Page 11 of Nowhere Good

“Why would he not want you hanging around his friends?”

“‘Guy time’ or something. You can sit down, if you want. No need to tire your legs out.”

Seth went to sit on the couch, but jolted back up when something hard poked his leg—an empty beer bottle shoved between the couch cushions. Claire noticed at the same time and rushed over, stuffing it in the bag. Her cheeks were beet red, like she could burst into tears at any moment.

Shit.

“Are you all right?”

“I’m fine, it’s just—I don’t normally live like this. I had this whole place spotless yesterday, then those idiots went and mucked everything up and—” She took a breath. “I’m embarrassed, is all.”

Maybe asking to come in was a dick move. But she had nothing to be embarrassed about; a mess from a party was the least of his concerns.

“Don’t worry, I was a cop in New York City. Believe me when I say I’ve seen worse. Why didn’t Dillon clean it up himself?”

“I hate living in a pigsty, so I just do it myself.”

I see. Dillon had an interesting way of showing his appreciation for his girlfriend’s hard work, but there were more ways to torture someone than physical. Something wasn’t right here.

He sat down on the couch, and it caved in when he did so, evidence that it was well-used by someone a lot heavier than Claire. She was about five-foot-six, skinny. She sat on the armchair adjacent to him and pulled out her ponytail. She rolled the band over her fingers, a nervous habit.

A framed photo on the end table caught his eye, clear of the party’s leftovers. It showed a woman who looked remarkably similar to Claire—that long, dark blonde hair with the slightest wave to it, parted in the center. She wore a blue dress and smiled at the camera, showing off her laugh lines by a sunny cornfield, and must’ve been in her late twenties.

“Who is that?” Seth asked.

“Oh, that’s my mom.” Claire shot a wistful smile at the photograph. “She sorta died when I was young.”

“Sorry to hear that. Can I ask how it happened?”

“A hiking accident, I’m told. I was only four, but I have memories. Not just of when she went missing, thankfully—memories from before that. Good ones.”

He nodded. He also had memories of his mom, but he was nineteen when she died, and the last several years they’d spent together had been miserable. Well, all their years had been miserable, but especially the last several. But he wasn’t here to prod for information about Claire’s mother.

“So you and Dillon are pretty serious,” he said. “You’ve been together a while?”

Claire shrugged. She didn’t look too happy about it. “Going on six years now.”

“Wow, that’s longer than my longest relationship. How’d you two get together?”

“On top of the bar, my family also owns a corn farm just on the outskirts. That’s where I grew up. Since my dad never had sons, he’d look to the local boys for help—give them an honest wage, sometimes a place to stay. Dillon never had a dad, and his mom took off on him when he was seventeen, so he would’ve been homeless if my dad didn’t get him working on the farm. Dillon moved into our house when we were in high school, and the rest is history.”

“But you were dating Brad Bailey when you were in high school, not Dillon,” he said, for clarity.

“Mm-hmm. Dillon moved in when I was a sophomore and he was a senior. I was still with Brad.” She kept fidgeting with the hairband, her movements growing faster, more erratic. “Not long after that, Brad got into the heroin, and things went downhill from there. By the time high school was over, and things with Brad were no good, Dillon and I sort of made sense. Cliché as it may be, it was like he’d been right under my nose the whole time.”

“Sounds romantic.”

Claire laughed, but there was an edge of tragedy to it. She glanced around the room, her face betraying her true feelings. “Yeah, well.” She put on a timid smile. “You sure are learning a lot about my life, Detective. I’m not a suspect, am I?”

Seth offered a slight laugh. It was no offense to Claire, but they were looking for someone who could easily haul another person around. “No, of course not. Just making conversation.”

“Good. But why’re you here? I already told you Dillon didn’t know Eliza.”

She was being more receptive than he’d expected, so he pulled a manila folder out from his briefcase. He slid two glossy photographs onto the coffee table. Claire leaned forward, slipping her hair tie around her wrist to join her rope bracelets.

“This is a photo of Dillon and Eliza together as kids,” he said, tapping the first photo. “And here are several interactions they had on social media. Seems like they were friends to me, and pretty close ones at that.”

Claire examined the photographs. He watched her facial expressions, the tiny twitches in her nose and eyebrows. He took the next one out—a photo of Eliza’s tattoo. Claire recoiled. It was just an ankle, no gore, but anyone could tell this was not taken while Eliza was alive.