Chapter 23
Hadley Dawkins
Hadley turned away from Warren, the familiar burn of acid crawling up her throat. The pact she'd made with him left a residue of self-loathing that no amount of rationalization could wash away. She had given him permission to use her as a distraction, a convenient diversion for the media's hunger.
It had been her idea, her solution to keeping the media at bay.
Political expediency over truth, and she was becoming exactly what she despised in Elijah Garber.
She moved through the dining room, conscious of how conversations stuttered and died as she passed the gathered groups.
Reed's death had transformed her from an unwelcome outsider to something worse—a harbinger of tragedy.
The weight of their stares pressed against her skin like physical contact.
“Excuse me.”
Hadley edged past a group of older women who had gathered near the coat rack. They parted reluctantly, giving her access to the front entrance. An elderly man was entering the house, and he politely held the door for her. She expressed her appreciation before stepping out onto the porch.
The crisp autumn air hit her face, and she had never been more grateful for the cooler weather. She remained on the top step until her breathing evened out. Once she’d regained her composure, she stared out over the neighborhood.
The sky hung low and heavy, covered in a quilt of steel-gray clouds that seemed to press the town deeper into the red clay beneath it.
Fortunately, the rain was supposed to hold off until sometime next week, with the exception of a drizzle or two between now and then.
The Cane County Harvest Festival could proceed as planned, much to the residents’ relief.
From the corner of her eye, she caught movement on the sidewalk. Sam Cashman approached at a distance, his steps slightly out of sync. His tie was loosely draped around his neck, and his suit jacket was unbuttoned, revealing a wrinkled dress shirt beneath.
Hadley wanted to intercept him before he could reach the house.
She had teed up a conversation that shouldn’t be overheard and repeated by those occupying the Langley residence.
Up close, the scent of alcohol clung to him like cologne.
She began to suspect that his bloodshot eyes had nothing to do with lack of sleep.
“Hadley, I was just—”
“You failed to mention that you drive to the prison once a week to visit Mason,” Hadley interrupted, not wanting to waste another second of her day.
The vague, pleasant smile he'd prepared upon spotting her evaporated, leaving behind naked discomfort. “You drive a total of five hours every week to see Mason, and you didn’t think to mention it to me?”
“Someone has to make an effort.”
The bitterness in his tone caught her off guard. She'd expected deflection, but not raw hostility. It emanated from him in almost palpable waves. He didn’t seem to notice her initial reaction, and he pointed a finger in her direction.
“Did you think that no one cared? That everyone just went on with their lives?” Sam's words weren’t quite slurred, but the alcohol was clearly giving him some encouragement. “Some of us couldn't leave, Hadley. Or forget. Some of us had to live with what happened.”
She took a half-step back, absorbing the blow of his resentment. It wasn’t like it wasn’t deserved. She had been the one to leave, to escape the weight of this town and its memories. Sam and the others had remained, carrying not only his own burden but apparently Mason's as well.
Something in Sam's expression shifted at her continued silence. He glanced over her shoulder toward the house before lifting both hands and covering his face. He rubbed his eyes before dropping his arms.
“I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have—”
“I saw Mason this morning.” Hadley allowed her statement to settle. He didn’t seem uneasy about the claim. “He remembered something from that night that wasn’t brought up at trial. It made me think about your trips out to the prison, Sam.”
For several seconds, he remained perfectly still. It was his turn to step backward, creating even more distance between them.
“I don't think I like what you’re referring to, Hadley.” His gaze drifted over her shoulder, to the Langley residence, before meeting her stare. “I had nothing to do with Emily's death.”
Hadley tilted her head slightly, studying his reaction.
“As far as I recall, there was no body. Why do you assume she's dead, Sam?”
“I thought we were friends, Hadley. I don’t know what you’re trying to do, but I don’t appreciate—”
“The Harvest Festival starts in six days, Sam. If part of Mason’s statement from that night never made it into the report, there’s a chance other information might have been left out, too. Please, Sam. You need to tell me what you witnessed in the woods.”
A muscle twitched in Sam's jaw as he seemed to wage some internal battle. His bloodshot eyes became even more glassy as he scanned the immediate area. If he were searching for some type of rescue, she would make sure he couldn’t take it.
“We were drunk,” Sam finally said, his voice rough from grief. “We were drinking Old Man Gleason’s moonshine, and I got the bright idea to walk through Cox's cornfields to search for...”
Sam cleared his throat.
“I dared everyone to do it with me, but Lori and Nicole got too scared when we reached the edge of the woods. They said that they’d rather drive to the cornfields, but Jerry was just as drunk as I was that night.
He egged Billy to get a head start, and the two of them took off running, wanting to be the first to reach the cornfields. I followed, trying to keep up.”
Hadley remained silent, giving him space to continue at his own pace. A breeze rustled the remaining leaves overhead, but he didn’t even seem to notice.
“I made it a good eighty yards in when I tripped over a rock or root. Fell hard enough to knock the wind out of me. I laid there for a while, watched the trees above go round and round until the dizziness finally stopped. By the time I got back on my feet, I thought I heard screams.”
“Emily's screams?”
“I have no idea,” Sam replied, and Hadley didn’t get the sense that he was lying.
“I know that they were behind me, but I thought maybe they chickened out. When I didn’t hear them, I began to walk, but the moonshine had messed with my sense of direction.
Everything looked the same. The trees, the shadows from the moonlight, everything. ”
Sam’s breathing had quickened, and a fine sheen of sweat appeared on his forehead despite the autumn chill. Again, she wasn’t so sure his reaction was a result of the alcohol.
“I was eighteen years old, Hadley. A scared, drunk idiot stumbling around the woods. I kept telling myself that I would eventually reach either the festival or the Cox’s property.
” Sam crossed his arms, his suit jacket bunching awkwardly in the middle.
“That’s when I heard it. Movement. Rustling, like something was dragging itself through the underbrush. ”
“Who did you see, Sam?”
“I told Chief Garber what I saw that night, but he didn’t believe me,” Sam admitted with a shake of his head.
“It wasn’t a who, Hadley. It was tall, wearing a trench coat with arms that seemed too long for its body.
Moving like nothing I've ever seen—not quite walking, more like... gliding between the trees.”
“Damn it, Sam,” Hadley replied in frustration. “You can’t just—”
“I saw him, Hadley. I swear to God, I saw him,” Sam insisted, lowering his arms and stepping forward until they were inches apart. There was no denying the conviction in his voice. He genuinely believed what he was saying. “I saw the Threshing Man.”