She mustered a disinterested smile. “Sure. What’s he gonna do? Kill me?”
Judging by his dark scowl, Jonah didn’t appreciate the joke. “We’ll be listening. If there’s trouble, we’ll be there right away.”
“What I won’t do to avoid a trip to the DMV,” she said, but she knew—they all knew—she wasn’t doing this for the articles she stood to recover. She was doing this to save lives. The sooner they could get some hard evidence on Butch, the sooner he’d go to prison. Then she wouldn’t be afraid to return to her own home, and all the other women out there that might come into contact with him would be safe—including Adriana, Heather and Josephine.
All business, Jonah grabbed her arm. “Make sure you speak up, so we can hear what’s going on. And, whatever you do, don’t go inside. You go inside, no telling what might happen.”
“Don’t scare her too much,” Hunsacker interrupted. “We’re not even positive this is our guy.”
Francesca glanced back in time to see Jonah silence Hunsacker with a glare. “Better safe than sorry,” she heard him say, but what she was doing had very little to do with her safety. There was a reason Butch had asked his brother-in-law to invite her back to Prescott, and it sure as hell wasn’t because he felt guilty for stealing her purse.
Surprisingly, everyone seemed to be home. Several vehicles, including Butch’s wife’s Impala, jammed up the driveway. His son, dressed in a baseball uniform, was tossing a ball out front.
Butch’s brother-in-law answered the door almost before Francesca could ring the bell, as if he’d been watching for her. Although Francesca had braced herself for the worst—after seeing that body in Skull Valley, who wouldn’t?—she was quickly losing her fear. Surely Butch wouldn’t attack her in front of his whole family.
“You made it.” Dean offered her a pleasant smile. “Come on in.”
Jonah had warned her not to go inside, but Francesca was beginning to think that, once again, they’d put out a lot of effort that would prove wasted in the end. Whatever Butch had in mind when he asked Dean to call her—or gave permission for Dean to call her if that was how it’d happened—didn’t seem to be nearly as diabolical as she’d believed.
Still, she made an attempt to remain on the stoop. “That’s okay. I’ll just get my purse and go.”
“You won’t come in?” He sounded confused. “I think Butch wants to talk to you.”
Remembering how Butch had changed the second his family had come into view, Francesca cast a glance at his son. As long as that child remained in the vicinity, she’d be fine. She needed to push this a little further, had to walk away with something. For one thing, she didn’t need Hunsacker and Finch making fun of her for crying wolf again. “Okay. Maybe for a few minutes.”
Obviously pleased, he moved out of the way and held the door.
She imagined Jonah cringing as she stepped into a middle-class home that smelled like hot dogs and could’ve been decorated by her grandmother. A purple sofa sat against flocked wallpaper on violet carpet. Tables with doilies and gold lamps completed the effect.
Butch’s wife was too young to have a house like this; it had to belong to the old couple she’d met before. “Nice place.”
Dean laughed. “You think so?”
“You don’t?”
“I guess. I quit seeing it ages ago. It’s just…home.”
“How long have you lived here?”
“My whole life.”
She’d already guessed as much. “Your parents owned it before Butch?”
“They still own it. The house and the salvage yard. But when they retired, they turned everything over to Paris’s husband. He runs it, and they live downstairs in their own apartment. Butch said a smaller place would be easier for them to take care of so they can travel. They can head out whenever they want, but they never go anywhere.”
“Why not?”
“If you ask them, they’ll say they don’t want to leave me. I’ve heard it a thousand times. My mother says she keeps me ‘grounded.’”
Apparently, Francesca had been right about the house. She’d also been right about Dean. He wasn’t quite normal. “I see. Well, it’s nice that Butch could take over. Your parents must really like him,” she said, just to see how he’d react.
He leaned close, as if he was about to confide a great secret. “It’s Champ they’re crazy about. It’s Champ we’re all crazy about.”
The name threw Francesca. “That’s a…dog?”
“No. The boy!” he said with a laugh. “The dog’s name is Demon.”
“Nice names on both counts.” She wondered if he could tell she was being sarcastic, but he didn’t seem to notice.
“Butch chose both.”
“I suppose Champ is better than Rover.”
“I’d rather have a cat than a dog,” Dean volunteered. “But Butch is allergic to cats. He shot the Persian I grew up with the day he moved in.”
It wasn’t difficult to understand why he’d be unhappy with Butch’s actions. “I hope you had a say in that decision.”
“Me?” He shook his head. “I don’t have a say in any decision.”
“Why not?”
He studied her. “You can’t tell?”
“I wouldn’t have asked if I could.”
“I’ve got mental problems.”
Strange, he didn’t mind admitting that. “Meaning…”
“Sometimes I can’t think straight.” He tapped his head. “But it’s okay because the pills keep me on track. I’m fine as long as I take my pills.”
Which would explain his detached behavior when she’d seen him before. He’d been doped up.
“Anyway, Princess was getting old,” he said. “It was time to put her down.”
“Most people take their pets to a vet.”
“Butch is his own vet. He’s his own doctor, too. But you don’t really care about that. What you want to find out is how I feel about what he did to my cat, because you know you’d feel like shit if you were me.” He cocked his head as if seeing her from a whole new angle. “I like you. You’re smart.”
A voice came from the kitchen, and Francesca realized that Paris had been standing just inside the doorway, listening, the whole time. “I didn’t know she was here to visit you,” she said, entering the living room. “I thought she wanted to pick up her purse.”