Chapter Seventeen #2
"No, you listen! I dropped everything to come here with you, and it would be nice to be considered for once! But all you do is ignore and disregard everyone else!"
"I’m just—"
"Oh my god, shut up!" June yelled. "She didn’t drag me. I insisted. And don’t say a fucking word until we show you what we’ve got."
"You found something?" Mitchell was astonished.
Nick, too, now looked interested. He put his phone away and took a step closer to us.
I was still angry, so I shot back, "Yeah, but you gotta stop yelling, and can we please get away from this station first?"
"You’re the one yelling," Mitchell corrected, but obediently turned towards the car.
Nick crept up behind me, a smile tugging at his lips. "You’re fun when you’re angry."
"I’m not trying to be fun," I snapped. "I’m trying to do what we came here to do."
"I know, I’m sorry." He awkwardly patted my shoulder. "Hey, you’re shaking. Here."
He pulled off his hoodie and handed it to me.
I considered refusing, but changed my mind.
Why not? I was cold, uncomfortable, and exhausted.
Without even thanking him, I took it and slipped it on.
It smelled like Nick—a warm, earthy scent with faded hints of cedarwood and a subtle muskiness that clung to the fabric. Spice and summer storms.
Something about that unsettled me, a strange tightness in my stomach I couldn’t quite place. But I was too tired to overthink it.
It was just a hoodie.
"So, what happened?" Nick asked as we drove off.
I let out a long exhale and recounted. "We went to speak to Duane. I thought he might be more open with just me, or at least with me and June."
"You mean without us," Mitchell said bitterly.
June jumped to my defense. "Well, yeah, you kinda scare people a little, duh."
For the first time, she’d taken my side against her brother.
I recapped the events, feeling a surge of nausea as I recalled the state I’d found Duane in. As soon as we arrived at the hotel, I pulled out the stack of photos.
"He had it hidden," I explained. "We found it by accident. It looks like some of these are posters for missing people. And all the photos have dates on them."
With no large surface available, we spread the photos and printouts across the floor. I was so wiped out I nearly tipped over, but caught myself just in time.
"And you didn’t disclose this to the Sheriff?" Mitchell clarified, scanning the spread.
"Of course not," June said.
"Good." He frowned, picking at the collection.
"Lucas or Amanda aren’t there," I said. "We checked."
"Let’s put them in chronological order," Mitchell suggested.
For a few minutes, everyone fell silent as we arranged the photos and papers. Some years were missing, but for the most part, we managed to put them in order. The earliest date was September 17, 1984. The latest was a year before Lucas’s disappearance.
"I feel like we’re onto something, but I don’t know what that is," I said, hoping someone else would piece it together. All the dates were in the fall, mostly September, sometimes October. I buried my face in my palms and closed my eyes for a minute, hoping to refresh my mind without sleep.
"What are these dates?" June pointed to a selection.
"I’m not sure..." Mitchell replied.
I checked the time—7 a.m. The photo of Lucas and me still smiled back at me from my screen.
Nick, who had been on his phone for the past few minutes, suddenly announced, "These are Harvest Moons."
"What?"
"The Harvest Moon. Its date varies."
"And you think—" June started.
"Lucas and Amanda disappeared on Harvest Moons, too. I checked."
I lifted my face from my hands. We all looked at each other, stunned by the sudden discovery. It was too... easy. Too simple. But it explained nothing.
"When’s the next one?"
Nick checked his phone. "October 1st."
"Wait, wasn’t that the date on the Sheriff’s calendar?" June asked.
I nodded.
"The Sheriff again, huh?" Nick muttered, still looking at his phone.
"Walk me through how you found Duane one more time. Every detail you can recall," Mitchell said, lifting his gaze, brow furrowed.
"I…" I winced at the memory. "He was on the floor, lying on his side. There was a hole in his head. And another one, in the back, where the bullet came out. Blood. A lot of blood. And other stuff." My stomach turned. "Why?"
"What about the gun you saw next to him? You’re certain it was the same one he had before?"
"Yeah, I think so—"
"And there was a lot of blood? The back of his head blown open?"
"Yes and yes. It was a huge hole." The nausea rose again. "Can you tell me what this is all about?"
Mitchell’s voice stayed steady, but his face tightened. "Thing is, if Duane had a .22—and the back of his head had a grapefruit-sized hole—he wasn’t shot with his own gun. A .22 doesn’t usually leave an exit wound."
"I know what I saw," I said. "Unless these guns look exactly alike."
"They don’t. The mob used .22s for a reason. They’d walk up behind you, shoot behind the ear, and the bullet would bounce around inside your skull. Clean. Fast."
"How lovely," I muttered, swallowing hard.
Nick lifted his gaze from his phone, his brows drawn tight, jaw clenched.
I could see the flare of barely restrained emotion tug at his shoulders, pulling at his chest, which heaved rapidly beneath his muscle-fit shirt.
He looked like he wanted to interject, to shut Mitchell down, but then he looked at me, drawn by an involuntary shudder.
You ok? He mouthed the words, setting his phone aside.
I replied with a sly thumbs up and turned to Mitchell. "How would the Sheriff not know the difference between guns?"
"He does know, that’s the thing. What you’re talking about is a very poorly thought-out killing."
The Sheriff in a small town was a big deal.
He was the authority. A chill crept up my spine.
Not only had I stumbled upon a dead body tonight, but I might have crossed paths with the killer himself.
I felt like we’d been toyed with, then released.
Like a cat playing with its prey, letting the mouse think it’s safe, before closing in for the kill.
And we were about to ignore his warning to leave town.