“He lives in the campground?”
“No,” she says. “He has a house off the waterway. He just comes down to the parties and stuff. He knows everyone down here.”
“Oh,” I say. I guess this is proof I shouldn’t judge books by their covers. That made me think of the other guy I met—well, crashed into the other night. “I forgot! I did manage to embarrass myself after I made my escape.”
She raises an eyebrow. “What did you do?
“I crashed into some guy carrying ice through the park. Slammed right into him.” I roll my eyes at myself. “He was cute, too. I’m sure he thought I was a spaz.”
“What did he look like?”
“Dark curly hair, gray eyes. Led Zeppelin shirt.”
“Eyelashes to kill for?”
“Yes!” I sat up. “You know him?”
“Sure. That’s Pete. He’s one of the guys. My mom hired him to do a lot of the maintenance work at the campground. He’s handy. Did you talk to him?”
I shook my head. “Nope, ran away and hid in my trailer.”
Anita laughs and sits up, moving to pack her bag.
“Come on!” she yells at the kids, and they all scramble up the beach. “I’m gonna go in for lunch today. I didn’t feel like packing anything. Want to come?”
“I think I’ll just sit here for a while longer.”
“Okay, but cover up. Don’t burn again.”
“Okay, mom.”
“Ha ha. You’ve already got one of those around here.”
“Tell me about it,” I mumble and pull my hat down over my eyes and lie back in the sun.
4
“He doesn’t look like a serial killer,” I say, holding up the photo. It’s a grainy copy of a black and white mug shot. He’s not attractive. Kind of hard looking, but it’s hard to tell with such a bad picture.
My mother keeps her eyes on the road, obviously already having seen the photo. “They never do. But this guy was bad. Really bad.”
I flip through the papers she gave me when we left the camper. “This guy seems a little more serious than some of your other subjects,” I note.
“How is one more serious than the other?”
“You know what I mean, this one is an old case and not nearly as sensationalized as some of the others you’ve written about recently. The ones with the high-profile divorces and crazy families in court. This says they think he killed over a hundred people!”
She shrugs. “I’m trying for something different this time. See how the publisher and readers like it. After seventeen books, I just needed a change.”
She pulls the car into the parking lot of a small brick building with block letters on the front that spell “Florence County Records”. We get out of the car and quickly walk to the door, hoping to move out of the heat as fast as possible. Summer in small town South Carolina is hot. By the ocean there’s a breeze, but an hour inland, things are blistering. For a fleeting moment I think of the French Alps and wonder what I’m doing here—how I can get back to the city to make my flight. There’s still time.
“I just want to gather everything we can from here. I know most everything is on the internet these days, but I feel better making sure I’ve connected all the dots. We may be able to find more details in the local papers or even police reports.”
“Right,” I say, following her inside. The cool air-conditioning hits my face and I take a deep breath. I wait in a hard, plastic chair while my mother talks to the lady behind the desk. My phone buzzes, letting me know I have a message, and I check and see it’s from Mason. Again. He’s been calling every day, saying the same things, trying to get me to go on the trip. For me to come back. For us to talk. I delete the message, knowing there is nothing to talk about that won’t lead us back down the same road.
“She said we can go to the back and look through the papers,” my mother says, waving me over to the counter. I follow her down the long, narrow hallway to a room with rows of filing cabinets. I’ve done this job with her before. Research, filing, organizing notes, it’s definitely not glamorous. “I want anything that mentions Gaskins.”
We work steadily for an hour, only stopping once to get a Pepsi from the vending machine. Pepsi, ugh. Welcome to this part of the south where you can’t find a Coke. I pop the top and lean back in my plastic molded chair and say, “So tell me more about this family you have around here. Why the big secret?”
