Page 70 of Nowhere Good

“We are investigating a suspicious death. That’s all I can say at the moment.” He looked up at her dad. “Ron, you have a minute?”

Her dad stepped out into the night with him. Claire let out a breath, but her anxiety quickly returned.

If a murder just happened tonight, why would Seth need to talk to her dad, of all people, now, of all times?

Claire hurried over to the front door. Clementine tried to protest, but Claire shushed her and peeked out the window. Seth was talking to her dad at the bottom of the porch, his hands on his hips, his face nothing but serious. Her dad stood over him, arms crossed. She pressed her ear to the front door, but could barely make out more than a few murmurs.

“… don’t recognize it…”

“…absolutely positive?”

“…never… not mine… don’t know him… someone else…”

Claire grunted and turned back to the kitchen, where Marty and Clementine were rubbernecking. She stormed back over to them.

“Did you catch anything?” Clem asked.

“No,” Claire muttered. “What could he possibly want with Dad?”

“Just leave it,” Marty said. He held up Sully’s weight. “If your dad doesn’t want you to know, it’s probably for a good reason.”

Claire scoffed. “So now you’re on his side again? Of course.”

Clementine shot her a confused look, but Claire zipped her mouth shut. Everything about tonight had only reminded her, in full detail, why crossing her dad was nothing but a bad idea. Whether Marty “felt bad” or not didn’t mean a thing—he’d do it again in a heartbeat if her dad asked him to. She glanced at the door to the basement. That familiar fear slithered up her spine.

It’s too risky.

The sound of shuffling jostled their attention to the front door, where Claire’s dad stomped in, followed by Seth.

“Sorry, again, to bother you all,” he said. “Just so you’re aware, we’re issuing a public safety warning. I can’t tell you the details, but the killer has broken his pattern. He’s becoming unpredictable. Lock all your doors and windows.”

“We’ve got guns,” her dad said. “We’ll be all right.”

“I have to get back to town.” Seth turned to Claire, causing her to tense up—because her dad looked at her too. “Claire, if you need a ride back, I can drop you off on my way in.”

Claire wanted to take it. More than anything. But her dad’s gaze reduced her to a trembling mess, and she fidgeted with her hands. “Oh, no, that’s okay. I should stay with my family till Dillon can pick me up.”

“No, you should go, sweetheart,” her dad suddenly said, his voice silky smooth. “If the detective is offerin’ a ride, go on and take it. You don’t wanna be cooped up here all night, and Dill ain’t answerin’ his phone. Drunk idiot. I wanna make sure you get home safe.”

Claire gawked at him, a deer caught in headlights. It felt like a trap. A trick. A test.

But she couldn’t breathe in this house for a second longer, so she went with Seth anyway. If her dad got mad at her later, well, that was tomorrow’s problem.

Seth’s skin burned with frustration; he always felt this way when he sensed someone was lying to him, holding back information that could potentially save lives, and that was how his conversation with Ron Dyer had left him.

Ron insisted he didn’t know the voice from the call. Didn’t know the unknown man the killer was talking about “bringing out of hiding.” Didn’t know anything, even if all the victims looked like his wife, even if the caller had specifically named her the first time he contacted the police. “Must be about someone else.”

Bullshit.

It was hard not to be pissed about it, even as he drove down the country road back into Fairview, gripping the steering wheel in both hands.

“I heard you, um, took a kitten,” Claire said. Right—she was in the passenger seat.

Admittedly, he did have ulterior motives for bringing her along for the ride. He didn’t trust Ron, but Claire was more honest. “I wanted to ask you something,” he began. “This detail hasn’t been leaked to the public. I’m sure you know Eliza’s throat was slit, but that wasn’t the only way the killer tried to kill her.”

He briefly locked eyes with her in the light of the moon passing through the car’s windows. She was listening, so he pressed on.

“He’d attempted to fracture Eliza’s neck first, but failed. The other day, your father mentioned something about squeamish farmhands. How some people don’t like the feeling of bones breaking. Can you think of anyone like that who’s ever been connected to the farm? Maybe someone who worked there?”