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Back We Were Killers Once Save as PDF
Chapters (65)
  1. Title Page
  2. Copyright Notice
  3. Dedication
  4. One
  5. Two
  6. Three
  7. Four
  8. Five
  9. Six
  10. Seven
  11. Eight
  12. Nine
  13. Ten
  14. Eleven
  15. Twelve
  16. Thirteen
  17. Fourteen
  18. Fifteen
  19. Sixteen
  20. Seventeen
  21. Eighteen
  22. Nineteen
  23. Twenty
  24. Twenty–one
  25. Twenty–two
  26. Twenty–three
  27. Twenty–four
  28. Twenty–five
  29. Twenty–six
  30. Twenty–seven
  31. Twenty–eight
  32. Twenty–nine
  33. Thirty
  34. Thirty–one
  35. Thirty–two
  36. Thirty–three
  37. Thirty–four
  38. Thirty–five
  39. Thirty–six
  40. Thirty–seven
  41. Thirty–eight
  42. Thirty–nine
  43. Forty
  44. Forty–one
  45. Forty–two
  46. Forty–three
  47. Forty–four
  48. Forty–five
  49. Forty–six
  50. Forty–seven
  51. Forty–eight
  52. Forty–nine
  53. Fifty
  54. Fifty–one
  55. Fifty–two
  56. Fifty–three
  57. Fifty–four
  58. Fifty–five
  59. Fifty–six
  60. Fifty–seven
  61. Author’s Note
  62. Acknowledgments
  63. Also by Becky Masterman
  64. About the Author
  65. Newsletter Sign-up

This beat my Kitt Peak present all to hell. I felt like one of those people who discovers a Van Gogh in their attic. I decided not to tell Drew that this was a sketch of Richard Eugene Hickock, almost certainly drawn by his partner in crime Perry Smith. I was leaving it in his hands and thought it better not to reveal its potential value. We’re talking hundreds of thousands of dollars at auction. I leaned closer to the single page of lined notebook paper next to it, only confirming that the name was there as Drew had read it to me over the phone.

“Did you read this?” I asked.

“No,” he said. I’m sorry if I’m biased against youth, but I wasn’t surprised at his lack of interest. Maybe he couldn’t even read cursive. I carefully picked up the letter and asked for a folder to get it home safely. The creases where it had been folded in half and then folded in half again so it could be hidden behind the sketch were making the paper tear.

Drew focused on his job. “Your husband asked for this simple wooden frame with a two-inch matting, apricot. How do you like it?”

What I really wanted was to get out of there and get home where I could examine the letter more closely, and do an internet search to make sure it was something original rather than a copy of something already in the archive. “Sure, sure. Fine,” I said about the matting choice. “About the folder?”

Drew touched the Scotch tape that had been used to stick the sketch to the cardboard backing. “This is old stuff,” he said, scraping at a corner of the yellowed, brittle tape. “I should trim that away from the paper. It will make it just a little smaller but there’s no other way. Do you want the backing or should I throw it away?”

“Might as well pop it in the folder there. Good,” I said, restraining myself from screaming at him. Thinking more, I almost told Drew that I couldn’t leave the sketch there after all, that it was too valuable. But it felt as if more than one person had been accusing me of paranoia lately, and I took it to heart. Pretending to scoff at myself for worrying so, I did ask him if he had a safe he could leave it in overnight. He did.

Thirty–five

I forced myself to drive the short distance home without reading the letter to make sure I could get there before Carlo returned so he wouldn’t know I’d seen his present. Then I regretted my delay when I saw Carlo’s car in the garage. I could have lied and said I’d been to the grocery store, but had no groceries to show for it. Easier to simply confess.