Emmy felt her throat go tight as she looked away. This whole town was a graveyard.
She identified Bill Garrison’s white Chevy Silverado by the license plate number. Emmy pressed her hand to the hood. The metal was hot. She walked around the vehicle, looking for blood or anything that might give probable cause for a warrant. A set of golf clubs lay in the bed of the truck. A tackle box. A lone kayak paddle. The windows were rolled up. She cupped her hands to the glass to see inside. Empty McDonald’s bag in the passenger seat. Plastic water bottle in the cup holder. An iPhone was hooked up to the charger. The screen glowed. She squinted her eyes at the notification that popped up, a text from someone named Kirk—
Where r u dude cops r all over ur hood
Emmy started toward the baseball field. She could hear clapping and yelling as the game kicked off. In an ideal world, she would’ve brought more deputies with her for backup, but she couldn’t risk Reggie getting wind of Bill’s location. He’d already assaulted a fellow officer. There was no telling what he’d do to Bill. Not even Gregg had known where they were going until they’d gotten into the cruiser.
The Clayville Police Department had multiple use-of-force violations on their books, and their SWAT team had been subjected to numerous lawsuits. Emmy could easily envision a scenario where Reggie took matters into his own hands, either out of revenge for Allison or to frame Bill for murder. In either case, he was a man who was used to justifying casualties.
She told Gregg, “Post up beside the bleachers in case Bill runs. Keep it cool. We don’t want a panic. He’s a person of interest, not a suspect.”
“Got it, chief.”
She weaved between cars, her feet sliding in Sherry’s HOKAs. Emmy had already set out a plan: halt the game and approach Bill for a conversation. Take him somewhere off the field and away from the kids. Deliver the news. Gauge his reaction. Drivehim to the station for a longer talk so she could turn up the heat.
If Bill was not responsible for the murder of his wife and the shooting of his stepdaughter, he deserved respect. If hewasresponsible, she didn’t want to spook him so much that he lawyered up.
Or pulled out the murder weapon and shot her in the face.
The smell of hot dogs and nachos swirled from the concession stand. The bleachers were full because there wasn’t much else to do in North Falls on a scorching Saturday afternoon. Emmy recognized most of the faces. Their eyes were trained on the players. She checked the scoreboard, which had the words GARRISON SUPPLY running along the top in loopy cursive. No hits, no runs, no errors. Bottom of the first. Two balls. No strikes. Twelve seconds on the clock. The game had started eight minutes late.
She spotted Bill Garrison in the Tigers’ dugout. White shirt with the Garrison logo on the breast pocket, cargo shorts, sneakers, Tigers baseball hat. No sunglasses. No visible wounds or blood. No gun in sight but his shirt was untucked and his shorts had a ridiculous number of pockets, and there was a zipped gym bag a few feet away with the Garrison logo.
Emmy nodded for Gregg to move in closer.
She studied Bill from a distance. He hadn’t changed since the last time she’d seen him. Average height. Bulging gut. Receding hairline that he was overcompensating for with a bushy mustache. His knees were bent, his focus trained on the player at bat. Swing and a miss. Bill clapped his hands.
He called, “Good effort, Bailey. Let’s go.”
Emmy felt the heat of a few curious stares. Some of the fans in the bleachers had taken notice of her presence. She considered what they were seeing. The interim sheriff wearing a freshly starched uniform shirt over a bloodstained black dress, borrowed shoes sliding around her bare feet, wet hair looking dirty and lank despite her best efforts with the garden hose.
Then she saw Hannah, who was sitting by herself. Empty space had cleared around her as if she had a disease nobody wanted to catch. She had changed out of her funeral clothes and into jeans and a T-shirt. Large sunglasses shielded her eyes. HerTigers hat was pulled down low. Emmy shouldn’t have been surprised to see her here. Hannah’s son had played ball since peewee. Her head turned toward Emmy.
Emmy lifted her chin.
Hannah stood up. People stared with open hostility as she walked down the bleachers. Emmy didn’t think it was because they had loved Gerald Clifton so much as because they loved having someone to hate.
Hannah’s sunglasses came off. She gave Emmy’s outfit a quick glance. “I heard about the shooting in Clifton Gardens.”
“What’d you hear?”
Hannah offered her hat to Emmy. “That a little girl found a gun lying around and accidentally shot herself.”
Emmy guessed Coach Bell had started answering her phone. She twisted her hair into a knot on the top of her head, then used the hat to trap it in place.
“Em?” Hannah had noticed Gregg on the other side of the bleachers. His hand was resting on the butt of his Glock. “Do I need to take Dave home?”
“Wait until I get Bill out of the way.”
Emmy started to leave, but Hannah grabbed her arm. She slipped off her Nikes, slid them toward Emmy with her foot.
They had always worn the exact same size. Emmy stepped out of the HOKAs, knelt down to tie the Nikes tight. “I’ll always keep him safe.”
“I know.”
Emmy walked onto the field, waving for the umpire’s attention. He gave her a frown of disapproval but held up his hands to stop the game.
Bill glared at her, crossing his arms over his chest, tracking her progress with his beady, mean eyes. She couldn’t tell if his fury was from guilt or because he’d never come across Emmy under good circumstances. Or Gerald, for that matter. That’s what happened when you used your fists to get whatever you wanted. Especially if you used them against your wife.
