But why would he attack her in the first place? And why would he beat her so badly? Whoever took her into that forest had either been out of his mind—or wanted to kill her. That much was obvious.
“Robert would never have hurt Jason,” Owen said, echoing Cain’s thoughts. “Which makes it unlikely that he was involved in the attack on Sheridan. But…”
Cain frowned as Owen’s voice dwindled away. But they didn’t have another explanation. That picture had come from somewhere. Cain wished he knew where. Was it Owen who was lying? Or Robert? Or was there some other answer?
“Was Dad around when you confronted Robert?”
“No, he was at Karen’s. He spends a lot of his time there these days.”
Cain recalled the awkward encounters he’d had with his former English teacher since she’d moved back to Whiterock. The first had been at the grocery store. She’d whipped around a corner and nearly slammed into him with her cart. Blushing furiously, she’d mumbled an apology and hurried on. The next had been at the Roadhouse. He’d been having dinner alone, glanced up and caught her watching him from across the room.
But the last time had been the most uncomfortable. She’d accompanied his stepfather to a horse show in Kentucky, a show Cain had also attended. Since it was so far away, Cain hadn’t expected anyone he knew to be there, but once John spotted him in the crowd, he and Karen made their way over and pretended to be excited about the chance meeting, even insisting they all have dinner together.
That was two months ago, during one of those rare periods when his stepfather was putting some effort into building a relationship with him. John did that occasionally. But such efforts were erratic, as if he wanted Cain to like him but simply couldn’t hold out for the long haul.
Now that John thought he’d killed Jason, Cain doubted he’d ever bother trying again. Which, oddly enough, came as a relief. Cain couldn’t forgive him for how he’d treated Julia. It was easier to avoid each other.
“So John doesn’t know about the picture?” Cain asked.
“Of course not. No one does. I figured it was best to leave it alone until I could determine who the photographer was, and who might’ve left it in my truck.”
“Do you lock your vehicles at night?”
He shook his head. “If someone was going to steal a car, I doubt it would be that one.”
And he often parked it out by the curb, which meant practically anyone had access. But it seemed pretty farfetched that someone would take that picture, poke a hole through Sheridan’s face, then plant it in Owen’s truck.
Could he believe Owen? It was impossible to tell. Owen was the most self-contained person Cain had ever met. He never gave anything away. Whether or not he’d wanted his father to marry Cain’s mother. How he’d felt about skipping two grades. If he regretted graduating early. How much he missed Jason. Whether he’d resented Cain’s presence in his life. Cain never knew how he truly felt about anything.
And yet he’d revealed some emotion to Sheridan. He’d let her know he was disappointed in her for sleeping with Cain. Was she the one woman he’d always silently admired? The one who, for whatever reason, could provoke him to violence?
“What’d you tell Lucy?” Cain asked.
“Nothing. She doesn’t know anything about it.”
Cain wondered if that was the case with a lot of things. Lucy admired her husband’s intellect and praised his cool reserve. She’d been raised by a blustering drunk, a father who was occasionally abusive, and Owen appeared to be the complete opposite. But did she ever look deeper than his composed demeanor?
Cain certainly never had….
“Let’s go,” he said.
“Where’re we going?” Owen asked.
“I’m following you home.”
Owen’s eyebrows lifted above the rims of his glasses. “What for?”
“I want that picture.”
“What are you going to do with it?”
Cain snapped off the light. “I don’t know.”
“You won’t show it to Dad, will you?” he asked without moving.
“You don’t want me to?”
“He’s really upset about Amy. Maybe you and Amy were divorced, but she treated him more like a father than—” He stopped before he finished the sentence, but he’d already said enough.
“Than me?” Evidently, Owen was more flustered than Cain had realized. Or it was a calculated blunder.
“They were close,” he went on, his gaze steady. “She was his first daughter-in-law. And she came by all the time. Last week, she brought him a sack of peaches from her tree.”
“So what does this photograph of Sheridan have to do with Amy?”
“I’m just saying that…” He seemed to grope for words. “Well, with her murder and…and the way Robert’s been drinking lately…and Bailey’s rifle being found in your old cabin, I don’t think we should involve Dad in this. Robert told me Dad’s been having chest pains again.”
John had a history of high blood pressure. He also had some pretty severe sleep disorders. Cain could still remember him being up at night, walking the floor, taking a hot bath or making tea to help him relax. But Owen’s explanation wasn’t making sense. “If you and Robert have nothing to do with this, why are you so worried I might tell Dad?”
Owen didn’t answer.
“Wait a second,” Cain said. “You think it was Robert. You think it has to have been Robert. And you don’t want Dad to draw the same conclusion.”
“We don’t know enough to make a big stink,” Owen said. But Cain finally understood what was going on behind that purposely bland expression. Owen thought it was better for John to suspect Cain than to question his “real” son. Thinking Robert had done something so terrible, something that couldn’t be fixed or covered up—as John had tried to fix or cover up his youngest son’s other misdeeds and failures—might bring on the heart attack they’d feared for years.
“So I’m the sacrificial lamb,” Cain said.
The angle of Owen’s jaw revealed a hint of belligerence. “You don’t care about him anyway!”
Owen was right. But he hadn’t gone into the relationship assuming the worst. He’d been excited to have a father, had wanted John to accept him. But John had never given him anything to hang on to—no love, no emotional support, nothing. Owen had grown up in the same house, but he’d never understood Cain’s thoughts, feelings or actions, and probably never would.