Chapter 9
NINE
By nightfall, Seth had exhausted as many sources of information about Kelsey Campbell as he could get.
Maybe it was morbid curiosity that had brought the end of his day here, parked inside of his car outside The Stalk and Barrel, contemplating going in.
A damp haze settled over the town, the air swollen with the threat of rain.
He’d spent most of his day interviewing those who knew Kelsey.
Since her parents had died in a car crash, the Pilates studio she worked at downtown was her anchor.
Her friends were her coworkers. They described her as bubbly, a ray of sunshine—but secretive too.
They were all surprised to hear about her affair with Dillon Beamish, claiming she was far out of his league.
But maybe that was why she’d kept it such a secret.
From what Seth could see as he spent the other half of the day researching Kelsey’s life, she didn’t like to be judged. Her social media gave the impression of a girl who lived in a big city, not a small Missouri town. Kelsey only showed the world what she wanted them to see.
Everything about her painted a completely different picture than Eliza Johnson.
Everything except their appearances.
Something about thin white girls with long, dark blonde hair meant something to the killer. It made them worthy of his words, cleaved into their skin. Worthy of his hatred, love, fury—a mixture of all three.
If that were the case, then who was his blueprint? Another living girl? Someone he’d already killed, who was never discovered? His mother? An ex-lover?
Who was this message really for?
Seth gazed at the flickering sign of The Stalk and Barrel, a neon red hue against the gauzy night sky.
The killer had done something else different this time too.
When Seth went to the morgue this morning, Dr. White, the coroner, showed him more X-rays of Eliza Johnson’s neck and the bruising she had.
With Kelsey, however, he’d skipped that step—he’d gone straight to cutting her throat after subduing her with heroin and carving his sentence into her arm.
Perfecting his method, Seth supposed. But it was odd.
Without another thought, he stepped into the night.
Inside the bar, the air was sticky with the scent of spilled beer.
A handful of laggardly patrons slumped over some tables while others leaned against pool cues.
Seth’s eyes followed the wrap-around bar, dotted by drink rings on old varnished wood, until they landed on the first pretty thing he’d seen all day.
Claire. At the end of the bar, she stood with her hair tied back in a low braid, the loose strands catching the amber lights like flicks of fire.
She hummed along to the Stones on the jukebox and wiped up the counter, a calm expression on her face, eyes half-lidded and focused on the motion.
She looked peaceful like this—in her element.
Away from Dillon. Away from the home they shared.
Then she noticed him, and it all melted away, replaced by caution. He’d tainted the moment like the smudge of a dirty fingerprint on glass.
He walked up to her anyway, just as she tossed her rag aside and pulled a tray full of clean dishes toward her.
“Hey, Claire.”
“Detective.” She began sorting dishware into their designated spots. “What brings you in?”
“Your father said I should come by for a drink.” He glanced around the bar again—no sign of Ron Dyer, so he slid onto one of the stools. “Hey, so listen, I’m sorry about last night. About the warrant. I just felt like we couldn’t risk losing evidence.”
“You mean you couldn’t risk me destroying it.”
“Well…”
Claire resisted his gaze, her cheeks spotted with red.
“S’all good. Lucky for you, I ain’t one to hold a grudge.
” She pressed her palms on the counter to stop herself from fidgeting with the glasses.
“Besides, you could’ve sent some man in there to rifle through my bedroom, but you asked the only woman. That was decent of you.”
Seth felt his posture relax. Although it didn’t matter how she felt about him, he was oddly relieved she didn’t hate him.
And after what he’d seen at the morgue this morning—Kelsey Campbell’s body, stiff and purpling from livor mortis—it was nice to talk to a living, breathing woman.
“How are you holding up?” he asked. “I’m surprised to see you working after what you saw last night.”
She shrugged half-heartedly. “I’d rather be busy here than wallowing at home, you know?”
“Strong girl.” He hadn’t handled seeing his first dead body well. Then again, it had belonged to his mother.
“Nah, I wouldn’t say that. More like I’m running from the thoughts. Kinda cowardly, if you think about it.”
Her sudden openness read like an invitation, so he rested his elbows on the bar. “What thoughts?”
Claire went quiet. He almost thought she’d back out, but she said, “You ever have a dream where you’re trying to move, but it’s like you’re being weighed down? Like wading through water.”
“Sure, I’ve had that before.”
“Whenever that happens to me, I sorta become lucid. I hate feeling trapped, so my conscience turns on and I try to wake up. When I finally do, I find myself gasping for air like it really happened. But then there’s this peace in knowing it was a dream and I can go about my day.
It felt like that when I saw her. For a while afterward, I thought I might be able to wake up.
Maybe part of me still feels that way. Maybe if I work and act like everything’s fine, I won’t have to think about how I never will. ”
He wasn’t sure what to say, surprised she’d opened up so much. It must’ve caught her off guard too, because embarrassment turned her features rosy. When she smiled, she smiled big—all teeth and gums, and it was beautiful. She shook her head like she felt foolish.
“Sorry, that sounds stupid,” she said.
“No, not at all,” he saved. “I get it. I guess I’ve seen so much now that I forgot what it’s like.”
“I thought I’d seen it all. I mean, I went through hell with Brad.
I’d find him nodding off at this abandoned house downtown, where all these addicts would be sleeping on mattresses.
I remember thinking, damn, this must be what dead bodies look like.
But that was nothing compared to the real thing. I don’t know how you do it.”
Seth felt the words on the tip of his tongue, the rare desire to connect to another person.
To tell her how the first body he ever saw was the worst body he ever saw.
That it had given him that feeling she described, like a dream he wished he could wake from—but he never did wake up, and he never quite felt that again.
On the contrary, every body he saw felt so viscerally real that it cut through any surrealness like a knife.
It was his job to stop these things from ever happening.
To make up for what he couldn’t stop the first time—the violent murder of his own mother, the only image his brain could never reconcile with.
Even now, when he tried to picture it, the flashes of blood on their kitchen tile made him queasy, sick to his stomach, and God, he did wish he could wake up, but—
“Do you think anything happens after?” Claire asked. She peered at him, looking for hope, grounding him back in this bar with her. The moment rattled him. He hadn’t expected to think about his mother, and he hadn’t expected to be shaken by it.
He forced a small smile; he didn’t want to lie. “No, I don’t.”
“Yeah, me neither,” she murmured, slotting the final glass away. “Nice idea, though. Guess that’s what makes life so important. It’s not right for someone to think they can take that from someone else. But you stop them, right? I admire it, actually.”
“I try to.” He had ghosts in his past too, people he couldn’t save. Although he’d just fallen into this job, Kelsey was one of them.
This was nice and all—sitting at this bar, enjoying Claire’s company—but it was not his purpose here.
“That house you mentioned, where the addicts stay,” Seth said. “Where is that?”
“Oh, it’s—”
A gruff voice cut into the moment.
“I’m not interruptin’ your date here, am I?”
Seth backed off, straightening his posture and distancing himself from Claire. Ron cackled and smacked his back. It nearly knocked the wind from his lungs.
“I’m just messin’ with ya, kid. I told ya, no more hard feelings, water under the bridge.” He pointed toward Claire. “Pour us a couple of the good scotches, would ya, Claire Bear?”
Claire ducked away. It was like her energy had depleted the second her father appeared. Moments later, two tumblers of bronze scotch appeared before them.
“Thank you,” Seth said to Claire.
Ron gave her a look, then Claire disappeared to the other side of the bar, wiping up a phantom spill with a rag.
“Well, son, cheers.” Ron held up his drink. “I’m glad my future son-in-law ain’t some murderer. Here’s to Dillon’s innocence.”
Seth hesitantly clinked glasses with him. The scotch burned down his throat, oaky and mellow, easing his nerves. “I wouldn’t celebrate so soon, Ron. Dillon’s been cleared for the murders, but the dime bag in his car is not a good look. There might be more questions about that.”
Ron threw back a gulp of scotch, then rested the glass on the table with a thud. “How old are you really, kid?”
“Twenty-eight, sir.”
Seth braced himself for the inevitable. Sure enough, Ron burst into a wheezy laugh.
“Shit, man! You’re practically a baby still shittin’ in his diaper. Where does the state get off sendin’ a detective here who ain’t even hit thirty?”
“I’m experienced, sir. Experienced enough.”
“Sure ya are. Anyway, Dillon’ll be released tomorrow, and I trust that’ll be the last we’ll be hearin’ from ya. Unless you wanna sit for a drink with my beautiful daughter, of course, which you’re always welcome to, long as you’re buyin’.”
“Like I said, there could be more questions.”
Ron heaved out a theatrical sigh. “Look, you’re doin’ your job. You wanna find the sick bastard slicin’ up those girls. We all want that, right?” He turned to the bar, spread out his arms, and in a booming voice, said, “Hey, who wants the cops to bag that killer slicin’ up those girls?”
The room, half-drunk and half-paying attention, nodded and muttered in response.
Ron turned back to Seth and shrugged as if he’d made a point.
“See? We all want that. So I know why you’re doin’ what you’re doin’.
Gotta cross all your x’s and dot all your i’s.
But Dillon ain’t your guy, and you know it now.
I hope you won’t waste more time on it. Hell, you just got here and another body’s already dropped.
I doubt you’ve got much time left to waste. ”
Seth knew what Ron was doing. It irked him, but he tried not to show it. “I just found it odd Dillon was linked to two murder victims who died within a week of each other. You can’t blame me for looking at him the way I did.”
“You ever lived in a small town before?”
“No, sir, I’m from Brooklyn. I moved to Kansas City six months ago.”
“Out here, you’ll find a lot of coincidences. Assloads of ’em. Just ’cause I banged Eliza Johnson’s mother forty years ago doesn’t mean I killed ’er daughter.”
Seth turned away. Ron’s words left a bad taste in his mouth.
Claire was still across the bar, busying herself by organizing some napkins.
She peeked over her shoulder and caught him staring as he sipped his scotch.
She looked away, but he lingered on her a moment longer, taking her in.
He wondered how someone like Ron could raise someone as nice as her.
He remembered the photo in Claire’s living room, the one of her late mother.
Maybe that was where her sweetness came from—nature over nurture.
Ron was still waiting on a reply, so Seth said, “Point taken.” He slammed the last of his drink and stood up. “Thanks for the drink, Ron. Let’s do it again some time.”
Ron chuckled and shook his head, lips still to his glass. “Cheers, son.”
Seth left without another word. Once he was outside, making his way through the drizzly parking lot, his phone buzzed. A text from Claire’s number:
The house is at the corner of Main and Weston. Can’t miss it.