Chapter 8 #2
“Point is, Dillon’s got a bit of a problem with authority types,” Ron said. “It’s a struggle, but he’s a good boy, I can work with ’im. Before he could talk to you, I wanted to remind ’im how to conduct himself with dignity. Sometimes the lessons stick, sometimes they don’t.”
“So you lied to what, make sure he wouldn’t lose it on me like he did on the officers last night?”
Ron raised his hands in innocence. “I admit to no lying. And I’m doin’ my part. I personally asked Roslyn to keep ’im in a cell one more night as punishment. My future son-in-law has gotta learn to respect the hand that feeds.”
That was the other thing that rubbed Seth the wrong way. “You still want him with your daughter, even after he admitted to cheating on her multiple times?”
Ron stared at him like he’d revealed something. Then, in his usual fashion, he burst out laughing. “C’mon, man, you’ve never made a dumb choice with your dick before? Dill’s an idiot, but he’s family. Claire’ll get over it.”
Will she? Seth wanted to ask, but stopped himself, because maybe he had revealed something. Maybe he was more concerned about Claire Dyer than he should’ve been.
But surely she didn’t intend on staying with Dillon after this.
“Anyway,” Ron said, “this ain’t daylight talk, son. You wanna chat more, come by the bar tonight an’ have a drink with me. You like drinkin’, right?”
“Every now and then.”
“Then swing by an’ let me fix you somethin’.
We’ll have a chat, man-to-man. You don’t gotta do this whole interrogation bit with me.
” Ron deepened his gaze, opening his eyes wider.
They were bluer than ice, verging on freakish, starkly different from Claire’s pond-water green irises.
“I’m on your side, if you can believe it. ”
Seth considered it. Based on the information he’d been given about Ron Dyer, he was a good man. Charitable. Family-oriented. But Seth couldn’t help but think of him as a white lion—fierce, protective, but ruthless too. A guy like him might kill to protect his own.
Or protect his own interests.
With that in mind, Seth turned toward the police station. “Sure, Ron. I’ll think about it.”
Oftentimes when Claire was anxious and Dillon was out of the house, she’d turn her living room into a studio.
Whether it was designing decals out of scrap metal to hang outside, or trying to paint pictures to cover up the marks on the walls inside, some sort of craft was usually enough to keep her mind elsewhere.
Today, the smell of hot wax and essential oils filled her living room.
With shaky, rubber glove-clad hands, she poured candles into mason jars on her coffee table.
Mint green—the exact opposite color of blood.
A pungent cloud of pot smoke broke her concentration. Right—Clementine was here, still dressed up in her lilac yoga attire from her Pilates class earlier.
“I just hope there’s not a freakin’ bomb exploded all over the changeroom when I get back,” she was saying. “Marty’s tryin’ to help with Sully, but sometimes I swear that man does not know how to wipe his own ass, let alone a baby’s.”
Claire set aside the bucket of wax and peeled off her rubber gloves, then sprinkled some dried mint leaves on top of the mason jars. Early evening light poured in through the blinds, a reminder of her ticking clock.
She hadn’t heard from her dad yet. But she’d have to go to work and face him soon.
“Have you talked to Daddy today?” Claire asked.
“No, haven’t you?”
“No.” Claire bit into her lip till it hurt. “It kinda scares me, you know. His silence.”
“What’re you worried about? You should be relieved, hon. Dillon’s been cleared, he didn’t kill those girls. Daddy’s probably dealing with the, I dunno, logistics.”
“Right.”
Taking another drag off her joint, Clem leaned forward, eyeing the candles. “What’re you gonna do with these ones, anyway? Opening a booth at the fair again? You did well last year.”
“That’s the plan.” Having her own candle booth at the fair was the only time Claire ever felt like she had her own thing going for her.
It wasn’t much, but enough to add to the money pool she’d been accumulating for years.
Some days, she daydreamed about opening her own shop; the type of décor she’d have, big open windows to let all the sunlight in.
She’d spend her days surrounded by the smell of essential oils, not booze.
But when she pictured that dream, it usually took place in some nondescript city, a place with lots of foot traffic.
In other words, never gonna happen.
“You need help runnin’ things?” Clem asked. “Me and Sully can sit in, help attract buyers with his cute, chubby face.”
Claire heard the question, but was too focused on the way each dried leaf floated on top of the melted wax. Long as she could focus on something else, she could keep the images at bay.
“Hon?” Clem pressed.
“Oh—yeah, I’d love if you and Sully would help.”
Clem went quiet. Claire kept working, but the peace didn’t last long. “You know, I saw that detective earlier…”
Claire glanced sideways. Clementine would get to the point eventually.
“At the Pilates studio. You know how Kelsey worked there… I guess he was askin’ questions about her or whatever.”
Claire loved her older sister, but God, she was clueless sometimes. She hoped she’d drop it, but she rambled on.
“It really does tick me off. I’d see Kelsey there sometimes, and I never even caught her givin’ me a guilty little glance, like she didn’t give a damn she was poachin’ my sister’s man. Honestly, I always thought she was a bit of a tramp—”
“Clementine!” Claire said through gritted teeth, but it was too late.
She saw everything.
Kelsey’s blood. Her throat. The cuts.
It’d be easier to get mad at Clementine, so Claire scowled at her sister, whose green eyes were rimmed with red, nearly matching her artificial orange locks. Great, she was baked out of her mind.
“Sorry.” Clem raised her hands. “You’re right, that was harsh.”
“I literally saw her dead body.” Claire focused on the satisfying feeling of the wick as it clipped between the scissors. “Besides, if Dillon wanted to screw around, then that was his choice. Kelsey didn’t deserve what happened to her, let me be clear about that.”
“Of course she didn’t, I’m sorry. It’s just the big sister in me, wishin’ I could’ve protected you. I’d be devastated if Marty had a wanderin’ eye.”
You actually love Marty, Claire wanted to say. “Yeah, well, Dillon and I aren’t all sunshine and rainbows like Daddy likes to say we are.”
“No kiddin’. Cheating, though? I don’t expect much from him, but that’s a low blow. What are you gonna do about it?”
“What do you mean?” Claire laughed once. “There’s nothing to do about it.”
“I mean are you two still together once he gets out?”
Really, Clem? Too often, Claire felt like she was the older one, not the younger one. It felt like Clementine was happy to go the rest of her life pretending the things that happened to them—not just to Claire, to both of them—when they were girls never happened.
“Daddy wants us together,” was all Claire said.
Clementine went quiet. She stuffed her joint out in the ashtray with a sizzle, then melted into the couch. “He’s handsome, y’know.”
Claire carefully dipped a wick into a candle. “Who?”
“The detective. You didn’t notice he was handsome?”
“No,” she lied. “All I noticed was that he was hellbent on arresting Dillon.”
“I was a bit surprised when I saw him. I mean, it’s hot as Hades out there and he was all decked out in black, only showing some forearm. Nice forearms, though…”
“Clementine.” Claire’s voice was firm. “Do you not think I maybe have bigger things to worry about than some cop’s forearms? Seriously.”
A guilty look slapped across Clem’s freckled face. They were fake freckles, dotted on with brown eyeliner. “Sorry, hon, I was tryin’ to distract you with some girl talk…”
“Maybe not about the man who led Dillon’s arrest. Okay?” Irked, Claire stood up and began tidying her space. “Anyway, it’s almost five. I’ve gotta clean up and get ready for work, so...”
Clem stood up. “I can help—”
“It’s okay, Clem. Thanks for coming over.”
She did appreciate it, but damn, all Clem did was force her to think about everything she didn’t want to think about. She dropped the wax bucket into the kitchen, then came back out into the living room to see Clem standing by the front door, all knobbly kneed in her Pilates get-up.
Then, before Claire could process it, Clem trapped her in her arms. Claire froze, enveloped by the smell of her sister’s familiar, flowery shampoo.
Lillies and orange peels. She was the first person to offer her real comfort, and all the frustration Claire had felt disappeared.
Tears burned her as she hugged Clementine back.
“I love you,” Clem said. “Sorry I’m such a screw-up.”
“You’re not a screw up,” Claire choked out. “You were trying to help. Thank you.”
Clem pulled away and cleared some hair from Claire’s face. Her hands were so small and cold. “Remember you can talk to me, okay?”
“I know, Clem.”
But she couldn’t talk to Clem. She couldn’t talk to anyone. As embarrassing as it was, the one person who knew the most about the truth of her situation was Detective Winslow.
And Claire sincerely hoped she’d never see that man again.