“Free the what?”
“It’s a forum dedicated to the case. It’s named after my podcast—biggest Thorn podcast out there, actually. Just passed five hundred K.” At my blank look, he clarifies, “Subscribers. I’m at half a million as of last night.” Pride shines in his eyes.
“Oh. Um. Congrats.”
“Anyway, check out the site. I’m the moderator. It’s pretty massive. Lot of theories there, a nice little rabbit hole you can fall into. All my evidence is on there, if you’re interested. I’m the Rain King.”
“The Rain King?”
“That’s my handle. From a Counting Crows song. Come by.”
I nod, though I’m not sure I will. I think right now, I’ve experienced enough true crime this morning. Not to mention the fact that I already lived it.
I feel stupid for coming out here. What was I hoping to accomplish?
“You’re seventeen, right? Eighteen?” He’s eyeing me curiously.
“Seventeen. Why?”
“Gabriel Thorn had a daughter. She’d probably be about your age.”
My heart nearly stops, but then its thudding is all I hear, drowning out the chirping of the birds.
“Oh.” Somehow, I’m able to sound nonchalant. “What happened to her?”
“Don’t know. She probably got adopted into some random family.”
I shrug. “Well, I’m not her. My dad lives in Europe, and I’m about ninety-nine-point-nine percent certain he hasn’t killed anyone. How ’bout yours?”
Zed snickers. “Pretty sure my old man hasn’t committed murder either. Lucky us.”
I don’t know how I do it, but I manage a smile. “Lucky us.”
seven
Free the Sparrows
By the time I get home, I’m on the verge of a panic attack. The walk through the woods back to the truck and subsequent drive didn’t calm me one bit. I kept replaying every word Zed said, wondering how someone could find such glee out of tragedy. An event that ruined my life is now popcorn material for a bunch of sickos on the internet.
I run inside and slam the door, then lean against it and let out a sigh of relief.
“Whoa. What’s up with you?” a voice says as I’m kicking off my muddy shoes and shrugging out of my flannel.
I look over and find Connor peeking into the hall from the kitchen.
“Ah, nothing. I just…”
“Got chased by a bear?” he supplies, grinning.
I lift a brow. “Are there bears around here?”
“Some. But they stay away from people. Jazzy saw one. Like, once. Or so she thinks. But you know her. Drama queen. She can’t get over it.” He holds up the spoon in his hand. “Breakfast?”
I nod and follow him into the kitchen. He’s wearing his gym clothes and, as usual, looks like he just rolled out of bed.I’m starting to learn that’s his style—the whole “don’t give a crap” vibe.
He plops onto one of the stools at the cedar island and drags his full cereal bowl in front of him. Cereal sounds right up my alley. Maggie has been cooking us all these big, hearty breakfasts before school, but I’ve only caught a few pieces of cold bacon from most of them on account of my nightmare-induced, crack-of-dawn-photo-taking schedule. I’m more of a cereal girl, anyway.
I grab a bowl from the pantry and Connor passes me his carton of Cheerios. “Where’s Aunt Maggie?” I ask.
