Blood in the Ozarks

22. Southern Living

The short ride out of town was fairly quiet for the most part. For whatever reason Ortega decided to keep his snarky barbs and one liners to himself, and Cian focused his attention on the road ahead of us instead of the idiot in the backseat.

I thought we'd make it all the way to our suspect's home without incident until I heard the distinct sound of someone clearing their throat behind me.

"You know," Ortega said. "You can't get help from your boyfriend on this, Ross. That wasn't part of the deal."

"He's my fiancé." I paused like I'd revealed a dark secret. My brain had to catch up that Ortega already knew about me and Cian. I shook my head. "And in any case, he's helping us solve this and stop more people from getting hurt."

"Sure. But his solve doesn't count. This is between you and I only, and I'll know if you got your answer from him."

Cian blinked a couple times and then glanced at me and Ortega. "What's that?"

"Nothing." I gave Ortega a meaningful glare that could have sent him to his grave. Not that death would be enough to shut him up. Cian did not need to know we were betting on cases. Or that we were betting on anything for that matter.

Mentioning the bet wasn't even about Cian. About his involvement in my win anyway. In classic Tommy Ortega fashion he was trying to find a way to get under Cian's skin. To let him know we were partners on this case long before he showed up. Basically a level of childishness we didn't need right now or ever.

Our tires hit gravel as Cian turned down the drive leading up to Jayme Donner's home. Donner lived on a wide plot of land outside of town. When I had mapped out the address the night before I expected a quaint farm house; the kind of place where chickens roamed free in the yard and there was a rocking chair on the porch. But the closer we got to the single story home I realized my imagination was not even close. Slowly, all my notions of sweet tea and gingham tablecloths turned sour and began to slip away. The house we parked in front of looked more like Dorothy's house after the tornado than one you'd see in Southern Living.

The single story farm house was lacking a lot of TLC. Although there was a broad porch leading to a weathered screen door, I wasn't sure how someone even got up the aged and rotted steps. That is if they could wade through the uncut grass and weeds to reach them.

The rotting porch budded up to continued wood siding of the house. This wood was more intact and probably had been replaced and repaired more frequently over the years than the porch. And at some point an owner had painted the whole home white including the shudders. But now the shudders that were left hung on broken, rusted hinges and the white paint had cracked and flaked away succumbing to the passing of time.

"Are you sure this is the right place?" Ortega asked leaning between the two front seats to get a closer look at the dilapidated home.

Frantically, I scrolled through the notes on my phone checking and double checking we were in the right place. "I'm sure." I held up the satellite map I'd screen grabbed after checking county records that Donner was in fact the land owner.

Ortega eyed the map with apprehension. Then he looked over the phone and back at the house. "Is this place even livable? Maybe he owns the land and sleeps somewhere else?"

I pocketed my phone. "Where? The barn?"

We all turned back to the barn behind us. Although the wood was in much better shape than what was used for the house, the barn didn't seem like a more livable option. At least the house had real siding and a fully in-tact roof. Between the two, personally I would pitch a tent in the field instead.