Chapter 2
TWO
“Daddy, we need to talk.”
Claire’s fists shook at her sides and her voice trembled as she tried to look strong in front of her dad and his friends. Her dad bounced her baby nephew, Sully, on his lap and held a hand of cards. He blinked at her like she was stupid.
“What is it, sweetie?”
“Alone. Please?”
Around the table in the back room of the bar, Claire’s dad and his buddies were having one of their poker games.
She knew better than to act up when the bikers were in town—especially those sleazy ones that came in from Illinois, and especially when they were playing poker—but she’d just been told something she couldn’t wrap her head around.
Her dad flashed a dangerous smile. “Whatever it is, I’m sure it can wait till later. We’re in the middle of a game here, baby girl.”
“I think something happened to Brad. Kay said she saw a bunch of cop cars and an ambulance at his house. Do you know anything about it?”
“Know anything?” He glowered at her, all serious eyes. They were the color of ice, so different from hers. “Brad Bailey was a worthless junkie, sweetheart. Sounds like he OD’d. Breaking news: bear takes shit in woods. Why would I know anything about it?”
A gut feeling, mostly. Claire’s dad had always hated Brad, and he used to say that someday, Brad would “get what was coming.”
Claire swallowed the lump in her throat.
Her dad’s friends continued to watch her, and she felt uneasy under the weight of their stares.
They were all like him: early sixties, tattooed, tougher than a leather boot, some with rat tails and cut-off denim vests.
She hated the way they scanned her body like she was some sort of tasty meal.
It’d started when she was fourteen and had only gotten worse now that she was twenty-four.
It was a nauseating feeling, knowing the men who watched her grow up wanted to screw her.
The door to the bar dinged, snapping the tension in two.
Claire peered through the window on the door to the main area of the bar.
No customers were here this early, but a man she’d never seen before entered.
In fact, she’d never seen a man like him on anything but a TV screen—clean-cut, tall, with creamy skin that contrasted against his dark attire and short brown hair.
If it weren’t for his boyish, clean-shaven face, she’d think he was much older.
Her dad’s hulking frame appeared behind her, still holding Sully. “Well fuck me, that’s him, boys. The kid detective I told ya’ll about. I guess he’s replacin’ Haylock, and the state sent ’im quick ’cause of that bitch who got killed.”
Claire winced. Eliza. Her name had been Eliza.
“We oughta find the bastard who killed ’er ourselves, bringin’ more city detectives ’round here. I could handle Haylock, but I dunno about this one.”
“I’ll go talk to him, find out what his deal is.” Claire went to leave, but stopped and scooped Sully into her arms. He came with her willingly, making a cute giggling noise.
“That’s my girl.” Her dad patted her back. She tried not to let him see her flinch.
Putting on her game face—a big, bright smile—Claire breezed out behind the bar, Sully heavy in her arms. She was still baffled her tiny sister had created such a big-ass baby.
He cooed and gurgled as she walked over to the man.
A badge shaped like a shield was mounted to his belt, catching the amber shade of the bar lights.
Claire did well to keep the bar tidy, the surfaces of the tables glossy, in spite of the dive bar aesthetic.
“Hi, good mornin’!” she chimed. “Sorry about the baby here, we don’t normally get folks in before noon. Can I help you?”
The man nodded like it was no big deal. He must’ve been warm in that outfit—slacks and a charcoal button-up, rolled up to his forearms. “Good morning, miss.” Inky blue eyes lingered on her for a moment too long. His voice was deep and smooth, but not unkind. “Are you Claire Dyer?”
She nodded. She hadn’t expected him to full name her. “I am… can I help you?”
“I’m Detective Seth Winslow. I’m working with Fairview PD. I was hoping I could ask you a few questions.”
She tensed up. “Is this about Brad? One of our regulars lives on his street, said she saw some cops and stuff… he’s dead, isn’t he?”
The detective’s features softened. “I’m afraid so.”
Claire sucked in a breath. The pain in her chest intensified, but at the same time, she felt lighter. Back in high school, she’d lived in fear of a visit like this. But time had numbed those feelings.
In a horrible way, she was almost relieved.
She held onto Sully tighter, appreciating his warm skin on hers. “I see. Well, I hadn’t known Brad in years, so I don’t think I can help you.”
“Do you mind if we sit somewhere and talk?”
He clearly wasn’t going anywhere, so Claire bottled those feelings inside and told herself she’d crack into them later.
“Sure thing.” She zipped from behind the bar and looked up at the detective, quite a few inches taller than her, and managed a toothy smile.
He didn’t react. “I hope you don’t mind my nephew tagging along,” she said, leading him across the bar with her arms full of Sully.
“My sister Clem’s out shopping with her husband Marty, so I’m on baby duty. ”
“The conversation might not be the most kid-friendly.”
They reached a booth, far from the back room. Claire sat on one side with Sully, the detective on the other. “It’s all right, he hasn’t even said ‘mama’ yet. Don’t let his size fool you—he’s only six months old.” She tickled his belly. “Ain’t that right, Sully?”
Sully giggled. When Claire glanced up at the detective, there was a ghost of a smile on his face. A dimple on each one of his pale cheeks. Everyone had to smile when they saw a cute baby. It reminded her that he was a person, just like her. No need to be nervous of him.
And he did look young, maybe only a few years older than she was.
She remembered the last detective who’d breezed into town, that grizzled old man with a belly that could hold more beer than she could pour, who was respectful till he had a drink or ten in him, then the comments about “pretty girls like her” started to come out.
It was sad he’d died and all, but that guy had told her to “smile more” one too many times. And Claire already was a smiler.
The subtle handsomeness of the man in front of her caught her off guard.
“First and foremost,” Detective Winslow said, “I’m sorry for your loss. I understand you knew Mr. Bailey well.”
Mr. Bailey. She hadn’t heard anyone call him that since high school, and it was always when he was in trouble.
“Used to know him,” she corrected. “We dated on and off in high school, but then he got real into the drugs, and his goofy old self became less funny and more concerning. Most people stopped talking to him years ago.”
“Did you?”
Instinct caused Claire to turn toward the kitchen, because she felt someone’s eyes on her.
It was Dillon, her boyfriend, who also worked as their cook during business hours.
He watched through the window that led into the kitchen, burning a hole in her head.
Detective Winslow didn’t seem to notice, his attention fixed on her.
“Mostly,” she said. “I’d text him every now and then to make sure he was still breathing. Probably been a year since I’ve sent one of those.”
He pulled out a photo, then put it on the table. “This was on the table beside Brad’s bed.” He slid it closer to her, and her heart dropped.
She hadn’t seen this in years.
It was her and Brad at prom. She looked drunk and stoned off her ass—she had been—and Brad was giving a goofy smile to the camera.
Seeing it hit her over the back of the head with memories.
She didn’t want to cry in front of this man, but in this photo, she didn’t see Brad, the addict—she saw Brad, the sweet guy who used to hold her hand and tell her how pretty she was.
The girl in this photo had loved him from the bottom of her heart; all she’d ever wanted was to save him.
Claire dabbed the few tears that escaped and handed the photo back.
“I’m sorry,” Detective Winslow said, his voice earnest.
“S’okay. I just always wished Brad would get better, and I’m sad to know he never did.”
He tucked the photo away, then took out a fancy iPhone, opened something on it, and turned it to her. A picture of a dime bag with a red stripe along the top. “Have you seen this before?”
A tickle of familiarity, followed by an image in her head—more like a camera flash—of seeing something like this.
Not years ago, but recently. As in a month ago, maybe less.
It was in the back of Dillon’s car while she was cleaning, but she’d passed it off as garbage because Dillon didn’t shoot up or do any drugs like that.
“What is it?”
“It’s black tar heroin. We found bags like this at Brad’s house, but this one was found on Eliza Johnson’s body. I’m sure you heard what happened to her.”
“I-I did.”
Damn it—she was losing her composure. Her palms dampened with sweat, her heart thumped so loud she was sure Sully might hear it. Why would the same dime bag be found at Brad’s place, on Eliza’s body, and in the back of Dillon’s car?
Claire might’ve been kept in the dark, but she wasn’t stupid.
She knew her dad and his buddies were into some shady business, and she knew Dillon and Marty were part of it too.
Maybe that was why the dime bag had been in Dillon’s car—because they sold drugs.
That must’ve been the connection the detective was looking for; find where the bags are coming from, open up a new world of people Eliza knew, people who could’ve killed her.
But Dillon, flawed as he might be, was no murderer.
“I’ve never seen it.” The lie fell out. For a moment, she regretted it. But she had to protect her family. Right?
“Okay.” He took the photo away. “Did you know Eliza at all?”
“Not really. She went to my school, but she was two grades ahead of me. That’s about as far as I knew her.”
“What about your boyfriend?”
“My boyfriend?” She never said she had one.
“Dillon Beamish.” His expression showed no emotion. Claire had no idea how to read him. She’d tried flashing her girlish charms or whatever and he seemed completely unfazed.
Feeling cornered, she laughed. “No, he didn’t. They were probably in the same class, but he never said anything about her. If he knew her well, he would’ve told me when she died.”
“Of course. He wouldn’t have any reason to lie about that.”
She wasn’t sure if he was telling her or asking her. “No, he wouldn’t.”
He offered a slight smile. “Sorry for all these questions. Since you all went to school with Eliza, I have a lot of history to catch up on.”
“It’s all right. This was never just about Brad, was it?”
He was decent enough to say, “No,” and Claire appreciated the honesty. She watched him take out a notepad and pen from his pocket and set it up on the table. “One more question, Claire—do you know where Dillon was the night Eliza died? That was Monday, June 23rd.”
Claire racked her brain for the answer. “Um, yeah, he was home. I remember it ’cause he was playing his video games real loud till the early hours. All those gunshots ticked me off. I got the news about Eliza in the morning, and Dillon was in bed by then.”
The detective jotted things down, tilting his notepad enough to hide it from her vision.
“I’m sure you’re just doing your due diligence, right?” She laughed nervously. “I mean, my boyfriend can’t be a suspect here. He didn’t know Eliza.”
“Of course,” he replied, but this time, she sensed he was not being honest. “Maybe I could talk to Dillon myself. Is he around?”
“Um—”
A rough hand smoothed over her shoulders.
Claire turned into a block of ice. Her dad leaned over them, his white hair in a long ponytail, shaved short at the front, matching the goatee around his mouth.
He’d swapped out of his denim vest and into that long-sleeved tartan button-up that did well to hide his tattoos.
Now, he looked no different than a grandpa in a Wal-Mart ad, flipping burgers in front of a grill.
He playfully said, “Aww, come on, man, you always come into a man’s business and make his daughter cry?”
“I’m not crying, Daddy,” Claire muttered, wiping her eyes to be sure. Maybe there were a few stragglers left. Sully bounced on her lap. Claire had been so absorbed into the conversation, she’d nearly forgotten about him.
Detective Winslow’s expression didn’t change as he exchanged a firm, slightly-too-long handshake with her father.
“Ron Dyer,” her dad said. “I own this bar, been in my family for two generations now.”
“Detective Winslow. I was just asking—”
“I overheard ya. You were asking where my cook, Dillon, is, but I’m afraid he’s not in today. I sent ’im to grab some supplies from a farm in the next town over, so he won’t be back for a while.”
Claire frowned. Dillon was in the back. Why were they lying?
“How long is a while, sir?” the detective asked.
“Sir!” Her dad cackled. “Hey, it’s nice to have some respect ’round here. You’re all right, kid. Polite. To answer your question: few hours, prob’ly, but Dillon’s his own man. Will see ’im when I see ’im.”
Detective Winslow did not seem convinced. He turned to Claire. “You don’t know when he’ll be back?”
“N-no idea.” Claire’s stomach lurched. Here she was, complicit in all these lies, when she didn’t even know what she was lying for.
“Right,” Detective Winslow said. “I need to talk to him. Could you let him know I stopped by?”
“Sure, man, no problem,” her dad replied.
The door dinged, and a group of people came in—the Welsh family, equipped with Grandma Welsh, her daughter, her daughter’s daughter, and a baby. They came in every Sunday like clockwork for bacon and eggs lunch, but this time, their timing was impeccable—the perfect out.
“Ahh, the lunch rush begins,” her dad said.
Detective Winslow stood, and Claire did too, scooping Sully into her arms. “I’ll come back at a better time.” His gaze briefly met hers before he nodded at them both, then took off across the bar.
“I’m sure you will,” her dad muttered.
As he left, the detective glanced at the kitchen window, but Dillon wasn’t there anymore.