Chapter 21 #3
“I can’t prove that. Your dad denied it, and the caller never explicitly named him.
He did name a ‘Mrs. Dyer,’ which I can only assume is your mother.
” He paused, giving her a moment before he continued.
“Your father said if it does have something to do with his wife—your mother—then it must be someone he never knew about, some other man. Problem is, the suspect has been described as young, thirties at most, by two eyewitnesses now. That would make him a kid when your mom died, teenager maybe.”
“Like one of the farmhands.” Claire’s voice lowered with realization.
“Maybe.”
Before he knew it, Seth was driving up to the trailer park. He wound through the quiet road, past the rows of mobile homes, until he reached the familiar shape of Claire’s unit. Dillon’s car wasn’t there, and the lights were off inside. He put the car in park. This conversation wasn’t over.
He smoothed his sweaty palms over his pants.
“I spend most of my days trying to understand what drives a person to kill. Sometimes, the motive is simple. Sadistic pleasure, and that’s about it.
Other times, it’s because they believe they’re on some kind of mission—a crusader, committing acts of evil for the greater good.
That’s the sense I got from my conversation with him. He’s trying to expose something.”
“What really happened to my mother,” she stated, her voice barely a whisper.
“What do you think happened to her? I know you were young, but do you think it’s possible it wasn’t an accident?”
“I… maybe…”
Maybe. That wasn’t a no. “You said you wanted to ask me something about her the other night. Can you tell me what that was?”
“Yes. I f-f—found, I—” She ran her hands aggressively over her face. “God, what is wrong with me? I can’t even speak.”
“It’s okay. Take your time.” He tried to sound as patient as he could, but he felt like he was on the tip of a roller coaster, waiting for it to drop. He was desperate to hear her words. What do you know, Claire?
“I—I—f—”
But she didn’t finish her sentence. Maybe this was too much pressure—he was asking too much of her. At the same time, her reaction was bizarre, out of character. He’d never seen her stutter like this.
When tears fell down her cheeks, he panicked. What did he just do?
“Hey, it’s okay,” he said. On instinct, he lifted his hands, but stopped himself from touching her. “I’m just trying to find the truth.”
“Oh, God. I can’t—I can’t breathe.”
She pushed out of the car and fell into the night, stumbling onto the driveway.
Seth hurried out after her as she clutched onto her chest and heaved for air.
He appeared before her, hovering his hands over her arms, wondering if he should touch her, but he was afraid he’d cross a boundary or make it worse.
“I—I don’t know what to do,” he managed. He hated the way his own voice sounded, so shaky and uncertain.
He’d caused this, so he needed to fix it.
Think, damn it.
When she gasped for another breath, his body made the choice for him.
He placed his hands on her arms. It came naturally, bringing back memories from what felt like an entirely different life.
His ex-girlfriend used to have panic attacks, bad ones, and this would help.
All she’d needed was to be held and told it’d be okay.
Claire wasn’t his girlfriend, but she didn’t push him away. Her body trembled and threatened to collapse, but he supported her weight.
“You can breathe. It’s okay.”
“N-no.” She practically hiccupped the word. “I can’t, it’s so cold—I can’t breathe—”
“You can.” When she didn’t resist him, he gently pulled her toward him until her forehead rested on his chest. He placed his palm on the small of her back, holding her close enough to smell her shampoo—like strawberries and summer—and close enough to feel her bones shake like she’d been dunked in a bucket of ice, despite the night’s warmth. His heart squeezed.
What happened to you?
He tried to keep it together, to be a calm presence for her. And as she relaxed, he did too. The moonlight above trickled over them, the crickets trilled from the garden nearby, and the world outside—and all the ugliness in it—seemed to fade.
“See? You’re okay,” he whispered.
When her breathing fully calmed, he let her go.
She peeled herself from him and rubbed the gooseflesh from her arms, her face splotchy and red.
Selfishly, he missed the feeling of her body against his, and he wished he’d held her tighter, less clinically, just to know what it was like. She looked at him, mortified.
“I can’t do this,” she said. “I’m sorry—I have to go.”
She fled from him. On impulse, Seth snatched her wrist and stopped her. She stared back at him with big green eyes, brimming with tears. His actions confused even him.
He didn’t get handsy with people. Especially not women. Especially not on a case.
Yet he didn’t let go. Her wrist felt small and cold in his hand, but it was growing warmer by the second. Seeing the victim earlier—and thinking she was Claire—rattled him, and he resisted the urge to squeeze her tighter. She kept staring at him, rightfully waiting for answers.
“Listen, I need you to let me check inside your place. Otherwise, I won’t be able to sleep tonight.”
She frowned, her voice still panicky as she said, “What? You think the killer’s here?”
“I don’t know where he is or what he’s capable of,” he said, trying to mask his true fear. Realizing he was still touching her, he dropped her wrist. She held it with her other hand and took a wary step back from him.
“If Dillon comes home, he’ll freak,” she said.
“It’ll only take a sec, then I’ll leave. I promise.”
She chewed on her lip and bounced on her heels. “Fine. Come in.”
The trailer was dark and so quiet, Seth could hear his own pulse. By the front door, he made a silent gesture for Claire to wait there while he took another step in. He grazed his weapon with his thumb to reassure himself it was there.
He left the lights off and cleared each room. There weren’t many, so it didn’t take long. The living room, kitchen, bedroom, and all the closets. Last, the bathroom. He yanked back the yellow floral shower curtain and was met with nothing but the smell of Claire’s body wash.
“All clear,” he called out, then stepped into the hall.
With her head down, Claire went for the kitchen and flicked the lights on.
Seth leaned against the archway as she collapsed at the small round table in the corner of the room, holding her head between her hands.
There was a pan on the stove with black bits of bread on it, filling the air with a burnt smell.
A plate had been abandoned right beside the sink with a glob of ketchup solidifying on it.
Evidence of Dillon’s grilled cheese, he assumed.
The rest of the kitchen was spotless, sprinkled only with Claire’s charm.
Butterfly magnets held pictures of Sullivan and Clementine up on the fridge.
Claire smoothed her palms over her face. She exhaled slowly, creating a whistle sound. In the dim light of her kitchen, the pink around her eyes only deepened.
“You wanna tell me what that was really about?” he asked, testing his luck.
She rolled a hair band off her wrist and fidgeted with it. “It’s nothing.”
“Come on, Claire, it’s not nothing.” He couldn’t help his frustration, and it leaked into his tone. How could he protect her if she wouldn’t help him understand?
Big mistake.
When she looked at him, her face had turned into a closed vault again. “You promised you would leave, so just leave, okay? I told you I can’t do this. Not now, not tonight.”
He stared at her, pleaded with her. He didn’t want to feel like he was spinning out on ice anymore, but when he tried to think of a way to get through to her, he didn’t know how.
He was exhausted, exasperated, and his head was filled with blood.
If he opened his mouth again, he’d probably only make things worse.
After everything, she still didn’t trust him.
“Please stay indoors until we catch this guy,” Seth said, then left without another word.
He felt like he’d taken a blow straight to the chest.