn’t only a letdown for her, but for the whole town. Beth hated that.
Birdie turned her attention to Beth. “What a mess. I suppose we’ll move the sale to the art barn, then? Use the great outdoors a little more than we wanted to?”
Beth looked at Drew. Neither of them had even considered moving the sale. It was like they’d both been completely defeated from the second they’d seen the main barn, but most of the work was still done, including Dina’s advertising campaign.
“I never thought about that,” Beth said. “I suppose it could be like one last hurrah for Fairwind.”
Birdie frowned. “What are you talking about?”
“It’s a long story.” Beth couldn’t bring herself to get into it, but one glance at Birdie told her she’d lost her attention anyway. Instead, the old woman seemed captivated by the paper in Bishop’s hand.
“Birdie? What is it?”
“Did you draw this?” Birdie took the paper from Bishop.
“Yes.” Beth felt suddenly self-conscious of her work.
Birdie turned to Drew. The two of them exchanged a sort of rare, knowing glance, the kind that told Beth she recognized the man in the sketch. The kind that told her Birdie understood what Drew had been through to get that image out of his mind and onto the paper.
“Who is he?” Drew asked, his voice low and quiet.
“You don’t remember,” Birdie said.
He shook his head.
“It’s Monty. He worked here that summer. Harold felt sorry for him, so he gave him a few odd jobs around the farm. No one ever considered him a suspect, because he’d been out of town that week.” Her fingers met the edge of the paper. “Or at least that’s what everyone thought.”
“I saw him two days before Jess went missing,” Drew said. “I know he was here.”
Birdie fell onto the chair and covered her mouth with her hand. “The answer was there all along.”
“Let’s not jump to conclusions,” Bishop said. “All we know is that we need to question him—nothing more.”
“He was a troubled kid. Sweet, but troubled.” Birdie seemed lost in her own world.
“Birdie, how can we find this Monty now? Does he still live in Willow Grove?” Bishop asked.
She slowly met Drew’s eyes, as if what she knew would cause him pain. “He’s right next door, Bishop. That’s Monty Biddle. Davis’s son.”