Chapter 20
TWENTY
The smell of the fair—like kettle corn and cotton candy—always brought back memories for Claire, one for each year of her life. This time was no different. The afternoon sun blazed down as she carefully arranged her candles on the display inside her tent, organizing them by color.
“Well, aren’t you a cutie pie,” a familiar voice sounded, and Claire turned to see Clementine approaching, wearing a long yellow dress and big sunglasses. She pushed a calm Sullivan in a stroller.
Claire’s face flushed, and she looked down at her outfit—a pale blue romper cinched at the waist. It was one of the nicer outfits she owned, better than her usual tops and shorts, but still practical.
As in, she could still bike in it.
And in order to enact her plan later, she needed her bike.
“Figured I should try to look half-decent and make some sales,” she muttered.
She hadn’t seen Clementine since their fight the other night.
Clem was obviously fine with pretending it never happened, because she pushed Sully’s stroller into the shade of the tent, then began helping Claire unload boxes.
“Am I crazy, or is this usually less of a ghost town by now?” Clem asked. “Where are all the sellers?”
“Last I heard, we had three last-minute dropouts. Those are only the confirmed ones.”
Lifting her sunglasses, Clementine shot Claire a bewildered look. “Darn. If the sellers are shyin’ away, the tourists might too.”
“Can you blame them?” Claire let out an exasperated breath. “Our town’s reputation is going to crap fast.”
“All this stuff about Mr. Giggles ain’t helping. You heard about the FBI being here, right?”
Claire nodded; she’d heard the rumors. Something about the FBI being in town, but not in connection to the murders. Norman Stanfield had done something else entirely. It’d all come out eventually, but for now, they were left in the dark.
She’d been tempted to text Detective Winslow—Seth—and ask about it, but it felt inappropriate, like he might think she was trying to take advantage of her connection to him to get privileged information.
Besides, the last text he’d sent her asked a question about what she’d wanted to tell him about her mom.
And she wasn’t ready to talk about that yet. Not till she had the necklace.
“The detective was at the farm yesterday, and he said nothing about it,” Clementine said.
“What? Why was he there?” Seth had already seen her at her worst, back when she was cleaning the chaos of Dillon’s party like the god damn maid. But the thought of him at her family’s farm, so close to her childhood, tied her stomach in knots.
He would’ve been right there. So close to where it had happened. The cage.
Like every outsider who’d ever stepped foot in that house, he’d have no idea.
“Dunno, talking to Daddy about something,” Clem said. “You know me, I don’t ask questions. But… he took a kitten.”
Claire frowned. “What?”
Clem wore a cherubic smile, half-laughing. “He found Daddy out back dealin’ with some kittens who’d been abandoned. You know, mercy killing. I guess Detective Winslow couldn’t stomach it, so he took a damn kitten. Put it in a cardboard box and drove off with it.”
“You’re kidding.” Claire wasn’t sure if she should laugh or what.
Maybe it shouldn’t have been such a shock; Seth was good like that.
She’d interacted with him enough now to know that.
And now she knew, because of everything he’d told her the other night, that a lot of his good had been born from darkness.
Bad things happened to him, and he became better for it.
A strange sensation tugged inside her, a string pulling tight around her heart. If more people in her life were like him, then her world would be a much kinder place.
“That man does not fit in around here,” Clem mused. “I guess growin’ up in some big city, you’d never have to learn the kinda lessons we had to learn. You remember Patty Cake?”
“That big fat barn cat who turned out to be pregnant. Yeah, she had her litter in the stable, then took off.”
“Mm-hmm. Left her kittens to fend for themselves. Daddy was gonna show us what to do with them, and when we realized he was gonna kill them, we begged him not to. So he didn’t, told us we were gonna learn a lesson the hard way… you remember, right?”
“Yeah, I remember.” Claire shuddered. It wasn’t a good memory. They’d gone out to check on the kittens the next day and found nothing but blood and fur and evidence of, well, weasels. Claire had wailed, asking why they didn’t bring them inside, but her dad said it was the natural order.
“Daddy’s right, you know,” Clementine said.
“If Patty Cake had stayed to protect her babies, maybe they would’ve made it.
I guess people are like that too, huh? I feel safe knowin’ I have Marty next to me at night…
maybe Eliza and Kelsey didn’t have someone protectin’ them. People are animals too, after all.”
Claire resisted a scoff. Those words came from Clementine’s mouth, but they felt like a script written by their dad.
“What’s the point of all this if we’re just animals? We have choices. Those weasels were trying to survive, but the man who did that to Eliza and Kelsey did it ’cause he wanted to. They did nothing wrong.”
“Don’t get all preachy, I was just talkin’ with you.”
Claire bit back her words. God, Clementine was rubbing her the wrong way today.
But she had to hold it together. Because if all went according to plan, then this evening, when the fair was in full swing, Claire would leave Clementine in charge and slip away.
Evening fell over Fairview in a shroud of grapefruit tones; they bled over the fair, pouring between the bars of the Ferris wheel like syrup.
Seth stood outside the parking lot of the grocery store where it was being held.
Despite the news around town—the murders, whispers of the FBI and what Norman Stanfield had done—the fair was lively.
He brought his attention to his phone, open with a composite sketch of their suspect. A gaunt man in a hood with a surgical mask covering half his face. He had wide, intense eyes with thick, furrowed eyebrows.
They’d finished it this afternoon. The process had taken hours—longer than it should have, but Isabella kept changing details. In the end, this was what the sketch artist came up with, and Isabella insisted this was the man she’d seen.
Unfortunately, the only defining features were his dark eyebrows and the fact that he was likely Caucasian, but most people were around here. He seemed young enough, late twenties to early thirties. Isabella couldn’t recall any distinct lines or wrinkles around the eyes.
The photo had been released this afternoon, plastered all over the news and social media, but with the fair going on, who knew how many people had bothered to look.
It’d be dark in an hour. Through the rows of booths, concession tents, and food trucks, set up like a makeshift village, some officers patrolled on foot.
Seth made his way into the fair, taking in the various booths.
Homemade jewelry shops, popcorn stands, a vendor selling handmade fuzzy dice.
He lingered on men within the profile—dark-haired men that appeared ordinary with their friends and families.
One of them could be him, blending into Fairview with an easy smile.
Deeper in, he came to a square of reddish-brown tents, topped by banners that read: CELEbrATING OUR 80th ANNUAL CHILI AND CORN COOKOFF!
Ron Dyer stood behind one of the tables, pouring ladles of chili into paper cups and handing them to happy customers. He wore an apron over a simple black T-shirt that showed more of his tattooed arms.
Seth waited for a lull in the lineup to approach. Ron was stirring chili in a massive pot.
“Evening, Ron.”
Ron looked up and grinned. “Detective! Nice of you to show up an’ support the community.
Believe it or not, we usually have a bigger turnout than this.
Our chili’s a bit different from the usual fare.
We’re usin’ ground turkey instead of beef.
” Before Seth could object, Ron was already pouring chili into a cup and placing it on the table with a plastic spoon.
“Here, on the house. Family recipe. Only myself and the girls know it.”
“Thanks.” Seth shifted the warm cup toward him, but kept it on the table. He had to admit, it smelled delicious, but he wasn’t here for pleasure. He took out his phone. “You have a chance to check the news this afternoon?”
“Haven’t had a minute to look. Marty’s supposed to be here helpin’ out, but he ran home to grab some of the napkins we forgot to pack.”
Seth showed Ron the composite sketch of the suspect. Ron leaned in, squinting.
“This your man?”
“Possibly. You recognize him?”
Ron looked more. Squinted harder. But as usual, he was a blank slate. “Can’t say I do, but the mask don’t give me much to work with.”
“It’s the best we could come up with.” He tucked his phone away and picked up the chili.
“Thanks again.” He took a bite as he walked away, hit with the taste of salt and chili powder, mushy kidney beans.
He’d been living off bagels and diner food for days now, and he hadn’t realized how much he’d needed something of real sustenance.
“Can I count on your vote?” Ron asked as Seth walked away.
He lifted his spoon. “Of course, Ron. It’s delicious.”
Ron cackled to himself. Seth kept moving through the fair, up the next row, still hawking for signs of anyone suspicious.
He finished the cup of chili and tossed it in a trash bin, and as he turned, he caught Dillon Beamish storming through the crowd.
Seth hadn’t seen him since the arrest, but that purpling bruise on his left eye was new.
“Dillon,” he called out.
Dillon tried to ignore him, but Seth slipped in front of him.
“Whoa, hey, what’s with the black eye?”