The Texan's Return. Karen Whiddon

words and passing out in bars had any bearing on what people thought of their family?

      Once again, Hailey knew better than to comment. She had no plans to escalate anything. Her first consideration always had to be of her brothers and sister.

      Her lack of response seemed to have caused June to lose interest—or her train of thought. She dropped back into her chair with a thud, slid her plate over in front of her and took a couple of rapid bites. “You really believed you loved that boy,” she commented, not raising her eyes from her food. “Head over heels. Aaron and I were sure the two of you would be married someday.”

      Surprising how that truth could still hurt. Rather than talk about Mac, Hailey changed the subject to her stepfather, Aaron. He’d taken off in the middle of the fallout and chaos after Brenda’s death.

      “Do you ever hear from him, Mom?” Hailey asked in a conversational tone. “I know you two never finalized a divorce or anything.”

      “Why would we do that?” June’s tone regained its former sharpness. “Someday we might get back together. Stranger things have happened.”

      And there you had it. June alternated between a dark sort of reality and some bizarre fantasyland. If Aaron hadn’t reappeared after ten years, Hailey sort of doubted he would.

      Of course, Mac had returned. Who knew, maybe her mother was on to something. Now Hailey just had to figure out whether or not to tell her about the most recent murder.

      In the end, she decided to stay quiet. The way June carried on, Hailey figured it’d be better if she didn’t know, at least for now. She’d gather the kids upstairs and fill them all in. After they were aware, then and only then would Hailey discuss it with her mother. That way, everyone would be prepared to deal with June’s reaction, whatever that may be.

       Chapter 3

      Mac hadn’t gotten much sleep the first few nights after bringing his father home. Though his bedroom was down the hall from the living room where they’d placed the hospital bed, every little sound had him getting up to check and make sure his dad was okay. Paranoid, true. But he couldn’t seem to help himself.

      While he knew intellectually his father had come home to die, part of him felt as if by being vigilant, he could somehow prevent it. Indefinitely, even.

      But after the first week, Mac had relaxed somewhat. Gus seemed stronger, he was eating well and despite his marked lack of energy, he appeared happy. Things seemed to be looking up.

      Then another young girl had been murdered. Mac wondered if he’d ever sleep again. In all his life, Gus had only asked two things of him. One, that they come back to Legacy and, two, to find out who’d really killed Brenda Green and by doing so, clear his name. Not only his, but the reputation of their entire family.

      Now that another killing had occurred with obvious ties to the first one a decade earlier, Mac imagined the police were in an uproar. They needed to find the killer before anyone else got hurt. In fact, he’d only just had the thought when a police cruiser pulled up in front of the house and stopped. Mac felt his entire body tense.

      One day. One day since the murder. He actually was surprised it had taken them this long. Since he’d been expecting this once he’d learned the news, he simply waited on the front porch. Two uniformed cops exited the car and came up the walk toward him.

      “Afternoon,” the officer who’d been driving, wearing a dark blue uniform and mirrored sunglasses, greeted him. “Are you Mr. Mac Morrison?”

      “I am.” Mac kept his tone cordial. “What can I do for you?”

      “We’d like a word with your father, Gus. We understand he received early parole. Is he home?”

      “He is. I believe he’s asleep. He’s basically confined to a hospital bed, you know.” Imparting this information as casually as if chatting about the weather, Mac forced a smile. “Come on in. We’ll wake him if we have to.”

      Both officers’ boots clomped heavily on the creaky wooden porch as they followed him inside.

      In the living room, Mac stepped aside so they could see. The room smelled of medicine and disease. His father slept, a shrunken version of his former hearty self, with his mouth open, and slight gurgling sounds escaped him.

      The two policemen exchanged glances. “This is Gus Morrison?”

      “Yes. His illness is the reason he was released from prison early.” A rare exception had been made. Timed with the fact that he’d be up for parole, and someone in the prison hierarchy had given Gus his first—and only—break in ten long years.

      Officer Number One nodded. “Mr. Morrison?” he said, looking at Gus. “Sir, we’d like to ask you a few questions.”

      When Gus continued sleeping, the second officer stepped forward. Loudly clearing his throat, he leaned in. “Sir?”

      Startled, Gus jumped and opened his eyes. “Who, what?” When he caught sight of the uniformed policemen, distrust flashed across his face. Mac couldn’t actually blame him. He hadn’t been treated fairly since the day he’d been arrested and charged with a murder he didn’t commit.

      Still, a second later Gus regained his composure. “How can I help you fellas?” he asked, his tone cordial.

      “We’d like to ask you a few questions. Starting with, can you tell us your whereabouts the night before last?”

      Shaking his head, Gus exchanged a glance with Mac before giving the officer a wry smile. “Here. I was right here in this bed. It may have somehow escaped your notice, but I’m terminally ill.”

      The two cops looked to Mac for confirmation. “He’s not very mobile at all,” Mac said.

      “No disrespect intended, sir, but do you have proof of that?”

      Mac crossed to the side table and picked up the thick manila folder containing all of Gus’s medical diagnosis records. Another folder, marked in red, came from the hospice provider. Silently, he passed these over to the first policeman and waited while the other man skimmed the paperwork.

      When that man had finished, instead of giving them to his partner, he handed them back to Mac. “My mother died of pancreatic cancer,” he said, his mouth turning down at the corners. “I’m sorry. We didn’t know.”

      This despite the fact that any good investigator would have checked the prison records. Everything, from what time Gus got up in the morning, to when he used the bathroom, was detailed there.

      “I understand,” Mac lied. “There’s a lot to deal with. May I ask, since you have a new murder to investigate, if anyone is considering reopening the old Brenda Green case?”

      At the question, Gus’s tired eyes brightened. Again he tried to sit up as he waited to hear the answer.

      “I...um... I’m not sure,” the officer stammered.

      “Who’s in charge of this investigation?” Mac pressed. “I want to give him a call and set up a meeting.”

      From the perplexed expression on the two men’s faces, clearly they hadn’t been expecting this. “We’re not sure, actually,” the first guy said. “I think the FBI might be helping us out with this one.”

      “Good, but someone in your office is running point. I need to know who.”

      “Detective Logan,” Officer Number Two finally answered. “And he reports to Lieutenant Gage. Either one of them would be able to help you, though it’d be easier to get an appointment with Logan.”

      “Thank you.” Mac looked from one to the other. “Do either of you happen to have a card?”

      “No,” Officer Number One muttered. “We don’t. Sorry.”

      Mac