Hank pushed out a sigh. “Help me into that chair, girl, and take me home.”

Keys rattled in the hall and I knew we only had seconds.

“Yes, sir.” I returned Seth’s hand like we’d found it and tugged the sheet up to his chin. After I unlocked the wheels on the wheelchair, I rolled it right up to Hank. I was helping ease him into the chair when the door flew open.

Hank landed on the seat with a hard thud, and he grimaced with pain.

“What’s goin’ on in here?” Mobley asked, his eyes wide. “Why is the door locked? Where’s Dwight?”

I grabbed the handles of the wheelchair and turned Hank to face the funeral home director, who was standing in the middle of the doorway. Was he part of this? Because sometime between Seth’s death and this moment, someone had burned off the numbers on Seth’s hand. Had it been Dwight?

Mobley took a look at my face. “What’s wrong?”

“We kicked your hired man out,” Hank said. “He was bein’ rude and disrespectful.” Hank reached up and patted my hand on the wheelchair handle. “I wanted to see my grandson in peace. When he shut the door behind him, he must’ve locked it.”

Mobley frowned. “I’m sorry. Dwight’s a new hire, and we’ve had a few other reports of poor customer service. I assure you, he will be dealt with.”

“Thank you,” Hank said, his shoulders slumping with exhaustion. “I appreciate you lettin’ me see my grandson, Mobley.”

“Of course,” Mobley said kindly, squatting in front of Hank and taking his hand. “And don’t worry about runnin’ into Dwight when you’re dealin’ with the funeral and such. He won’t be around.”

Was Mobley going to fire him on our account?

“I still need to pick out Seth’s coffin,” Hank said, his voice breaking.

“Didn’t I tell you?” Mobley said with a soft smile. “Wyatt Drummond took care of it.” He grimaced. “Of course, you’re welcome to change anything, but after Barb and the money issue…”

My mouth dropped open in shock. Wyatt had paid for Seth’s funeral? That wasn’t something people just did.

Hank just stared up at him for a moment, struck silent by the news. Finally, he seemed to collect himself and said, “No. Thank you.”

“Wyatt said you’d want to have the service at Drum Methodist Church, then have him buried in the Drum Cemetery. Just like we did with Barb.”

Red-eyed, Hank nodded, and said in a rough voice, “Yeah.”

“We’re planning the service for Friday with the visitation tomorrow night.”

Hank’s eyes turned watery. “I gotta wait two days to bury my grandson?” He shook his head. “No. Let’s do it tomorrow.”

“Wyatt thought you’d want a couple of days to get your feet back under you.” Mobley darted a glance at the place were Hank’s right leg should have been and his face turned red. “Uh…it’s too soon to plan the visitation for tonight.”

“I don’t want a visitation. All them people paradin’ by the deceased like they’re a circus freak show,” he said in disgust. “I lived through it with Mary and Barb.” He gave the funeral director a hard glare. “I ain’t livin’ through it with Seth.”

“I understand, Hank. No visitation, but there’s no way we can do the funeral tomorrow. We’re already booked. We’ll have to stick to Friday.”

Hank gave a sharp nod, his eyes hard. “Fine. Funeral only. Friday afternoon.”

“We can set the funeral at three and let people file by and pay their respects startin’ at two,” Mobley said.

“No,” Hank said, his jaw set. “We’ll have an open casket so people can see it’s him and stop any wild, fanciful tales that might spring up that I buried an empty casket.” He shook his head in disgust, and I wondered if that had happened to him before. “But they can pay their respects from their damn seats.”

Mobley started to protest, but I cut in. “Thank you for seeing to all the arrangements. I’m sure Hank feels better knowing everything is in your capable hands. Now that he’s made his wishes clear, I should be getting him back home.”

Mobley’s mouth pressed into a thin line. “Of course.” Then he leaned over in front of Hank and patted his hand. “Don’t you worry, Hank. We’ll take care of everything.”

“Thank you,” Hank said, sounding broken, and as soon as Mobley stood, I wheeled Hank out of the room and got him the hell out of there.

Chapter Sixteen

After I got Hank settled into the truck (not an easy feat since he was beyond exhausted), I took the wheelchair back inside and left it in the foyer. I was worried Dwight might be lurking about, but I made it back to the truck without seeing anyone.

“Tell me how to get back to Drum,” I said, my hands shaking as I gripped the steering wheel.

He gave me directions to a county road that would take us there, and neither one of us said anything until we were well out of Ewing.

“Who do you think burned Seth’s hand?” I finally asked, keeping my gaze on the road. I had one goal in mind—get Hank home and hope that Wyatt showed up soon afterward. Which was a strange thought. Up until this morning, Wyatt had seemed like my enemy, yet he clearly cared about Hank, and I felt confident he’d help protect him.

Hank closed his eyes and leaned his head back on the seat. “I don’t know.”

“Seems like Dwight might be a suspect. Do you know much about him?”

“He’s a bad seed. He gets into trouble all the time.”

“Is that the real reason you didn’t want a visitation?” I asked. “So no one would pat his hand and find it?”

He cast me a dark look. “I knew you were a smart girl within the first ten minutes of meeting you.”

“You’re okay with waiting until Friday?” I asked.

“Whether that boy gets buried Friday or three years from now, it don’t mean a damn thing. Dead is dead and that boy ain’t comin’ back.” His voice broke off, choking up. at the end. His face was pale, and I was sure he’d overdone it. I needed to get him home and to bed.

“How much do you trust Wyatt?” I paused for half a second, then added, “You must trust him if you let him identify Seth.”

He didn’t answer.

“I’m not sure we can do this on our own,” I said. “The question is if we can trust Wyatt to help.”

“He’s more trustworthy than his brother.”

“Max?” I asked in surprise.

He chuckled, but it wasn’t an amused sound. “Max wouldn’t hurt a fly, but I wouldn’t necessarily trust him to keep a secret. When he gets drunk, he talks.”

After what I’d seen yesterday morning, I wasn’t surprised by his assessment.

“You’d be worried about it getting back to their father?” I asked. “Bart?”

“Bart Drummond likes everyone to think he’s their savior, swoopin’ in to save the day, but the truth of the matter is Bart Drummond would sell Drum down the river if it lined his pockets, and he’d spin it so that whole damn town would thank him for it.”