Chapter Thirteen Sloane
Chapter Thirteen
Sloane
When I left Monica Carr’s house, stress pounded in my head. I wanted to feel sadness or even anger, but I didn’t. However, my body sensed something was off. A knot was wound so tight in me that I thought the cord would snap.
Whenever one of my articles dropped, a big switch tripped like a breaker. And then the pressure hissed away. There was no better feeling than when the spotlight shifted to a killer who’d thought he’d gotten away with murder.
I loved watching their stages of grief. Denial when the cops arrested them. Anger in the interview phase. Bargaining with their attorney. A few accepted their fate, but many never did. I hoped depression overtook them all when the cell door closed behind them.
But until an article was finished, I was dangerous. And this article wasn’t even close to complete.
The pressure inside my head was growing, and I needed to find a release.
I’d promised myself that I’d avoid any risk-taking misadventures.
No stealing, no breaking and entering, no high-speed driving.
If Grant were around, we’d have sex. But with no Grant, I had to find a way to walk the straight and narrow. No missteps. No misdeeds.
I reached for my cell and dialed a familiar number. Grant picked up on the third ring, making me wonder what had taken him so long.
“Sloane. This is a surprise.” A door closed.
“Thought I’d touch base.”
“What’s wrong?”
“Why do you ask?”
“You aren’t the type to call and chat.”
“Nothing’s really wrong.”
“But.”
“I interviewed Laurie Carr’s aunt.” I didn’t need to fill in the pieces. He knew the case almost as well as I did.
He didn’t offer an opinion. “And?”
“Ms. Carr has never gotten past her niece’s death. She’s a lot like Sara.”
“And you?”
“How can I feel loss? I never knew my mother.” I pulled onto the highway.
“Still, the idea of her mattered. Every girl needs a mother.”
I laughed. “I’m not a regular girl, Grant. I don’t feel any loss for Patty or Sara. I don’t experience normal emotions.”
“What do you mean?”
I pressed my foot on the accelerator and passed a truck in the right lane. “I have never processed feelings like regular people. Love, hate, guilt all elude me.”
“Sounds like a sociopath.”
“That’s what Sara said. She asked a friend of a friend about why I never cried or never feared consequences.”
I’d never bothered with honesty before. But for some reason I needed him to see the worst of me.
“You’re unique, but I don’t think that’s a bad thing.”
“Some of my ways are bad.”
“How bad?”
“I’ve never hurt anyone who didn’t deserve it.”
His voice dropped. “Have you hurt anyone?”
“Not badly.”
“What was the worst?”
“A guy who killed his stepdaughters. He reported them missing. I followed him for weeks. He was hard to nail down, and then he fell down a flight of stairs. He was easier to talk to with two broken legs.”
A beat of silence. “People trip.”
A truck ahead of me in the left lane was going too slow. This was the fast lane. I pressed the accelerator and edged up closer to his bumper. “I want to meet Rafe Colton.”
“Seeing you could shake something loose from him.”
“Maybe.”
The truck driver tapped his brakes, and his lights popped on, but I didn’t slow. He glanced in his rearview mirror and flipped me off. I kept riding his tail. If Grant weren’t on the line, I’d have leaned on the horn by now. He cut to the right, and I raced past him, not bothering a glance.
“What are you doing?” he asked.
“Speeding.”
I pressed the accelerator, watching my speed climb to ninety. I caught up to the next dumbass in the left lane. The male driver operated a Mercedes. Such a great muscle car, and he drove like an old woman.
“Slow down.”
“Okay.”
“I mean it. You’re not good to anyone dead.”
“Such sweet words. Let me know when you have a meeting set up.”
I ended the call, and I laid on the horn.
The man driving the Mercedes slowed ahead of me.
Our cars approached a semi in the right lane.
I was unable to pass, so I rode the Mercedes’s tail, gripping the wheel as the space around the car shrank to inches in the front and to the right. The driver shot me the bird.
When we passed the truck, I cut into the right lane and zoomed past the Mercedes. I cut left and slowed. He slammed on his brakes and swerved in his lane. His driver’s-side wheels went off the road before he righted his car. I tossed him a grin and accelerated.
My heart raced as adrenaline shot through my body. Games like this were pointless and dangerous. I was going to get myself hurt or killed one day. And I was getting a little old for stupid choices. Still, the snarl inside me stopped twisting tighter. I felt better. I could manage now.
Time to focus on the article.
Laurie had worked the hamburger stand with Patty. She’d also crossed paths with Buddy, Sheriff Taggart, and Paxton. Buddy testified that he’d dropped off extra burgers and buns and cleaned out the cashbox about 10:00 p.m. on Friday night. He’d met Laurie but couldn’t remember her name.
I had hoped talking to Monica Carr would give some more insight into Laurie. But like the other women, the festival had swallowed her whole. Buddy’s impression of Laurie would be different.
Twenty-five minutes later I parked in front of the Depot. I felt better. And I was hungry.
When I glanced through the window, I saw Bailey sitting at the bar eating cherry pie. Never one to avoid trouble, I entered the diner, sat beside her, and smiled. “Hey.”
Her Realtor smile flickered to life. “Did you find Monica?”
“I did.”
She arched a brow. “How did it go? You get something to use for your article?”
The news was spreading fast. “Sad. She’s never gotten over her niece’s loss.”
Bailey lifted a shoulder and let it drop. “I still miss my dad.” The words sounded rote, like they’d been rehearsed too much.
“It’s not the same. You know how he died, and where he’s buried.”
Her grip on the fork tightened. “I hear you’re asking a lot of questions in town.”
“It’s the only way to learn.”
“Why didn’t you ask me questions earlier?”
“Still getting my feet wet. But you’re on the list.”
She stabbed a cherry. “Have you written anything I would have read?”
“If true crime is your thing.”
“I don’t care for that. The violence is unsettling.”
“Ignoring it or pretending it never happens isn’t a good plan, either.”
“How do you do it? Doesn’t it bother you?”
“Sure, sometimes.” That was a lie. I could absorb the violent details and testimony with dispassion. But that level of detachment exacted a price, as my highway adventure today proved.
“I can’t watch dog rescue videos on YouTube. Reading about people would be too much.”
“Then you won’t like my stuff,” I said.
I caught the waitress’s gaze, and when she approached the bar, I ordered a soda, fries, and a hamburger. Her name badge read “Callie.” “Thanks, Callie.”
“Sure thing.”
Bailey’s smile wasn’t as bright as it had been this morning.
“The story explains why you wanted the Taggart property,” she said.
“I was hoping for inspiration.”
Callie set the soda in front of me, and I sipped, grateful for the cool liquid.
“Did you see Patty with Laurie Carr at the festival? The two worked the hamburger tent together.”
She set her fork down. “I don’t want to talk about that day.”
“Why not?”
“It wasn’t a positive experience for me. I made stupid mistakes.”
“You were, what, seventeen or eighteen? Kids that age make mistakes.”
She picked her fork back up and stabbed a plump cherry nestled between the crust. “Yeah. But most kids aren’t related to the town mayor.”
“I read Taggart’s notes. He escorted you to the first aid station. When he came back later, you were gone.”
“That’s right.”
“Where did you go?”
“I left the festival.”
“When?”
“I don’t know. About ten.”
“In your testimony you stated you didn’t get home until four a.m.”
“I left through the woods because the main entrance was blocked,” she said. “It took hours to get out.”
“You walked off the mountain?”
“That’s right.”
“It’s twenty miles to town.”
“I was younger, fitter in those days, and at the bottom of the mountain, I hitched a ride back to town.”
I stabbed my straw in the crushed ice floating in the soda. “Who gave you the ride?”
Bailey giggled like a child. “You sound like a cop.”
“I’m not a cop. I’m a writer, and I’m trying to find the bodies of four missing, likely dead women.”
“Likely? There’s no likely about it. They can’t be alive after all this time.”
“Their stories need to be told.”
She leaned closer and whispered, “No one cares. That festival is ancient history.”
Her slight discomfort was amusing. “You knew Rafe Colton, right? He worked with your father to plan the festival.”
“I met him once or twice. But we weren’t friends.”
I liked ripping open scabbed wounds filled with rot and infection. “He was hot and charming. He must have noticed you.”
“Sure, he did. But that was that.”
“Is he why you snuck out and went to the festival?”
She tapped her fork against her plate. “No.”
“Some theorize Colton had help.”
“I don’t have all afternoon to sit here and listen to this crap.” She dropped her fork, letting it fall on the half-eaten piece of cherry pie. “You have no idea how hard it was for us all after the festival. We were all terrified until he was arrested. I didn’t sleep for weeks.”
“You were worried for your personal safety?”
She stood and grabbed her purse. “Leave me alone.”
“See you around?”
Her smile was as sweet as artificial syrup. “Not if I can help it.” She tossed ten bucks on the counter and left.
Buddy came out, glanced at the half-eaten pie, and set the burger and fries in front of me. “That’s not like Bailey. She looks pissed.”
I had that effect on people sometimes. “She said she had work.” I sipped my soda and then plucked up a hot, salty fry. “Do you remember Laurie Carr working your burger stand at the festival?”
He picked up Bailey’s plate and wiped the counter with a rag. “You’re still on that?”