Page 57 of Nowhere Good

“Did they catch the guy who did it?”

“Greg Alpert, New York State Penitentiary, life with the possibility of parole after twenty-five years.”

“You mean he could actually be free someday?”

“He could be. You’d be amazed what some lawyers’ll do to make a case. Court was a nightmare. Seeing her name get dragged through the mud like that. They called it self-defense. Used my mom’s dating history—even me—against her, as if a guy twice her size needed to stab her eight times. He could’ve left her anytime, but he didn’t.”

“There’s always another way, right? There has to be.”

“Always.” He stared at her now. “No matter how messed-up things feel, there’s always a way out. You can always ask for help.”

Claire looked away. She got the sense he wasn’t talking about his mom anymore.

But Dillon was hardly the biggest trouble in her life. Hell, he was just a nasty symptom. Asking for help was always an option—but that didn’t mean the help would always be enough.

It wasn’t like she’d never tried.

As a little girl, her dad convinced both her and Clementine that the cage was an inevitable part of life, as ordinary and expected as getting grounded. And who were they to deny their father’s word? The man who’d give them the world, as long as they didn’t disappoint him?

It wasn’t till the fourth grade that she let something slip. There was one teacher, Mrs. Bell, who’d taken a special interest in Claire’s art. When Claire told her one time there was a cage in her basement that her dad would trap her and her sister in, Mrs. Bell was rightfully shocked. Even when Clementine denied it.

Claire remembered hiding in her room as Mrs. Bell came to their house, and her dad, as friendly as always, showed her the basement with no hesitation. Mrs. Bell never saw any cage. She left their house smiling and charmed by her father, like everyone seemed to be.

That night, Claire was put in the cage alone.

Somehow, her dad hid the evidence; she still had no clue how. Her memories going to and from the cage were always blurry. She just remembered being in it.

Maybe Mrs. Bell did still push for more, because there were other memories from after that time—she’d talked to the cops, maybe even Chief Wells, but she mostly remembered not being believed. They should’ve looked harder, done more, but they didn’t. No one ever did.

Her word had never been worth a thing.

To make it worse, Mrs. Bell looked at her differently after that. Like she was some damaged child, a liar, an attention-seeker. Maybe that was the first time Claire truly felt invisible.

She never went to anyone else for help again. She’d try to run away from home a few times after that, always to be caught and dragged back, till the last time.

The only way she could see herself ever being free was if her father was dead. Killing him was obviously not an option, and waiting for him to die could take another twenty years.

But there was one other option. If he were arrested for something the police could never turn a blind eye to. Even drug dealing wasn’t enough.

No, it had to be murder.

Still, the man who’d killed Winslow’s mother had apparently stabbed her eight times, and he still got off with the possibility of parole. Even with all that fresh evidence. What Claire had been thinking, about her mom’s necklace, seemed like a fool’s errand now. And Claire didn’t even have the necklace.

But she could get it. The day after tomorrow, during the Fourth of July fair, her dad would be busy at their chili and corn booth. Claire would have her own booth to look after, but she could get Clementine to cover, make something up. The house would be empty for real this time. She’d have a window to bike over, get the necklace, and get out.

Then she could bring Winslow more than her word.

She looked at him again. He was staring at her. Some of the color had returned to his cheeks, and even though he’d just been vomiting in a trash bin, she couldn’t help but flush at the image of him shirtless on a bed beside her. He had a lithe frame—lean muscles, smooth skin, nice shoulders. His dark brown hair was long enough to have the slightest wave to it. Just to name a few things she didn’t mean to notice.

“Your first name’s Seth, right?” she asked. “I’d like to call you that, if that’s okay. When it’s just us two.”

An unexpected smile accentuated the dimples on his cheeks. “Yeah. I’d like that too.”

EIGHTEEN

Sunlight beamed through the curtains, catching in Seth’s eyes. The motel room materialized above him—the yellowing stucco, that wretched wallpaper. He groaned as the feeling of a hangover settled in, leaving his skull pounding and his mouth as dry as sandpaper. Feeling filthy, he reached for his reusable water bottle on the nightstand, refilled. A damp, cool cloth was still clutched to his chest.

Oh, God.