Chapter 22
TWENTY-TWO
Morning light broke through the curtains of the trailer. Dillon’s shower was running, but Claire was glued to the TV screen in the living room as she bopped her pajama-clad knees together and bit her thumb, listening to the woman on the screen.
“In breaking news, police have confirmed the identity of the victim in last night’s attack as thirty-one-year-old Melissa Starr, a school teacher from the neighboring town of Watfield.”
A photo appeared of a pretty woman with a big smile and an endearing gap between her front teeth.
She wore her hair the same way Claire did: long, mostly-straight, and parted down the middle.
Claire felt jittery as she glanced at the photo of her mom on the end table.
Melissa Starr had brown eyes, but maybe the killer was getting less choosy.
The TV segment continued.
“…they do believe the perpetrator is the same person who murdered Eliza Johnson, twenty-six, and Kelsey Campbell, twenty-three, further confirming this as Fairview’s first known serial killer in history.
Police have released the following footage of the suspect and the suspect’s vehicle in an attempt to appeal to the public. ”
A grainy video played on the screen—footage from the gas station, where a man in all black ran past the pumps, never looking back. He got into a van parked across the street and sped off.
“The suspect vehicle, seen in the video, has been described by eyewitnesses as a work van, white or possibly light blue, with no significant bumper stickers or markings. The suspect is thought to be between the ages of twenty-five to thirty-five.”
They showed the composite sketch next. Beside the couch, Claire’s old digital camera, a shiny pink, was plugged into the wall. She’d spent all morning digging through her closet till she found it at the bottom of a junk box, and she prayed it could still take a charge after all these years.
Because the face in the sketch could be familiar, but she needed to compare. Then she could confirm it with Seth.
You need to nut up and talk to him anyway.
There was her conscience again, dredging memories up with it.
God, she’d made a fool of herself last night.
She hadn’t had a flashback that debilitating in years.
She remembered heaving, glitching in and out of memory and reality, being in front of the trailer, under the moonlight, and then Seth.
His smell, smoky yet clean. It’d taken her a few moments to realize she wasn’t fourteen and in the cage.
She was ten years older, tucked into that man’s chest, feeling his fast heartbeat on her forehead. He was holding her.
“See? You’re okay.”
His voice, brassy and warm, firewood burning on a cool night.
It’d been enough to ground her back into reality.
But not enough to save her from the dread that had seeped into her pores and soaked her to the bone.
Then he’d grabbed her wrist, gentle yet assertive. Stared at her like he really gave a damn, and it did conflicting things to her heart. She felt so selfish for not opening up to him more. All she’d done was push him away, and she’d spent the rest of the night under a blanket of shame.
People are dying, you idiot.
A rattling at the front door caused her to seize. Keys jangled, and the door pushed open, followed by heavy footsteps.
Her dad appeared in the doorway to the living room, so tall he practically hit the ceiling.
“Claire Bear,” he said.
“Daddy…” She turned off the TV. “What’re you doing here?”
His gaze skated across the room as he tucked his hands into the pockets of his denim overalls.
“Dill’s with me today. Business matters.
Don’t worry about it.” He pointed at her, suddenly rigid.
“Listen, we’re keepin’ the bar closed today, so you stay here, you got that?
No grocery store visits or little strolls to smell the flowers.
You don’t leave this house. You understand? ”
Claire nodded. Maybe he truly did just not want her to get killed, but as always, it felt like a ploy for control.
He leaned against the doorway. “What’d our detective friend tell you last night?”
Claire tensed. “What do you mean? Nothing…”
“He didn’t ask you nothing? Didn’t give you any idea who they think their suspect might be?”
“No. I mean, why would he tell me important stuff like that? He just felt responsible to get me home safe. When girls die, he gets blamed.”
“Huh.” His eyes bounced around the room again. “Y’know, I’ve been thinkin’, you and Dill have played house here long enough. Let’s get rid of this hunk of junk trailer an’ get you two back at the farm.”
Her stomach fell into a pit. “What, why? We’re doing fine here, Daddy.”
“No you ain’t. You belong at the farm. You begged me to let you two move out and I obliged, ’cause it’s good for a woman to know how to take care of her own house, but all this shit that’s been goin’ on made me realize that was never the right call. It’s time to get back to your roots.”
She didn’t know what to say. Every memory she’d had of the cage yesterday terrified her, reminded her, and in the end, they even stopped her from telling Seth the truth. Proof of her dad’s success in training her like a damn animal.
She dug her nails into her palms.
Tell him you hate him.
Tell him you’d rather die than step foot in that house again.
Tell him he’ll have to kill you first—like he killed your mother.
Dillon’s shower turned off, coating the trailer in silence, and brought her back to the present. She uncurled her hands. Thank God she’d said none of that.
Because if her dad did kill her mom, then she needed to prove it, not tip her dad off that she was onto him.
“Yes, Daddy,” she said, like the obedient girl he wanted her to be.
Fairview had managed to survive the night without another murder, but that was hardly a comfort. If last night had been hell, this morning had been even worse.
A trip to the morgue, a meeting with a grieving pair of parents who ID’d the body. Even hours later, Seth couldn’t forget their horrified, sobbing faces and the way they’d looked at him as he explained the situation, like why didn’t you stop this?
He wished he had. There was nothing he could do or say to make this better.
He just needed to finish this.
Finally back at the station, he’d spent the last several minutes in the conference room with Chief Wells, the blinds closed tight.
He didn’t want anyone outside of this room to know his theory yet.
Chief Wells shared Seth’s exhaustion, seated on the other side of the table across from him.
She’d been the one mostly dealing with the press today.
“All right, so if I’m understanding this, you think one of Ron’s former farmhands is our guy,” Wells said, interlacing her fingers on the table. “If that’s true, and Ron does have an inkling of it, why hasn’t he come forward?”
“Is it not possible the killer could know something Ron doesn’t want getting out?”
“Sure, but why all the theatrics? If the killer has dirt on Ron, why not just report it?”
“You heard what he said. He doesn’t think Ron—or whoever he’s talking about—will pay for any of his crimes.”
“Yeah, ‘not without the body,’ I heard it.”
“And he’s probably right.”
Seth’s mind went back to last night, to being in his car with Claire, before her panic attack. Through her stutters, she’d tried to tell him something. The word “found” had slipped through.
“We don’t know if what this guy thinks is true,” Seth said.
“All I’m saying is it could be the motive.
He’s obviously not going about it in a sane or rational way, but when dealing with killers like this, sane and rational go out the window.
I want to know who those farmhands were, but I can’t trust Ron to give me their names. ”
“So I’ll go ask Ron myself,” Wells said. “I’ve known the man my whole life. I remember some boys coming and going on his land back in the day. Maybe he doesn’t feel comfortable talking to an outsider.”
What a joke; if there was one thing Ron Dyer liked, it was the sound of his own voice.
“No, Ron loves talking to me, just not about the truth.” He paused.
He’d told Chief Wells about his visits with Ron, his theory about the farmhands.
But there were still things he hadn’t given her—and didn’t want to.
Not yet. “Chief, I need this to stay quiet until we know what we’re dealing with.
I think I have a witness who will talk.”
Wells’s brows stitched. “Who?”
He hesitated. Claire’s panic attack last night had been his fault.
He’d gotten too bold, hadn’t properly considered her feelings, and subconsciously assumed she could handle anything.
Then he had the audacity to get frustrated when she still wouldn’t open up.
That wasn’t the way he was supposed to conduct things with a witness.
But Claire wasn’t just a witness to him. She knew things about him. And he was starting to feel like he knew her too.
And one thing that had been important to her since the first day was her anonymity.
Maybe she still didn’t trust him, but he had to find a way to show her she could.
“You don’t want to tell me,” Chief Wells stated.
“Let me see if I can get them talking on the record first.”
“Oh, brother…” She tugged at her cross necklace before dropping her hand.
“Look, I’m not one to step on toes. You’ve got your process, and I’ve got mine.
If you think this farmhand angle is worth chasing down, I say chase it down, but I need a suspect, Winslow.
I need the names of these farmhands and a damn compelling reason to bring one of them in.
If you think this ‘witness’ will talk—get them talking.
Otherwise, I’ve got no choice but to start digging into this lead my way. ”
“Just give me a few hours. Not a word to anyone else until then. If they still won’t talk, then we’ll switch tactics.”