Epilogue
A prison in the middle of nowhere, Missouri was a perfect place for Ron Dyer to rot.
Seth followed behind the guard, their shoes echoing down the narrow hall.
Some of the state’s worst offenders got to spend their days in a seventy-square-foot box here, forced to stare at a wall and think about what choices they’d made to land themselves in this position.
Although he doubted remorse was on the menu for most killers here.
Between courtyard fights and prison slop, they probably only ever felt sorry for themselves.
While Ron never failed to throw curveballs, the last thing Seth expected was for him to waive his right to a trial. He’d pled guilty, which landed him in this lovely place over a month after his arrest. A surprisingly speedy process.
Claire hadn’t been at the sentencing, but Seth certainly was. He’d had front row seats, smiled and waved as Ron marched off in his jumpsuit and cuffs. And of course, Ron laughed, because he always laughed.
Marty got off lucky with a seven-year prison sentence at a different facility, so he might actually have a chance to turn his life around and be there for his son.
He’d led the investigators to a warehouse where he, Ron, and Dillon stored most of their heroin supply.
Although Marty refused to name who else they were in business with, the FBI and DEA found out anyway.
Ballistics on a weapon found in Ron’s house linked to an unsolved, gang-related shooting in Illinois.
And another in Iowa. Which led them to a biker gang called the Celtic Saints who Ron, Marty, and Dillon had been runners for.
Ron was their trusted ally. And apparently an executioner.
The guard stopped in front of a heavy steel door. “Right in here. You know the rules—no touching the glass.”
“Got it.” Seth held a briefcase in one hand and tried not to scratch at his face with the other. He’d been letting his facial hair grow in because Claire liked it, but it was taking some getting used to. Maybe it was time, anyway. He had to admit, he liked that it made him look older.
The guard opened the door and let him in. He stepped into a cell of a room, divided by plexiglass. A private space for a chat.
Ron Dyer already sat on the other side with one leg crossed over the other. A gray jumpsuit looked good on him, and his long white hair had been turned into a buzzcut. He smiled like a kid on Christmas as Seth approached the chair.
“That’s a nice scar on your head there, Police Boy,” he said, his voice muted by the divider. “Somethin’ to remember me by?”
“Don’t worry, Ron, I’ll never forget you. Of all the murderers I’ve helped lock up, you’re my favorite.”
“Shucks, I’m touched.”
Seth sat and unbuckled the clasps on his briefcase.
“I can’t say the same for Claire, though.
Or Clementine. Or Sullivan, for that matter.
At this rate, he might never even know he had a grandfather.
” He removed an old leather photobook and peeled back the laminate pages, gaining the attention of Ron’s curious eyes, and began flipping through the pages.
“Your daughters let me take this. I noticed something interesting. So many pairs of striking, light blue eyes. Almost white sometimes. Very characteristic of the Dyers.” He closed the book.
“But then you had two girls with Celine, and they both had her green eyes. Then Clementine had Sullivan with Marty, and his eyes are as brown as they come.”
“Ah.” Ron nodded in understanding. “Symbolic.”
“I didn’t wanna say it.”
Ron laughed once, shaking his head. “You love this. You must feel like a god, having taken me down. Let’s ignore the part where I could’ve killed you with my bare hands if a woman hadn’t been there to pick up a gun.”
Seth shrugged. “You’re a big guy, Ron. I hope it’s been keeping you safe in here. You’ll need it. People won’t be nice to you just because you’re an old man.”
“Yeah, yeah, laugh it off. What are you really doin’ here, Detective? Not that I mind the break from starin’ at bars. Even if it is to look at your punk-ass face.”
“Same thing I always want.” He plucked his notebook from his briefcase, along with a pen. “Answers.”
“And what do I get in return?”
“My undivided attention for one last time.”
Ron considered it. He smiled and folded his arms over his belly. “Go on, then. Ask away.”
Seth put the pen to paper. “You waived your right to a trial. Why? I thought for sure you’d draw out your family’s torment in court.”
“Eh, I’m tired, Winslow. And that night—boy, that was the most alive I’d felt in years. After a high like that, the comedown can be months. Months. Frankly, court sounded boring.”
“I see. And what about the cage? Did you build all that yourself?”
“Nope. My grandfather was high on paranoia after two world wars. Built a secret bomb shelter, emphasis on secret. It was my daddy who repurposed it when I was a boy. There were some changes happenin’ in the world, and he didn’t want my mother gettin’ any ideas, like thinkin’ about leavin’ ’im.
He came up with creative ways to keep ’er in line. ”
“He suffered from a different kind of paranoia, you might say. How often did he put you in that cage?”
“Never. We resolved all our problems with our fists. He’d get me to help put my mother down there, though.
She was a hard woman. Stoic. Not a cryin’ mess like my girls turned out to be.
You’re wrong about me if you think I’ve got somethin’ against women—some of ’em are stronger than others.
It’s weakness I don’t like. And Celine, she was weak. I shouldn’t have bred with ’er.”
Self-proclaimed not a sexist. Duly noted. “Speaking of Celine, how’d you meet her? There’s very little information about who she is or where she came from.”
“That’d be my daddy’s handiwork. Celine worked at a roadside diner he frequented.
She was a fresh adult who’d been raised by the system, only eighteen years old, and I was a man in my early thirties who hadn’t found a good woman yet.
My mother had just died of some type of cancer.
Celine was young and beautiful and we didn’t know how to cook anythin’ but chili, so my daddy offered ’er an honest wage to work on the farm an’ make meals for us.
Then we fell in love. My daddy lived long enough to see us get married, but never got to meet Clementine. ”
“I see. And when was the first time you put Celine in the cage?”
“Never did. Unless you count me relocatin’ her remains from the hunting cabin.”
“I find that hard to believe,” Seth said, although he didn’t get the sense Ron was lying this time.
“It was my biggest mistake, not conditioning Celine that way. I had my own ideas of how to keep ’er in line.”
“Which were…?”
“Every now an’ then, you’ve gotta remind ’em they’re small. I wouldn’t lay a hand on Celine, but I’d remind ’er how easy it’d be to do so. Somethin’ you might wanna keep in mind with my Claire—she’s a runner. You’ve got another thing comin’ if you think she’ll never run from you too.”
He wasn’t worried about it. “So you intimidated Celine until she tried to run from you for good.”
“That’s right. Snappin’ ’er neck was a heat of the moment decision, but she had everything she needed to leave that night.
I found out when I followed ’er. I realized after that how right my daddy had been.
If I didn’t want my girls to run, I needed ’em to know how serious the consequences could be if they tried.
Clementine took to it better, but Claire was always a thorn in my ass.
After the waterboarding, I really did think I had ’er.
But that was another screw-up; I let my guard down. ”
“Why not let her go? She didn’t know anything about your illegal business.”
“’Cause she was mine, Detective.”
Right.
Because in the end, everything was Ron’s. Seth had made peace with his anger toward what he’d done to Claire; there was no sense in resurfacing it now. He was only here to lay it all to rest.
“Anyway, Clementine wasn’t a total failure,” Ron said. “A fifty-percent success rate ain’t bad.”
“Too bad she won’t be visiting you either.” Seth began packing his things. He wouldn’t allow Ron to feel interesting or important for another second. He stood up and said, “Good luck to you, Ron.”
He went to leave, but Ron’s voice stopped him once more. “You know, Claire might not look like me, but I’m still her father. You ever have kids with ’er, you might find yourself starin’ at an infant with these eyes.”
“Maybe. But at least they won’t have your name.” Seth tapped on the surface of the table as he turned away. “Later, Old Man.”
A look of irritation, brief as it might be, passed over Ron’s face.
That was all Seth had truly wanted to see.
Late-August had made the air cooler. Evening light spilled over the prison, creating long shadows of barbed-wire fencing over the parking lot. Seth passed by rows of cars, looking for his. It’d be a long four-hour drive back to Kansas City, but he didn’t mind. It was worth it to see this place.
He found his spot, where Claire sat on the hood of his car and stared out at the blank field surrounding the prison, stretching deep into the horizon. Her hair blew in the wind, her expression wistful.
When she heard his footsteps, she looked over at him and smiled, nervous. Seth took his place beside her and leaned against the car, setting the briefcase on the ground.
“How’s he look?” she asked.
“Mostly unbothered.” He paused. “But I think I finally managed to piss him off just a little.”
They shared a smirk, and he slid his arm behind her back. They both stared out at the field, at the clouds rimmed with golden sunlight.
“Guess this is where he’ll see all his last sunsets,” Claire mused. “Not much of a view.”
“He’ll be lucky if he can see it from his cellblock at all. It’s rough in there. Still, it’s nothing compared to what he did to you. And the people he killed.”
“I know.” She tucked her chin into her chest. “I’ve been thinking about my mom a lot, how little we all know about her. I still can’t believe I have a whole other family I don’t know.”
Seth nodded. Since this whole thing had become publicized, someone claiming to be Celine Dyer’s birth mother had reached out to Claire and wanted to meet. Seth had verified the woman’s identity—she was the real deal, and she lived in New Jersey. But Claire hadn’t answered the email yet.
“Jersey’s right by New York,” he said. “I could take you there sometime. If you wanted to meet your grandmother, that is.”
Claire tensed, not looking at him. It’d been a touchy subject. “Maybe.” She paused. “Do you think it’s true my mom was gonna leave Fairview without my sister and I?”
“It seemed like your dad was telling the truth, but the only person who knows is her. She could’ve been planning to leave, get outside help, then come back for you both. We’ll never know. He made sure of that.”
“You’re right.” Her voice thickened. “Even if she did wanna leave us forever, I wouldn’t blame her. He was probably hurting her for so long.”
Since she was eighteen, practically still a child, if Ron’s story had been true. Seth could only imagine Ron and his father had lured Celine to Fairview with the promise of so many great things.
But it was up to Claire if she wanted to know more. He dug into the briefcase for his notebook, then held it out to her. “Here. All the notes I took. There aren’t too many details, but it’s enough to paint a picture. For what it’s worth, I don’t think he was lying, but who knows.”
She went to take it, but stopped herself. She shook her head. “Thank you, but maybe another time. Today’s a good day. I’ll learn more when I’m ready.”
He slotted it away, then slung his arm over her shoulder and kissed the side of her head, breathing in the smell of her hair. She leaned into him, and he held her tighter. It was all over now. And the world was a better place for it. Claire was right; today was a good day.
Because Ron would rot in a cell forever, and Claire would finally be free.