Chapter 5 #2
“Why do you think he had that?” he asked. “Is he a user?”
“No, Dillon doesn’t shoot up. Trust me, he’s terrified of needles. But I think… maybe he could sell it. And maybe…”
“Maybe he was Eliza’s dealer.”
She nodded. “There’s been other things over the years.
Sometimes he drives off in the middle of the night.
Guys will show up at our place at random times, but only stay for ten or fifteen minutes.
If I ever asked why, he’d make excuses. I thought he was a weed dealer for a while, but…
now I’m wondering if he’s been dealing this heroin crap this whole time.
If… maybe he sabotaged my relationship with Brad back in high school, got him hooked. ”
“So he could have you for himself,” Seth suggested.
“Which doesn’t make any sense, ’cause Dillon and I are anything but intimate. Most days, I think he hates me.” She laughed without humor. “Hell, I think I hate him too.”
She hugged herself. Still holding something back.
Seth took a step closer. Claire didn’t back away. A sign of her own cautious trust in him building, he hoped.
“Is there something else you wanna tell me, Claire?”
She chewed on her lip. “I heard you at my place earlier. You asked Dillon about some girl coming around, someone who looked like me. You were talking about Eliza, weren’t you?”
For whatever stupid reason, suspecting her boyfriend of being a murderer seemed easier than telling her he might be a cheater too. “Actually, one of your neighbors thinks it was a different girl. I was hoping you could enlighten me.”
She sighed. “Who knows. I’m not stupid, Detective. I know he’s not loyal.”
The moment of vulnerability caught him off guard—a glimpse into her true feelings, beyond her hardened veneer.
“I think it’s mostly online stuff. Snapchat and all that.
He doesn’t hide it well. I checked his phone earlier for anything about Eliza, but if they ever talked, it’s been deleted.
” She peered down at her feet, clad in Converse high tops.
“I know how it looks. Things with me and Dillon. Our relationship’s fucked, but we have our reasons for staying together. ”
“You were right earlier. It’s not my place to judge your relationship or make comments about it outside what I need for the investigation.”
Their eyes met. “So why did you?”
It was too personal. Seth’s intention was not to know Claire Dyer—or let her know him.
It was never wise to get swept into subjects’ lives during a job, but something about her situation hit too close to home.
He’d said those words—you deserve better—in part because she did deserve better, everyone did, but also because he’d missed his chance to say those words to his own mother before it was too late.
“That story I told you about my mom was true,” he said. “She brought home a lot of bad guys. I projected some of that onto you.”
“I was telling you the truth. Dillon has never hurt me. Not physically.”
“I believe you. But if there’s even a chance he’s behind this, you need to be careful. Maybe go stay somewhere else until he’s ruled out. I could arrange for you to go out of town, you can tell him it’s a vacation.”
She hesitated, her gaze flitting across his face. “I can handle Dillon. Worst thing I can do is start acting different.”
“Fair enough. Just… stay safe. Sometimes you can live with someone and never see their true colors until it’s too late.”
She turned away. “Yeah, I know.”
Detective Winslow had insisted on tailing Claire home, at least to the entrance of the park, since Eliza Johnson had been taken by herself at night.
The wheels of her bike glided through puddles as she weaved down the quiet street.
Her sweaty palms tightened around the grips of the handlebars, worn down from her years of roaming Fairview on this thing.
She stole a glance back at Winslow’s headlights, fuzzy in the night’s humidity, and prayed she hadn’t just made the biggest mistake of her adult life.
If her dad found out she ratted Dillon out…
He’ll choose him.
He’ll teach me another lesson.
The air thickened in her lungs. She’d been good for ten years, since the last time she’d tried to “leave family behind,” for reasons she couldn’t even remember now.
Trusting Winslow was a gamble, but Claire wasn’t sure she’d ever sleep at night again if she didn’t at least try to do the right thing.
And maybe this could lead into something bigger—proof of Dillon’s lies.
Even if he had nothing to do with Eliza, maybe he could still get arrested for the drugs, and then that’d be one less problem.
Wishful thinking, probably. Good things like that didn’t happen to her.
Claire veered around the corner, onto another street.
The trailer park appeared in the distance now, over the tops of the bungalows.
A few more turns and she’d be at the gate, and Winslow would stop following her.
She’d have to crawl back into bed with Dillon and his foghorn snoring and pretend nothing happened.
Near the end of the street was a patch of grass that led to the river, which cut between the park and the neighborhoods.
A few trees reached into the overcast sky.
As she drew nearer, something halfway between the grass and the concrete caught her eye.
Bright white and fleshy, angled funny. Someone passed out?
Claire squinted. Homeless people in Fairview were more likely found downtown, on benches or in abandoned buildings, not in a family neighborhood like this.
But that was the shape of a person. As they came into view, she realized they were wearing a red shirt.
Her bike rolled to a stop. Winslow’s lights were right behind her now, casting a spotlight on the person.
That was not a shirt.
On shaky legs, Claire got off her bike and walked toward them.
The once familiar surroundings now felt distant and strange, like wading through a dream.
Long, sandy blonde hair was matted with the red liquid on the person’s chest. Their eyes were wide open, staring at the sky, no sign of life. Glass eyes. Not real.
A noise, somewhere behind her. “Claire, don’t go any closer.”
Winslow’s hands gently tugged at her arms, an attempt to turn her away.
She resisted him. She couldn’t tear her gaze from the body.
Every angled piece of flesh, every drop of crimson burned into her memory.
She knew this girl. Knew her from town, from the school bus stop years ago.
Her name was Kelly or Carey. Something like that.
“Hey.” Winslow tugged at her again. “Claire, look at me.”
Finally, she let him spin her toward him. His face was panic-stricken and gray. But all she could think about was Kelsey. That was her name. Kelsey.
A burst of nausea nearly knocked her off her feet.
Claire keeled over and vomited on the pavement.