CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Earlier that Thursday, a light rain had passed over Harlan County, leaving the roads dark and the trees bright with moisture.
Wind moved along the ridges and through the narrow streets below, stripping more gold from the branches. Leaves lifted from lawns, spun across driveways, and settled against curbs in loose bands. Others came down one at a time, turning slowly before touching the pavement.
The killer drove through a neighborhood on the eastern side of Elmsview and watched them fall.
The houses there had been built close together, each with a short walk, a clipped patch of grass, and porches decorated for autumn.
Pumpkins sat beside one door. A child’s bicycle leaned against another.
Someone had tied orange ribbon around a mailbox, and the wet fabric snapped lightly in the wind.
Beauty remained possible in places that did not deserve it.
The killer eased past a row of maples. Their leaves had turned the color of old coins. Rain clung to the branches and released in small drops whenever the wind pressed through.
For several seconds, the road seemed clean of everything people had done to one another.
Then the killer remembered where Deb Mosley worked.
The car continued toward Main Street.
Traffic thickened near the center of town.
Delivery vans occupied two loading spaces beside the pharmacy, and a county truck moved slowly through the intersection ahead.
The killer kept to the speed limit and turned toward the southern end of Main Street, where storefronts gave way to the old municipal buildings and a small park.
A space opened near the curb, half a block from Harry’s Print Shop.
The killer pulled in and shut off the engine.
Rainwater clicked beneath passing tires. People moved along the pavement with collars raised against the wind. A woman wrestled with an umbrella outside the bakery before giving up and folding it beneath one arm.
The killer checked the time.
Deb would appear soon. She always took a late lunch.
Routine had always been one of Deb’s weaknesses. The same route to work. The same lunch break. The same place to sit when the weather allowed. Even after the divorce, when Deb moved from the house in Elmsview to a smaller place in Eagleton, the habits survived.
People changed addresses more easily than they changed themselves.
Right on schedule, the door to Harry’s Print Shop opened.
Deb stepped outside.
Deb’s blond hair had been cut short since the killer last saw her at close range.
It curved neatly around the ears and lifted at the crown, styled rather than merely trimmed.
Deep red lipstick sharpened the mouth. A fitted black coat replaced the loose brown one Deb had worn through most of the marriage.
The killer grimaced.
A glow-up. That was what people called it now. Divorce as a cosmetic procedure. Cut the hair. Buy different clothes. Paint the mouth as though a new color could cover everything said with it.
Deb paused beneath the shop awning and checked a phone.
A man in a delivery uniform passed, turned after three steps, and glanced back.
The killer’s fingers tightened around the steering wheel.
Deb had always known how to gather attention without seeming to ask for it. A tilt of the head. A smile held half a second too long. The appearance of openness where none existed.
Perhaps a former lover would have noticed those things.
Perhaps an old friend would have noticed, too.
The killer knew Deb.
The killer knew the careful sweetness used in public, the concerned voice, the quick laugh that made strangers feel chosen. Beneath it lived something meaner. Sordid thoughts moved behind the polished expression, waiting for privacy before they became words.
Deb had used those words freely once.
The killer had not forgotten any of them.
At 1:02, Deb started walking.
The killer waited until two vehicles passed, then pulled from the curb.
Following required patience in a town this small. A car that stayed too close would be noticed. A car that disappeared at every junction could seem just as strange. The killer allowed a pickup to move between them and kept Deb in sight through gaps in traffic.
Deb passed the florist and the insurance office. At the corner, Deb entered the Fox’s Den.
The killer knew what Deb would order before the door closed.
Turkey on rye, no tomato, mustard spread so thin it barely marked the bread.
Deb had ordered the same lunch for years and complained whenever a new employee prepared it differently.
Once, long ago, the killer had listened while Deb sent a sandwich back because the lettuce had been torn instead of cut.
Deb had laughed afterward, proud of making the girl behind the counter cry.
That memory had seemed small at the time. Most cruelty did when viewed alone. People excused each incident because none appeared large enough to define a person. The killer had learned to consider the total.
The killer continued to the next intersection, turned, and circled the block.
By the time the car returned, Deb had emerged carrying a paper bag and a bottled drink. Deb headed away from Main Street toward William Screech Square.
The park had once been the lawn of a courthouse that burned before the killer was born.
Only the stone steps remained, leading nowhere beside a bronze plaque most people ignored.
Black iron railings enclosed the square on three sides.
A paved path crossed between mature trees and a small fountain that had been shut off for the season.
The killer parked along the side street opposite the railings.
Deb entered through the northern gate and chose the same bench as always.
Wet leaves covered the grass around it. Wind moved through the branches, releasing another slow fall of yellow and brown. One leaf caught against Deb’s coat sleeve. Deb brushed it away, opened the paper bag, and removed a sandwich.
The killer remained inside the car.
From that distance, Deb could have been anyone enjoying an ordinary lunch. A recently divorced woman rebuilding a life. A friendly employee from the print shop. Someone who remembered birthdays, sent cards, and asked after sick relatives. That version of Deb existed for most of Elmsview.
The killer had seen the other version emerge when doors closed and witnesses became allies. Deb could reduce a person to a story, then repeat the story until everyone forgot there had once been a person inside it. Regret had never followed. Only irritation when consequences threatened to arrive.
Deb ate while scrolling through the phone. Once, Deb smiled at something on the screen. Another time, the smile vanished so quickly that the change might have meant nothing.
The killer wondered who had sent the message.
A man from the print shop? Someone Deb met after leaving the marriage? A stranger from HearthSpace who knew only the version Deb chose to display?
Jealousy would have made sense, but the killer felt something cleaner. Rage had no need to pretend it was love.
Deb finished half the sandwich, wrapped the rest, and placed it back in the bag. The bottle remained unopened. Lunch breaks had grown shorter since Harry started taking larger commercial orders, but Deb still used the square when the rain stopped.
The killer left the car.
Cold wind moved beneath the killer’s coat. The scent of wet soil rose from the flower beds near the railing. Across the street, Deb remained focused on the phone.
The killer walked to the corner, crossed with the light, and entered the park through the southern gate.
Black railings stood between the path and the road. For a moment, the killer stopped behind them and watched.
Deb sat with one leg crossed over the other. Red lipstick marked the edge of the sandwich wrapper. A strand of blond hair had come loose near the forehead, and Deb smoothed it back with two fingers.
Deb was pretty, and people had always forgiven her for it.
The killer moved along the path.
Each step brought Deb’s old words closer. Advice delivered with absolute confidence, as though someone else’s marriage could be reduced to a few lines on a screen. Leave him. Protect yourself. Don’t look back. Deb had been more certain than any of them.
A leaf struck the killer’s shoulder and slid away.
The killer approached from behind.
Deb must have heard the footsteps. Deb lowered the phone and turned. Recognition spread across the carefully made-up features.
A smile followed.
“Oh, fancy seeing you here.”
The killer returned it.
“Great to see you, Deb.”
There was no alarm in Deb’s expression. No caution. That pleased the killer more than fear would have.
The killer sat on the bench, leaving a polite distance between them.
Deb tucked the phone into a coat pocket. “What brings you into town?”
“Errands. I saw you come out of Harry’s.”
“I’m hard to miss these days.”
“That new haircut suits you.”
Deb touched the back of the styled hair. “You think?”
“Very much.”
Approval softened Deb’s posture. The killer had remembered that correctly. Compliments still opened the same door.
The old ease between them returned with disturbing speed.
Anyone passing the bench would have seen two acquaintances sharing a lunch break.
Deb had no reason to study the killer’s clothes, the parked car across the street, or the care taken to arrive at exactly the right time.
Familiarity completed most disguises before a lie was ever spoken.
“How are you settling into the new house in Eagleton?” the killer asked.
“It was strange at first, but I’m loving it now.”
“Quiet?”
“Quieter than the old place. Smaller too, which I thought I’d hate.” Deb glanced toward the trees. “Turns out I don’t need as much space when I’m not filling it with someone else’s junk.”
The killer gave the expected smile.
“How is the divorce?”
“Final, thank God. I thought the paperwork would never end.” Deb picked a crumb from the wrapper. “You know how it is. Everybody tells you the marriage is the difficult part. Then you try separating bank accounts and furniture.”
“Was it ugly?”
“Only when it needed to be.”
That was Deb’s gift. Cruelty always became necessity once Deb described it.
A gust moved through the square. Leaves scattered across the path, clicking over the wet paving stones. Deb pulled the coat tighter.
Then the confidence shifted.
“Have you heard about what happened to Karen Sloane and Ruth?”
The killer kept the smile from forming.
“It’s horrible.”
“And Linda Mercer now.” Deb’s voice dropped. “Three women in less than a week.”
“I heard.”
“They’re saying the same person did it.”
“People say a lot of things.”
“This time I think they’re right.” Deb flattened the paper bag across one knee. “Karen had just divorced. Linda walked out on her husband. I heard Ruth was having problems with the man she was seeing.”
The killer kept her voice neutral. “That describes a lot of women.”
“I know. It’s probably why it bothers me.”
“Because of New Beginnings?”
Deb glanced toward the path.
No one stood close enough to hear. An elderly man walked a dog near the fountain, and two women crossed the far entrance with shopping bags.
“Half the women in that group are leaving someone or thinking about it,” Deb said. “Three murders like this makes you wonder.”
“Do you think the others should know?”
“I thought about posting something, but I don’t want to frighten people over a connection that might not exist.”
“That sounds sensible.”
Deb nodded, though uncertainty remained in her expression. “Maybe.”
Deb checked the time on the phone and stood.
“Anyway, I should get back to work.”
The killer rose, too.
“I’d love to see your new house.”
Deb’s smile returned, immediate and bright. “Why don’t you come over tomorrow night?”
The invitation came easily.
The killer imagined the front door opening. The new rooms. The private place Deb had chosen after ending the marriage. Perhaps photographs would still be waiting in boxes. Perhaps Deb had already erased every sign of the old life.
“What time?” the killer asked.
“About eight?”
“Perfect.”
Deb folded the paper bag and placed it in a park bin. “I’ll send you the address.”
“I already know Eagleton pretty well.”
“It’s easy to miss. I’ll send it anyway.”
“That would be lovely.”
Deb stepped toward the path, then turned.
“See you tomorrow.”
The killer smiled.
“You can count on it.”
Deb walked back toward Main Street.
Wind lifted the short blond hair at the crown. The black coat moved around Deb’s legs as another handful of leaves came down across the square.
The killer watched until Deb passed through the gate.
Tomorrow night, the red lipstick would not matter.
Deb would be much prettier with her tongue removed.