Chapter 13
THIRTEEN
It wasn’t hard to find the road drawn on the map using Google satellite.
Twenty minutes on the outskirts of town, going east past someone else’s farm, a family named Bursell owned a massive plot of corn. Eventually, the corn cut off and gave way to a forest. A dirt road had been carved between them, leading toward more farmland in the north.
Seth idled at the corner of the dirt road, his headlights splicing through the night. He held the hand-drawn map in front of him, flattened in an evidence bag. If it were accurate, then he should be able to follow the map to a cabin of some kind.
Unless this was a waste of time. Or a trap to get him alone in the woods—a trap Haylock didn’t fall for.
He felt the weight of his gun on his belt. He’d already gone this far.
Seth put the car in drive and maneuvered onto the dirt road, staring down the barrel.
One half of the road was a wall of cornstalks, the other trees.
Rocks tinged beneath his wheels and snapped up against the windshield.
This car was no off-roader, and the conditions were worse than he thought.
His brain rattled in his skull as the shocks of the Caprice absorbed every bump.
What was he even doing? This was the exact opposite end of town Celine Dyer had allegedly died in. They’d found hard evidence in the western woods—no body, no crime, but blood was the next best thing. She had definitely died—or was attacked—out there, unless there had been some serious tampering.
Either way, Seth wouldn’t sleep tonight unless he followed this as far as it would take him. His obsessiveness had led him to dead ends before. But it had also led him to killers.
As a headache crept in from all the motion, he kept his eyes peeled for the landmark. He found it after a good ten minutes—a split in an old elm tree. He parked the car along a smooth enough patch of grass. The Caprice’s part of this journey would have to end here.
When Seth got out of the car, the wilderness hit him like a wall; trilling insects, chirps and barks, pecks and howls. A distant growl from something reminded him that there were bears out here.
And here he was, a city boy with a handgun, harshly reminded that humans were not the only dangers here.
He shut the car door anyway and let the lights go out.
The natural darkness fell over him. His feet crunched over gravel and sticks, sounding too loud as he crept into the woods.
Pillars of cold moonlight filled the interstices of the trees.
At least it was a clear night, so his eyes adjusted fast. As he got deeper into the forest, though, the vegetation grew denser, and he had no choice but to take out his flashlight.
The earth grew damp, his running shoes squelching in the mud.
Still, he kept going, grateful for the hoodie shielding him from mosquitoes.
Eventually, his flashlight caught the edge of a wooden post. As he got closer, he realized it wasn’t part of a building—it was the bones of one.
Charred bits of wood spread over a small plot of land, not much bigger than a shed.
Seth hurried over to it, looking for evidence of something, anything.
He kicked at the wood, but it crumbled to damp ash beneath his feet.
It’d been raining recently, but based on the level of char and decay, he’d guess this hadn’t happened all that long ago.
Weeks, days, maybe, but the rain had washed away any smell of gasoline, any evidence of what caused this to burn without taking any part of the forest with it.
Either way, if there ever was any evidence here, it had all been burned to the ground.
Claire’s heart was as heavy as a brick as she walked her bike down the country road, too tired to get on and pedal yet. She’d need her strength for when she got back into town, but for now, she enjoyed the solitude of the night’s embrace, leaning her weight on the handlebars as she walked.
She hated herself for feeling guilty, like trying to regain some control in her own life would mean destroying Clementine’s. Clementine’s life was an illusion, but it was still hers. All Claire truly wanted was so simple.
She wanted to leave.
But she’d learned, time and time again, that leaving was not an option.
What Clementine said was true. She’d stopped getting thrown in the cage long before Claire did.
When they were little kids, they felt more like a team; when one of them got in trouble, the other did too.
They’d both get trapped in darkness for hours.
Forced to confront the horrors their childhood imaginations would conjure up when alone in a basement.
But there were never any ghosts or ghouls in that house. The only monster was the man who’d put them there.
What choice did Claire have now?
How could Clementine not want her to be free?
Clem was supposed to be the older sister, but at a certain point, she’d stopped protecting Claire and started protecting herself. And maybe it was selfish for Claire to wish Clementine would be on her team again. She just wished she had someone.
A sudden light behind broke her reverie.
Claire turned back, terrified of the shape of a pick-up truck, but a smaller car drove in her direction.
Oh God, Dillon. But as it drew closer, she squinted against the headlights till the shape of some old black car, covered in mud, pulled up next to her.
The man behind the wheel rolled down the window.
Detective Winslow.
“Jesus Christ, Claire, did you not see the press release? You can’t be out alone at night, it’s too dangerous.”
Claire stopped walking, so he put the brakes on. His heart was in the right place—hell, he was just doing this job—but being told what to do at a time like this still ticked her off, childish as it was.
“I’ve lived here my whole life, Detective. I’ll be fine on my bike.” With that, she got on and started pedaling.
Winslow slowly drove alongside her. “I can fit your bike in the back of my car and drive you.”
Claire kept pedaling. She wanted to be alone. Wallow in her own self-pity in peace. “Weren’t those girls taken on foot? I know it was risky going out and all, but I’m fast as hell on this thing.”
“It’s not just risky. You are the exact profile this guy is looking for. Something happens to you, it’s on me. Please let me drive you home.”
He had a point. She was being stupid and stubborn. But everything with Dillon, with this fantasy she had of getting dirt on her father, had overshadowed the very real threat on the streets once she got back to town. Maybe this was another way for her to run from what she’d seen.
To run from Kelsey.
By what, becoming the next victim? She really did need to get her shit together.
“Come on, don’t make me beg,” Winslow said. “Please.”
Finally, Claire stopped, and Winslow did too. Although she’d been annoyed by his presence, she couldn’t help but grin. “You just did.”
With that, she got off the bike and rolled it toward the backdoor of his car. Winslow put the car in park and hurried outside.
“I got it,” he said, so she backed off, allowing him to lift the bike’s frame. She’d never seen him in a hoodie before—he’d almost look like a normal guy, if not for the gun and badge on his belt.
She stood back and watched as he opened the back door and attempted to shove the bike in, twisting the handlebars. Claire tried not to laugh at his struggle, but a snort escaped her.
“It so does not fit,” she said.
“Oh, it’ll fit.” With a grunt and a shove, he positioned the bike deeper into the backseat. Then, to her great surprise, he successfully closed the door. He stepped back with his hands on his hips like he was proud of himself. “There, see? After you.”
“All righty then,” Claire murmured. It was surreal, seeing him like this. It almost made her forget the ache of betrayal in her chest.
She went to the passenger side and got in. Last time she was in Winslow’s car, she’d been in the back as he drove her home before the search warrant. It felt weird to sit up front with him as he got behind the wheel. But just like that, they were on the road.
“I’d ask why you were out here, but you probably won’t tell me,” Winslow said.
Claire laughed, focused on the fields of corn passing by the window, topped by the sea of stars. “You really are a detective. For the record, it’s nothing too crazy. My family’s farm is down the road back there. Call it a midnight visit.”
“Huh. Back there on this road?”
“Mm-hmm.” She looked at him, studying his profile. “What were you doing out here? The outside of your car’s filthy.”
“Wasting time. You ever hear anything about a cabin in the woods back there? Near the Bursells’ fields.”
“Can’t say I have. My family used to own those fields, though. My grandfather sold them to the Bursells what, fifty years ago or something. They were Swedish immigrants. There’s your little bit of Fairview lore for the day.”
Winslow’s brows stitched as he glanced at her. “They did, huh? That is interesting.”
He didn’t sound sarcastic, but Claire rolled her eyes anyway. “Yeah, riveting.”
Her nosy side won as she inspected what he had going on up here.
This car was old enough to have an ashtray in the console, but it only had one cigarette butt in it.
A scent diffuser attached to the vents was responsible for that sea breezy smell she was getting.
Tucked between her seat and the cupholders, there was a piece of paper of some kind, flattened in a clear plastic bag.
She picked it up. It was some sort of hand-drawn map of a road around a cornfield, leading into a forest. The Bursells’ fields, it said.
“This is the cabin you were talking about?”
“Ah, shit.” Winslow gently took it from her and tossed it in the backseat. “You weren’t supposed to see that.”
“Could’ve said ‘hands off,’ you know.” She grinned, amused by his politeness. “Don’t worry, it didn’t mean anything to me.”
“Fell through, anyway. I should be sleeping right now, but here I am.”
“So should I.”