When a weary 58-year-old caretaker mother uncovers her son-in-law's plot to push her pregnant daughter off a $250,000 mountain cliff overlook in 1968 Virginia, a rescue Belgian Malinois forces open...
The next morning, the taste of ashes filled my mouth. Julian had insisted I needed rest, but his tone had been more of a command than a suggestion. I knew I couldn’t sit still.
I drove Clara’s old Ford pickup into town, the engine sputtering slightly on the cold October air. Buster sat beside me, his ears pricked, his gaze fixed on the road ahead.
The sign for “Kincaid Auto & Repair” was rusted at the edges, a familiar landmark in the small Virginia town. Julian’s shop. I parked across the street, watching the grease-stained garage doors.
A young man, barely out of his teens, emerged from the bay, wiping oil from his hands with a rag. Gene Halloway. He was a quiet boy, but always had a kind word for Clara.
I walked over, my boots crunching on the gravel. Gene looked up, his eyes widening slightly when he saw me. He knew, I thought. He must know something.
“Mrs. Holbrook,” he said, his voice hesitant. “I’m so sorry about Clara. It’s just awful.”
“It wasn’t an accident, Gene,” I stated, my voice low but firm. “Julian pushed her.”
Gene flinched, glancing nervously back at the garage door.
“He’s been acting strange lately,” he admitted, lowering his voice further. “Real tense. Always on the phone.”
“Strange how?” I pressed, stepping closer. The smell of oil and gasoline filled the air.
He hesitated, then sighed. “Julian… he’s been in some trouble, ma’am. Financial trouble. Worse than he lets on.”
My heart gave a sharp thump. “How bad?”
“He’s borrowed a lot,” Gene confessed, rubbing his neck. “From some folks out of state, not proper banks. He was always worried about paying them back.”
This was the first concrete detail, a crack in Julian’s carefully constructed facade.
“And he’s been meeting someone,” Gene continued, looking down at his worn boots. “A woman. From a real estate office in Roanoke. I saw some letters, too. Official-looking.”
He vanished into a small, cluttered office attached to the garage. A few moments later, he reappeared, holding a thick envelope.
“These are some of the invoices and loan statements he keeps in the office,” Gene whispered, handing them to me. His hands were shaking slightly. “He pays me cash, so he doesn’t think I see everything. But I keep copies, just in case.”
I took the envelope, my fingers brushing against the crisp paper. On top, a bill for an exorbitant amount to “Roanoke Realty Services,” followed by several loan documents with alarming interest rates, all signed by Julian.
“He told me once,” Gene said, his voice barely audible, “that if things didn’t work out with Clara, he’d still be set. Something about a big payout.”
A shiver ran down my spine. A big payout. Clara was still fighting for her life in the hospital. This wasn’t just about money, it was about murder.
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