I shift uneasily on my feet, glancing down the tracks as she continues.
“They all knew him, or had heard of him at least, because he was ‘the local artist,’ right? So when he offered to sketch them, they were flattered.” Mar shakes her head, her tone laced with disbelief. “He was charming, apparently. He would talk about his wife and daughter all the time. Show pictures of his little girl to make himself seem harmless.”
I lift my camera and pretend to zoom in on a nearby fence post.
“Those poor womenwillinglywent with him to his studio. Four of them, anyway.”
“Weren’t there six in total?”
“Yes, but only four were local. Two were from Brice. Thorn said he lured those two into his car, chloroformed them, and drove them back to his studio. That’s where it all happened. He would draw them. Hundreds of sketches, supposedly. They found sketchbooks hidden under the floorboards after he was arrested. He drew them, made them feel at ease, and then…” She shrugs. “Stabbed them to death.”
I swallow hard. The air feels thick around me, pressing in. “But they never found the bodies.”
“Nope. He refuses to tell anyone where they are. It’s like this asshole’s still got some kind of power over the whole thing, even from prison.”
Leave them in peace.
It’s becoming difficult to mask the waves of nausea rolling through me. “And this stuff is all readily available online?”
“A lot of it, yes.” Mar returns to her tripod to peer into the camera. She shoves away strands of pink hair that fall onto her forehead. “The police never released all the details, but enough leaked. Plus, everyone in town talks, right? I mean, how could they not? The guy sketched his victims before killing them. How sick is that?”
I force out a hollow laugh. “Sounds like a nightmare.”
“Totally.” She squints at me. “You okay? You’re looking kind of pale.”
“I’m fine. C’mon, let’s get our shots. It’ll be dark soon.”
To my relief, she drops it. We stay at the tracks until the sun starts dipping low behind the tree line. Once the shadows descend, we pack up our gear and return to the car, reaching the gravel lot at the same time another vehicle pulls up.
Instantly my stomach sinks like a stone. I recognize that yellow Jeep.
Doesn’t this guy have a life?
With a black backpack slung over one shoulder, Zed hops out of the Jeep. “Hey,” he says, raising a brow at the sight of us. “What are you doing out here?”
“Just taking some photographs for class,” Mar tells him. “And let me guess, Zellman, you’re out here searching for the remains of Thorn’s victims?”
Her mocking tone doesn’t faze him. “Indeed. I’ve been investigating potential burial sites, and this one’s on the list.”
Burial sites.The words make my skin crawl, but Mar just snorts. “Yes, I’m sure your extensive podcasting experience will be more successful than the police’s efforts.”
Irritation clouds his eyes. “The police haven’t found shit. They’re useless. And I don’t know what planet you’ve been living on, but the true-crime community—and yes, podcasters,” he says snidely, “have actually solved a lot of cold cases that the cops bungled.”
His response gives me pause, because I can’t reconcile it with those menacing texts. It doesn’t seem like Zed has any interest in leaving those victims in peace. He’s activelytryingto find their bodies. So why would he warn me to stop?
Maybe he doesn’t want to share the reward…
I heed the thought. Is that it? I suppose that makes sense. But…ugh. I don’t know. Anything. I don’t knowanything, and it’s starting to chip away at my sanity.
“In fact,” Zed continues with a smug smile, “my podcast just released the Thorn nine-one-one call.”
I can’t help but engage, curiosity getting the better of me. “How did you get your hands on that, anyway? I read that the former sheriff was adamant about not releasing that tape.”
“Sorry, ladies, but I don’t reveal my sources.” His smile fades as he focuses on me. “You still don’t want to team up?”
Mar barks out a derisive laugh. “Seriously, Logan, get a fucking life. Nobody is teaming up with you.”
“You, I understand,” he shoots back. “But her?” Zed jerks his thumb at me. “Your last name isShipley, Ryan.”
