Chapter 4 #3
“What were you thinking, huh? You know you don’t have to let a cop inside just ’cause he asks. I’ve told you that.”
“I don’t know, Dillon, I was tired. I worked the bar all day, I found out my ex-boyfriend is dead, then came home to this goddamn mess—” She took a breath to calm herself. Getting emotional was a mistake.
The moment Claire started to freak out was the moment Dillon was suddenly a Jedi master of calm.
Dillon gave her an arrogant look, like she was the crazy person.
“That's not my problem. I do the work with your dad that actually gets us money, and you're complaining about a few bottles?” He knocked some of the beer bottles off the table. They clunked onto the floor, but didn’t break. Claire still flinched. “Grow up, Claire. I’m taking a shower. Don’t bug me. ”
With that, he took off.
Claire ground her teeth.
Lightning flashed across the ceiling of Claire’s bedroom. She lay as stiff as a board in bed, unable to sleep, even though it was midnight. Rain tinged against the roof, followed by a low growl of thunder.
Dillon was beside her, snoring.
When they went to bed, he’d smoked a bunch of weed and passed out. He hadn’t asked how she felt about Brad’s death. Hadn’t hugged her or offered any sort of comfort. Frankly, it was impossible to reconcile who Dillon had become with who he used to be.
Back when they were teenagers living on the farm, and Claire was going through all her drama with Brad, Dillon would come to her room sometimes to comfort her.
Almost like he was sent there just for her.
When she finally did break up with Brad, she’d leaned into that crutch, learned to rely on it.
At least with Dillon, she’d never have to worry about him dropping off the earth with a needle in his arm.
From there, their relationship moved too fast and spiraled out of control before Claire could even process it.
“You deserve better,” Detective Winslow had said.
Another man coming to her, telling her the boyfriend she had wasn’t good enough.
But Dillon was the “better.” He was supposed to be better for her.
She’d spent the last several years being told—mostly by her dad—that Dillon was it for her. Part of the family.
The confusion of it all made her dizzy, a spinning top bouncing off the bars of a cage.
A flash of lightning illuminated the room. She spotted Dillon’s phone, face-up beside his head as his snoring revved louder than any thunder. He disgusted her. She often felt like she disgusted him too.
Without thinking, she snatched the phone. She crept out of bed, into the hallway, then to the bathroom. He’d be too stoned to wake up and notice.
In the bathroom, Claire put the toilet seat down and sat on it, then unlocked Dillon’s phone. The glow filled the dark room. If there was anything suspicious surrounding Eliza, drugs, or anything else, it should be in there.
She checked his search history first—predictably, a lot of porn.
Her stomach felt sick as she scrolled through the lists of websites, all about women who looked sort of like her, but with massive boobs.
She glanced down at her own small chest, feeling gross.
It wasn’t like she was attracted to him anymore anyway, but goddamn, why’d he ever go for her in the first place?
Whatever, jackass, go for it. She wanted something more incriminating than that, so she scrolled through his text messages.
They were all to his friends. Not even one to Marty or her dad.
Did he delete them? Instagram also had nothing.
She checked his message history with Eliza Johnson, but nope.
Snapchat—a slew of usernames, none of them familiar.
Claire rolled her eyes. She didn’t have the energy to care about his blatant infidelity.
There was nothing useful in here, but she wasn’t willing to accept it. She swiftly left the bathroom and put the phone back in their bedroom. She slipped out just as fast and grabbed Dillon’s car keys off the console table, then crept into the night.
If he’d messed up before by leaving one of those dime bags in his car, then maybe he’d done it again.
The trailer park was dead quiet at this hour, and the storm had settled into a drizzle, sprinkling over her hair. She ducked toward Dillon’s car and unlocked it with the fob.
Claire dug into the trunk first, sifting past the clothes and trash.
When she didn’t find squat, she went into the backseat.
It stunk like old fast food. A cup with the golden arches sat in the cupholder, stagnant and sugary, probably weeks old.
She crammed her hands between the seats and felt the gritty sensation of dirt and debris.
Ugh, disgusting.
She was about to give up when something plastic and square-shaped poked at her hand. She dug deeper and yanked it out till she could see it in the half-light from the moon, pouring in through the car’s back windows.
And there it was, crumpled in her hand. A small dime bag with a red stripe across the top.