Page 44 of Bad Intentions

“You from here?” I ask him. “Originally? I don’t remember ever seeing you.”

“Grew up here, yep.” He leans back on the couch. “Left after high school, traveled the world, had odd jobs here and there, then came back.”

“Why?”

“Yeah, why?” He snorts. “Isn’t that everyone’s favorite question? You came back.”

“I had a reason.”

“I had one too. I actually love this town. Got out when I was young, saw all I needed to see, had my share of fun, got bored of the noise and the fuss of the world, and here we are!” He takes another hit from the vape pen.

I smile. “That’s cool.”

“Cool is subjective. But yeah, life’s good.”

“What do you do?”

“Work from home.” Trevor cocks a brow at me. I don’t press for details. “So,” he continues, “Rika tells me you want to know more about that guy who texted you?”

“More than what they say on the TV, yes.” The police won’t tell me anything. This guy might.

“What did the guy tell you? On the phone?”

“He just texted. I never actually spoke to him.”

I open the text message thread with “Unknown” and pass it to Trevor. It takes him ten seconds to read the messages, his brows crinkling. He raises his eye at me with a frown. “That’s it?”

“What do you mean, that’s it?”

“That’s all? No background? Nothing about who he is? What he wants from you?”

I shake my head.

Trevor looks disappointed and pinches the bridge of his nose. “And you just went to meet this random guy who vaguely hinted at telling you about something you are not even sure about?”

I look at Rika, who doesn’t meet my eyes, but the little smirk on her lips is unmistakable.

I get it. I was careless. Maybe stupid. But neither of them understands what it’s like to grow up with a grandmother who has the reputation of a killer and an arsonist, with a mother who first abandoned me, then died, and with half of the town looking down on me because of all that. I’m guilty by association.

“You saw the picture he sent,” I explain. “No one has this picture. Not even my grandmother. Only this guy. That means he knows something. Or knew my mom. Obviously, he knows more about her than I ever did.”

“Fair enough,” Trevor says quickly, then picks up the thick folder from the coffee table and slides it toward me. “Take a look.”

The folder contains all sorts of articles printed from the internet, as well as court records, copies of driver’s licenses, including my grandmother’s and mom’s, who’s so much younger than I am today, and the guy who I assume texted me. There are several licenses with his photo and different names from different states.

I sift through the files, marveling at the depth of the research.

I pick up the court transcripts of my grandmother’s trial, and there are dozens, if not hundreds, of pages in the stack.

“Those are just the important ones,” Trevor explains as I speed-read the highlighted parts.

Karen Boots, Alysha Boots, Donna Snickett, Victoria Snickett, the Hartzels, and dozens of other people who testified during the trial. I never even knew that court transcripts were public record.

“You can keep those. Those are copies I made for you,” Trevor says.

I look at him with gratitude. “Thank you. I really appreciate this. Why are you doing this? I mean, what’s in this for you?”

He chuckles. “It’s a hobby. I like digging into old local cases.”