The Bones Will Speak by Carrie Stuart Parks

first “gift” Winston’s brought home.
    But what about the paper? A message?
    Or just that, a piece of paper.
    Leaving the cat, I pulled out my keys and reached for the front door.
    It was unlocked.
    A chill ripped through me. The killer could have driven over here after leaving the McCandless farm. He could have walked right into my house. Used my phone to call Dave.
    Killed my daughter.
    Racing to the car, I yanked my rifle from the trunk, then returned to the house.
    The living room was empty, but I could hear clattering from the kitchen. I crept down the hall and peeked into the room.
    Aynslee turned and spotted me. “You got a bunch of phone calls. Did that detective guy get ahold of you?” She stacked the last dish from the dishwasher on the shelf.
    â€œWas someone here? Did you hear anything?”
    â€œNo. Why?”
    â€œSomeone may have left a dead cat by the door.”
    She shrugged. “It was probably Winston. You know how he is.”
    I slung the rifle around my shoulder. “And you left the door unlocked.”
    â€œIt’s always that way. None of the locks work.” She eyed the rifle.
    â€œThe outside doors lock just fine if you push hard. I told you to lock it after me. From now on, you’re not to let anyone in this house except me. Do you understand?”
    â€œWhat? Are you grounding me? What did I do wrong?” She picked up a dish towel and threw it into the sink.
    â€œI—” How much to tell her? I’d tried to keep the more sordid part of my work out of her young life. The last case changed that. She had been front and center when I was shot.
    â€œPlease sit down.” I pointed to a chair, then walked to the entry and put my rifle in the display case. When I returned to the kitchen, Aynslee was seated at the kitchen table playing with her hair.
    â€œYou remember what happened to me just a few months ago?” I sat beside her.
    â€œHow can I forget? But Winston . . .” She sat up and stopped twirling her hair. She stared at me, then stood and looked out the window. “Where’s Winston?”
    â€œThat’s what I’m trying to tell you. Winston’s at the vet.”
    She spun. “What do you mean? Is he okay?”
    â€œYes. A detective drove him over to be treated. I think he has a dislocated hip.”
    She bit her lip. “What happened?”
    I told her about finding the grave, Mattie, and Winston. I withheld the phone call about a “killer dog” that could have gotten Winston shot by Dave. Aynslee slowly walked back to the chair and sat. “So that’s why I need you to listen to me,” I finished.
    â€œIt’s not fair that I have to be locked up just because there’s a sicko loose.”
    â€œHumor me on this one.”
    â€œWhen can we pick up Winston? I’m safe with a dog. Nobody messes with a Pyrenees.”
    â€œSoon.”
    â€œOkay, then.” Aynslee leaned forward. “I did all my chores. We need to pick up Winston and you need to decide if I can go to the show.”
    â€œGive me a few minutes, then we’ll drive over.” I stared at her hair and thought about Mattie. “About your movie marathon . . . you absolutely cannot go alone. And what kind of movies are we talking about?”
    â€œLike, romance kinda stuff.”
    â€œRomance kinda?”
    â€œYou know, special love, like that.”
    â€œSweetheart, in my world, Ed Gein is special-love-romance kinda stuff.”
    Aynslee puckered her lips. “Who’s Ed Gein?”
    â€œThe inspiration for Psycho ’s Norman Bates.”
    â€œNo, Mom. Like vampires and zombies. That kinda stuff.”
    â€œAh, yes. Well, that’s reassuring.” I gave her a wry smile. “That’s a no to vampires. And zombies. Anyway, I’m not going to Missoula after all. Isn’t there something running in town?”
    â€œIt isn’t the same. Missoula’s a big