Chapter 19
NINETEEN
Seth knocked on the screen door of the small house, rattling it, and hoped Pereira would forgive him for this.
Night had settled over the town, and crickets chirped in the garden beside Pereira’s front door.
She lived in a single-story home with white paneling and a rainbow flag in the front window.
He’d tried taking the kitten back to the motel, but when it pissed on the floor, he quickly realized he didn’t have the means to deal with it.
He didn’t know the first thing about raising a kitten. Especially one so tiny.
Pereira opened the door wearing plain clothes, an oversized flannel and a pair of sweats, her brown hair tied back in a loose bun. “Winslow? The hell are you doing here?”
“Hey, sorry, but I need your help.”
“Jeez Louise, I’ve gotta get up for another night shift soon—I’m supposed to be nappin’. Do you have any idea how overworked they’ve got me?”
“It’s not about work.” He held up the box. “Can I come in?”
With a roll of her eyes, Pereira pushed the door open, welcoming Seth in. He stepped inside her small home, met with the smell of incense and cats. A large, long-haired cat jumped into the foyer and rubbed against Seth’s leg.
And this, right here, was exactly why he’d chosen Pereira—he’d seen the photos on her desk.
He also had nowhere else to turn, but the photos helped.
“All right, what’s in the box?” Pereira asked with her hands on her hips.
Seth opened a flap and flashed her the contents.
“A kitten? What the hell?”
“I saved it from Ron Dyer’s farm. He was gonna ‘mercy kill’ it.”
Pereira gave him an incredulous look. “Oh, lord, Winslow, are you serious? I’ve already got three cats.”
“I know, I know, I’m sorry. I’ll take it back to Kansas City with me, but can you look after it until then? Just until the killer is caught. It’s just so small. I have no idea what I’m doing.”
She drilled her hazel eyes into him before she said, “You’re a piece of work, you know that?” and snatched the box from his hands. “Go sit on the couch or something, make yourself at home. I’ll be right back. I know where I can put this guy for now.”
Seth sighed in relief. “Thank you.”
He went into Pereira’s living room and sat on the couch next to a bundle of cat toys. One of the other cats, a short-haired one, sat like a loaf of bread on the arm of the couch, sassily ignoring him. He’d hoped the hangover would be gone by now, but he was still listless, anxious.
Pereira came back into the room and plopped down on the couch across from him. “He should be good for now. Won’t be the first kitten I’ve litter trained. You’re welcome, by the way.”
“Sorry. I really do appreciate it.”
“Don’t mention it. Why were you at the Dyers’, anyway?”
“Following up on the tip line from the other day. Ron didn’t think it was anything worth exploring either. But when I saw him and his… mercy killing, it made me wonder if people learn that often on farms. Snapping necks, I mean.”
Pereira shrugged. “Sure. I grew up on a chicken farm, and my daddy had me snapping necks when I was twelve. I didn’t like it, but he told me I shouldn’t eat what I’m not willin’ to kill myself.”
Seth had to admit, slaughtering animals was not on his bucket list. “Maybe I should be a vegetarian. I already gave up beef.”
“’Cause of the Brooklyn Butcher?”
Apparently, Pereira had done her homework on him. “Good guess. Anyway, it got me thinking—what if the killer has farm experience? He tried to snap Eliza Johnson’s neck, and she was his first. The coroner insisted the fracture was a direct manipulation by human hands.”
Pereira shrugged and crossed her foot over her knee. “Could be, lots of that around here. But if he were a true farmer, why’d he mess it up?”
“Ron said something about how some people are squeamish when it comes to bones breaking. Maybe the killer wanted to snap Eliza’s neck, but didn’t like the way it felt—he failed, so he swapped to cutting her throat instead.”
“Could explain why he tried on Eliza, but didn’t bother on Kelsey.”
“Exactly. Perfecting his method…” Seth trailed off. “What do you think about Marty Dyer?”
“I dunno, he’s all right. Quiet, always has been. He’s the only man I’ve ever seen take his woman’s last name. He’s present for Clementine and their baby. Not everyone has a dad who sticks around. Guess Ron set a good example.”
“Yeah.” Seth didn’t know his dad, but he could only imagine he wasn’t a great guy. People don’t have to be like their parents, though. Claire was a testament to that. She was nothing like Ron.
He snapped out of it, realizing he’d gone off on a mental tangent. His head became woozy, but he tried to keep himself upright as he refocused.
“I just can’t figure out the motive. It’s a message, no doubt, but for who?”
Pereira eyed him with a hint of concern. “Maybe you should take a break, Winslow. You look like you’re gonna yak every two seconds. Hangover’s hittin’ you hard.”
“It is. I’m really not a drinker.”
“Could’ve fooled me. You should go sleep it off. A hangover that nasty doesn’t go down without a fight. If you don’t wanna feel it into tomorrow, sleep.”
Being alone was the last thing he wanted right now, but Pereira had a point. If he slept it off, he’d have a chance to start fresh tomorrow.
Despite the exhaustion in his bones, the motel room was hardly welcoming. Memories of last night still haunted him.
Claire, sitting on the edge of his bed, looking over him.
Him, a raw, drunken mess.
It was impossible not to hate himself still, but Claire hadn’t made him feel judged. No, she was too good for that. She’d listened to all his bullshit and responded with grace, because that was the type of person she was.
All day, when his mind wandered, it found its way back to her. The image of her face, rosy-cheeked and smiling, had tattooed itself behind his eyelids. Her voice was musical in his memory, a balm for his anxious thoughts.
So when he finally did fall asleep, he dreamt of Claire, and nothing but Claire.