The Man Who Hated Ned O'Leary (Dig Two Graves 2)

Ned had become his.

Cole grabbed the photograph, breathless and fearful of what Lars might think if he saw it. For a moment, he wanted to hide it under the wood stacked in the fireplace, so it would melt as soon as they lit it, but he couldn’t make himself do that and stuck the frame inside his jacket. It was a good thing he rushed in first because if Lars saw that picture, he’d know. To anyone else, the memento would show two friends having a good time, but Lars would have recognized the enamoured gaze with which Ned, the one from the past, who no longer existed, stared at Cole.

A look of pure devotion.

Cole shook his head to get rid of unwanted memories. The past he still remembered so fondly had been a lie, and he needed to focus on the truth of the present.

Beyond the icy scent that hung in the air from lack of heating was the undertone of rotting food and the dank odor of unwashed bedding coming from a massive nest of blankets and pillows resting on the floor near the fireplace, so he turned his attention to the messy kitchen.

A mouse fled out of an open can with a squeak when he kicked the empty container, but a stack of books on the counter was what drew Cole’s attention. Several pages with recipes had been ripped out and nailed to the wall. Only that Ned couldn’t have read them since they were… in French.

Stacked with bottles, jars, and implements for producing moonshine, the state of the kitchen suggested Ned was more concerned with making booze than preparing meals, but canned food and dried goods did fill the open cupboards too—likely stolen from the Wolfman’s victims.

Cole ignored the door that surely led to the pantry and turned, taking in the floor littered with all kinds of dirt and debris, from woodchips to pebbles. A large animal bone rested by another pile of blankets in the corner, but as he approached, wondering why the furry beast needed not one but two places to sleep, a moment from the past crashed into him and stabbed his flesh with icy needles. He turned around to face the pantry door again, his body so stiff he could hear it creak with rust.

He knew this house.

It looked different in daylight, and the memories from when he’d been there as a boy had long faded, but he knew this was the very place Zeb had led them in the depths of winter so many years ago.

The paint on the pantry door had cracked from age, but the basket of fruit and mushrooms someone had depicted on the wooden surface was still recognizable for what it once was—a sign that delicious treats hid inside.

Tom and Zeb had murdered the homesteader for trying to protect his family, then terrorized his wife, and taken all their food. Cole sometimes wondered if the boy he’d found hiding in the cupboard had survived. He’d never mentioned him to anyone but Ned. He’d wanted to prove his trust by sharing a deep secret but only got deception in return.

The nice people who’d originally lived here were no longer present.

On the other side of the interior were two rooms. One contained yet more bottles, cans, and some firewood littering the floor, but the other open doorway revealed a large bed. Cole had missed the comfort of a mattress, but as he strode toward the dark cave, he noticed two skulls resting on the pillows. A stag’s, with mid-sized antlers, and that of a female deer.

He frowned when he swiped his fingers over the blanket covering the bed and picked up a thick coat of dust. So the two piles of bedding in the main room didn’t belong to the dog.

Why did Ned sleep on the floor when a perfectly good bed was right there? Then again, Cole had already established that Ned wasn’t right in the head.

“Now that’s creepy. I’m surprised this place doesn’t smell of wolf shit, though I admit it’s pretty drab. Maybe you need a woman to take care of you, eh? A nice wolf lady,” Lars mocked, walking Ned inside. The dog followed them in with a high-pitched whine, circling Ned’s legs and wagging its tail so fast the beast’s whole body rocked with it.

Ned ignored him and made a step toward the kitchen, but a quick punch to the kidneys had him bending in pain.

“And where are you going?” Lars asked.

“It’s just… C—my dog needs food.”

“What did I say, Lars? He is mine,” Cole said with force, standing with his feet slightly spread, in a comfortable position to draw his gun. Lars wasn’t a sharpshooter. In fact, he wasn’t even a good shot, and this kind of veiled threat from Cole had never lost its effect. No one would be taking this pleasure away from him, especially not Lars. He’d waited seven years, and if Ned was to be punched into submission, he’d be the one to deliver the blows.