Chapter 13

Chapter Thirteen

M urder investigations tended to move slower than molasses in the deepest of winter, but Shane had gotten lucky. It had only taken a few days to get back the phone records of Jane and Willis Colburn. He was still waiting on those for Seth and Erin, but hoped to get them by day's end, too. Seated in his office, Shane flipped through the pages of call logs and text transcripts from Jane's phone.

Most of it was unremarkable: messages from Seth about their travel plans, notes from Erin asking Jane to pick up the grandkids after school a few afternoons earlier in the month.

But then, a particular thread caught his attention—exchanges between Jane and a number labeled from an account named Cotton. He pecked the phone number into his computer, and it came up for Cotton Timmons, a man he was well familiar with, a neighbor of the Colburn’s, be it with thirty or so acres between them. Shane saw Timmons all the time at Mabel’s, walking in with a big belly and an attitude to match. Probably a shitty tipper, too.

He skimmed through quickly, eyebrows raising at the tone of the conversation .

December 23, 10:15 a.m.

Timmons: “When are you finally going to deal with that damn dog? It’s on my property AGAIN this morning.”

December 23, 10:17 a.m.

Jane: “It’s not on your property. It’s on our shared line. Calm down.”

December 23, 10:19 a.m.

Timmons: “Shared line, my ass. I’m not putting up with this anymore. Next time I see it, I’m calling animal control—or worse.”

December 23, 10:24 a.m.

Jane: “You wouldn’t dare. Leave my dog alone, Cotton. We’ve been neighbors for years. Why are you acting like this now?”

December 23, 11:45 a.m.

Timmons: “Because I’m sick of you and your damn husband thinking you own this mountain. Keep your mutt and your junk to yourself. Consider this your last warning.”

Shane leaned back in his chair, frowning. The hostility was blatant. He flipped a few more pages, finding one final exchange late that evening.

December 23, 7:30 p.m.

Jane: “We’re not doing this tonight, Cotton. You’ve been drinking, haven’t you? Stay off my property. If you come near us or my dog, I’ll call the sheriff myself.”

December 23, 7:32 p.m.

Timmons: “Try it. See how that works out for you.”

Shane’s lips pressed into a tight line. He didn’t like the implications. Had Jane showed Willis the conversation and things escalated? He flipped through Willis’s messages quickly, but didn’t see anything to or from Timmons.

That didn’t mean anything.

Grabbing the folder, he pushed back from his desk and headed for Dawkins’ office. “Sheriff, I’m going to pay a visit to Cotton Timmons,” he said as he leaned through the doorway.

Dawkins glanced up from his paperwork, raising an eyebrow. “Timmons? What for? What’s he up to now?”

Shane held up the phone records. “Maybe just running his mouth but there were some heated texts between him and Jane Colburn the day before the murders. Threats. He’s already got a reputation for being a hard-ass and I want to see how angry he actually was that day.”

Dawkins narrowed his eyes. “You think he’s good for it?”

“I think it’s worth looking into,” Shane replied. “At the very least, I’ll see what kind of alibi he’s got.”

The Timmons’ property was as unwelcoming as Shane expected. Rusted fencing surrounded the yard, and an old pickup sat in the driveway, its tires half-buried in the mud. A rooster and a few chickens roamed around, free-ranging and pecking in the sparse grass. A mangy looking dog barked furiously from behind a chain-link enclosure.

Shane knocked on the door, stepping back to give whoever answered plenty of space. After a moment, the door swung open, revealing Cotton Timmons. He looked to be in his late fifties, with a scruffy white head of hair and eyes that were equal parts bloodshot and suspicious.

“What do you want?” Timmons barked.

“Cotton Timmons?” Shane asked, though he already knew the answer. “I’m Shane Weaver with the sheriff’s office. I’d like to ask you a few questions about your neighbors, the Colburns.”

Timmons scowled. “They’re dead. What about them?”

Shane crossed his arms, keeping his voice steady even as fury burned through him. “Yeah, I know they’re dead. I’m leading the investigation and I’m looking into some recent incidents involving your neighbors. I’ve heard that you’ve had some issues with their dog. Care to elaborate on that?”

Cotton leaned against the doorframe, his gaze narrowing. “Yeah, I have issues. That mutt keeps wandering into my yard, scaring my chickens into a tizzy. I warned them plenty of times to keep it out.”

Shane raised an eyebrow. “You sent Jane some threatening messages the day before the murders. Care to explain that? ”

Cotton’s jaw clenched. “I was pissed off. Can you blame me? That damn dog ate the leftovers I threw out to my hens. I didn’t do nothing illegal, though.”

“And where were you the whole day of December 24?”

He bristled. “Home. By myself. Watching TV. You can ask my dog.”

“December 25 th ?”

“Same spot. Same dog.”

Shane didn’t smile. “All alone on Christmas, huh? No one else can vouch for you?”

“Nope. Now, you done? Or are you gonna try pinning this on me just because I didn’t like those people?”

“Will you take a DNA test?”

“Do you have a warrant?” Cotton asked, his face reddening.

Shane stared at him for a moment, letting the silence stretch. “We’ll be in touch,” he said finally, stepping back toward his truck.

As he drove away, he couldn’t shake the feeling that Timmons was hiding something. Whether or not it had to do with the murders was another question entirely.