Chapter 20
Three Days
Slash burning and dry morning air turn the fall sky the color of ultrafaded blue jeans. At the intersection with the paved county road, a beige, unmarked vehicle sits off to the side.
I slow down and cautiously approach. When I pull up next to it, the headlights pop on, so he’s started the engine. I stop and roll down my window. He does the same.
A clean-cut, redheaded, freckle-faced guy sits behind the wheel. He’s wearing the beige sheriff’s uniform. I’m relieved that he’s not KPD. I don’t need that right now.
I smile. “You posted here to watch my place?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
I can’t read his badge from where I’m sitting. “You been here all night, deputy?”
“Zane. Since early this morning.”
“Okay, well, Deputy Zane, I’m headed out for a few groceries at Super One in Columbia Falls, then to my office, then a quick stop at a friend’s, but I’ll be back. No need to follow me. I’ll be in public places.”
From what Alderson and Greene told me, the killer has only taken victims in either private or deserted places—Randal Askens in an empty park, and Vonda Loman in her garden.
Plus, I have some days left. Right?
So protective duty now might be a waste unless someone is stalking me and the deputy happens to pick up on that. A part of me is grateful they want to keep me safe. Another feels irritated for the intrusion. But I can’t blame Deputy Zane. He’s following orders and the work is monotonous.
“Thanks for doing this.”
“They want me to follow your every move.”
“I appreciate that, but I’d rather have you make sure no one unwanted swings by my place while I’m away.”
“I have my orders, ma’am.”
“Suit yourself.” I have the right to refuse protective detail, but there’s something comforting about it, so I leave well enough alone. I hit my blinker and pull out onto the highway, pick up speed quickly to match the traffic. I see him do the same in my rearview, and he follows me to Super One.
Inside the store, a stranger—a tall middle-aged man with a baseball cap—bumps into me in one of the aisles and sends my pulse thudding. He excuses himself. There’s a high-wire tension in the air now with every step I take, every move I make. I grab what I need and get out as fast as I can.
When I go back out, Deputy Zane stands outside his car, stretching. I put my groceries in the trunk and walk over to him. I might as well find out a little about him if I’m going to have him tailing me. A Styrofoam cup sits on the hood of his car, wisps of steam dissipating in the morning air.
Zane reminds me of a guy Jess used to date after her divorce from Patrick, Sam’s dad. Patrick was a long-haired, sullen guy who played in a local band.
But the guy she dated after Sam’s dad was the opposite, a clean-cut redhead. But he turned out to be a jerk. He drank too much and got belligerent when he’d had too many.
I tried to warn Jess to get rid of him, and when she wouldn’t, I pulled him over one time, too, like my neighbor with the dog, after I saw him leave a bar with another woman and warned him that it was best to get lost. I didn’t care that I was meddling in my sister’s personal affairs.
The guy needed to skedaddle, be out of her and Sam’s life. Period.
He didn’t exactly ghost Jess after this, but he politely ended it.
I mentioned to Jess that I’d run into him, and when she asked if I’d said anything mean to him, I said I hadn’t.
But I think she knew I had. Thankfully, she wasn’t too broken up about it.
She even mentioned that if I had said anything to him, I’d done her and Sam a favor.
I refocus on Deputy Zane. His cheeks are flushed. I smile at the idea that he’s still young enough to have perpetually rosy cheeks.
“Where next?” he says.
I ignore him. “What’s your first name?”
“Andy,” he says.
“Where you from?”
“East of the mountains.” He looks away like he’s embarrassed.
“What part?”
“Chester.”
“Chester? What’s the population there?”
“Less than a thousand.”
“You grew up there on a ranch? A farm?”
“You could call it both.”
I can tell he doesn’t want to talk about where he’s from, but I press on. “You went to high school in Chester?”
“No, ma’am.”
“Oh, where’d you go to school then?”
“Sage Creek.” Sage Creek is a Hutterite colony north of Chester, not far from the Canadian border. I’ve never been there, but I’ve met people who pay the Hutterites, an Amish-type community practicing an old-fashioned way of life, for permission to hunt pheasants on their land.
“But you left the colony?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“This your first job since you’ve left home?”
“I’ve worked others. Got my GED and my associate’s at the community college. Took odds-and-ends work to support myself during that. This is my first real job since . . .”
He leaves the thought unfinished. There’s sadness in his eyes.
“Good for you,” I say. “Getting that all done, I presume on your own.”
He rubs his forehead. He would clearly rather talk about something else. Anything else. I know the feeling well.
“You don’t need to call me ma’am,” I tell him as I walk away.
Fiona stares at me, her mouth parted.
“You have a bodyguard?”
“Don’t mind him,” I say. “It’s a precaution. Emphasis on caution.”
“You’re worried enough that you went to the cops?”
“I did. Worried enough to get it on the record.”
“Oh.” She furrows her brow. “I didn’t realize it was that serious. I mean, I know you’re a dead ringer for the sketch and the earrings and all, but . . .”
“But what?”
“It’s unreal.”
“Unreal except don’t tell that to the first two victims,” I say. “Or their families.”
“We’re in nowhere Montana,” says Fiona. “It’s like some stupid game.”
“Except for when it’s not,” I say. “And believe me when I say I have my own doubts.”
Inside her foyer, I can see the excitement in her eyes.
A memory of Jess asking me in high school why some kids, like Fiona, have it so easy pops into my mind.
Jess had tried out for the cheerleading squad along with Fiona.
Fiona made it; Jess didn’t. Jess was heartbroken.
“How can she be so popular? Friends with everyone, even the teachers?” Jess had asked.
I told Jess that Fiona did that at the expense of being real.
That she was sometimes fake and didn’t always follow through with people.
That it was better to be sincere. I remember saying, “You don’t have to try to fit in with people you don’t particularly like all the time to be popular, Jess. It’s okay to keep your distance.”
And yet, here we are, still friends after all these years. She has always been there, but I still feel the need to keep her in check.
“Listen, Fiona,” I say. “Because it seems like just a game, it might be tempting to pop stuff on your social media about it. I get it. It’s crazy stuff. But like I said, even if it’s not me, which it’s probably not, it’s best to play it safe.”
She stares at me, her hazel eyes wide, but doesn’t answer.
“Got it?”
“I told you I did last night. Want to keep repeating it?”
I smile at her, past the tension. “Sorry. It’s all so weird. And again, I’m sorry for waking you up.”
Fiona brushes my apology away. “Come,” she says.
She leads me into the kitchen, a small, clean, and modern space that Trey recently remodeled. She grabs the clutch off a new white Corian counter that resembles granite or marble with grayish veins running across it.
I open the shiny black flap to expose the main compartment. An old lipstick, someone’s business card, and a comb lie at the bottom. I pull back the zipper to the small side pouch and there they are, sparkly and tangled together in the corner like they’re hiding. I pick one out and study it.
Seeing it up close, however, is bad news.
It makes me realize the drawing is very accurate.
A blue centerpiece in the middle of the silver feather.
And even though the sketch is in black and white, the ones in the drawing are still eerily spot-on.
I place the earring back in the pocket with its mate as Trey enters the kitchen holding Adriana.
Adriana reaches out for me, and I hold her little hand and smile.
“Crosbie,” Trey says. “How you holding up?”
I hate that expression with a passion because it always seems designed to make you melt into a puddle, not to bolster you.
“I’m good.”
“Yeah?” He studies me with concern. Pity, even. And something else, curiosity mixed with disgust, like he’s wondering what I’ve done. If he only knew. If Fiona only knew. “You going to confess something?” he asks.
“Everything’s fine.” I say it like I believe it. I think I sound convincing. “I need to get going, though. Thanks for this.” I hold up the clutch.
“No need to thank me,” says Fiona. “It’s yours. And, Crosbie?”
“Yes?”
“Sorry—I know you’re in a tough spot.”
“Unless I’m not.”
But now, I know better.
“I’m sorry you’re going through this.”
“Thanks,” I say.
“Be careful out there, okay? Even with a cop on your butt, be careful.”
“Got it,” I say. “You bet.”