Chapter Six The Rain King #2
I nod. “It’s not that far. There’s a trail in the back, about a mile from…”
I drift off when I notice the state of the cabin. There’s graffiti of all kinds here, but someone has written in bloodred paint across the whole front of the house: ROT IN HELL THORN!
I stare at the venomous epitaph, then at the big wraparound porch, thinking about all the times I used sidewalk chalk on it, scribbling words and silly pictures, only to let the rain wash it away.
The red lettering was obviously painted a long time ago, but it’s still there, a monument to the hatred this town feels for my father.
The guy follows my gaze, warier now. “So you just stumbled upon this place?”
I bite the inside of my cheek. “Yeah.”
“You ever hear of Gabriel Thorn?” He motions to the cabin.
I shake my head slowly.
“Girl. Stop lying. You saw the press conference, didn’t you?” He chuckles loudly. “You’re here for the cool hard cash. Virgin, huh?”
That catches me off guard. “Excuse me?”
“It’s your first time coming out here, right? You were all excited, thinking you could find some clue that would lead you to the bodies, or to understanding the man behind the legend?”
I offer a shrug. “Busted.”
He responds with a crooked smile. “Well, let me tell you. I—and about a thousand other amateur sleuths—have combed every inch of the property. If the bodies are buried, it’s not on this land.”
“No?”
“Nope. Trust me, I’ve been looking into this case for years. I know everything there is to know about it.”
Not quite everything. I mean, he’s standing here talking to Thorn’s daughter. Not very detective-esque of him, is it, now?
“What is there to know?” I play dumb.
He snorts. “You got the weekend? It’ll take that long to go over all the evidence I’ve found. I got piles and piles of it.”
I swallow my scorn. He might think he’s something special, that he has intimate knowledge of this case, but I highly doubt it. So I decide to test him. “I heard the bodies were thrown into Sturgeon Lake.”
“That’s one theory. But they dragged that lake multiple times. Never found anything.”
“Oh,” I say, as if that’s news to me. “Why do you think he did it? You have any theories on that? Is he just plain evil?”
“Hard to say, since the bodies were never found. No official cause of death signed off by a medical examiner. No way to determine if they were sexually assaulted. But my thought is that, yes, it was sexual. He had a bad home life with his wifey, she was probably withholding sex, so he got it elsewhere. And then when wifey found out about it, he killed her too.”
He’s wrong about that. About the rape. Dad told me that.
I know my father isn’t the most trustworthy of sources, but he never actually lied to me.
And when I was fourteen, Gran gave me the letters.
Three of them, all written from prison and addressed to Gabby.
My grandmother waited years to let me read them.
I don’t have them anymore—I tore them to shreds in sheer disgust almost the second I finished reading them—but it doesn’t matter.
The contents are practically etched on my brain.
It was in the second letter, I think, when he insisted that he hadn’t raped those women.
He never said why he’d killed them, only that they’d been important to him, but he’d been clear about that fact.
I have no reason not to believe him, but it’s not like it matters. He murdered them. That’s bad enough.
One thing he didn’t do in the second letter? Or the first and third, for that matter? He didn’t profess his innocence.
And yet, even now, there’s always this tiny flicker of hope in the back of my mind that my father wasn’t guilty of those crimes.
That he confessed to spare someone else.
I read a book like that once. But who would he care about protecting enough to throw away his life?
No one. Even when I was seven, whenever we went to town he would grumble under his breath about anyone and everyone—running stop signs at intersections, taking too long in the checkout line at the hardware store.
He wasn’t a fan of most people. “All I care about is my girls,” he used to say, exhaling in relief whenever we finished our errands in town and were on our way back to the cabin.
And he killed one of us. I know that for a fact. I saw it with my own eyes.
Still, that hope never truly goes away. A fool’s hope, I guess.
“Maybe he’s just psychotic,” I suggest.
“Nah. He was evaluated. They determined he was perfectly sane.”
When the guy finally slides out of the Jeep, I catch a look at the rest of him. He’s tall and lean, wearing a Nirvana T-shirt—pretty faded, probably authentic—and scuffed Converse sneakers.
It’s only when he walks past me that I realize where he’s headed. Alarm bells go off. “What are you doing?”
He points to the door. The screen door my mother always used to harp on me for banging too loud is now hanging off its hinges, but the pale peach wooden door with the crescent window on top seems solidly closed. “Going in. You coming?”
My heart’s in my throat. “Isn’t that trespassing?”
“So? No one around to care.”
I gulp hard. I’m not sure I’m ready for that yet. After all, in there, on that floor…that’s where my mother…
Nope. My feet won’t move in that direction, even if I wanted them to. “I don’t think so.”
“You sure? You don’t want to see where the wife was offed? There’s still a bloodstain on the floor in the bedroom.”
My gut clenches. I feel all the color draining from my face, and the edges of my vision go blurry. “Sorry. No. I’ve got to go.”
I turn to leave, but he calls, “Wait.”
Stopping, I realize I’m clenching my jaw so tightly, my teeth are in danger of breaking. I take a deep breath and swing back toward him.
He half-smiles. “I’m Zed.”
Okay. This is just an innocent introduction. I can deal with that. “Zed? Is that your actual name?”
“Nah. Nickname. Real name’s Logan Zellman.”
“I’m Ryan.”
“No shit.” He rolls his eyes at me, but it’s done with humor. “Crockett High is so monotonous that we know if there’s a new squirrel in the trees. A whole-ass human? Of course everyone knows who you are.” He laughs to himself.
“Fair enough. It’s, uh, nice to meet you,” I say, although I’m not sure I mean it. There’s nothing nice about any of this. The guy’s clamoring to show me a bloodstain. My mom’s dried blood caked into the hardwood.
I might throw up.
“You ever go on Free the Sparrows?” Zed asks.
“Free the what?”
“It’s a forum dedicated to the case. It’s named after my podcast—biggest Thorn podcast out there, actually. Just passed five hundred K.” At my blank look, he clarifies, “Subscribers. I’m at half a million as of last night.” Pride shines in his eyes.
“Oh. Um. Congrats.”
“Anyway, check out the site. I’m the moderator. It’s pretty massive. Lot of theories there, a nice little rabbit hole you can fall into. All my evidence is on there, if you’re interested. I’m the Rain King.”
“The Rain King?”
“That’s my handle. From a Counting Crows song. Come by.”
I nod, though I’m not sure I will. I think right now, I’ve experienced enough true crime this morning. Not to mention the fact that I already lived it.
I feel stupid for coming out here. What was I hoping to accomplish?
“You’re seventeen, right? Eighteen?” He’s eyeing me curiously.
“Seventeen. Why?”
“Gabriel Thorn had a daughter. She’d probably be about your age.”
My heart nearly stops, but then its thudding is all I hear, drowning out the chirping of the birds.
“Oh.” Somehow, I’m able to sound nonchalant. “What happened to her?”
“Don’t know. She probably got adopted into some random family.”
I shrug. “Well, I’m not her. My dad lives in Europe, and I’m about ninety-nine-point-nine percent certain he hasn’t killed anyone. How ’bout yours?”
Zed snickers. “Pretty sure my old man hasn’t committed murder either. Lucky us.”
I don’t know how I do it, but I manage a smile. “Lucky us.”