Page 83 of Nowhere Good

Her hand immediately flew to her mouth. “Oh, Goodness, is this about those murders in Fairview? It’s all over the news… I’ve been avoiding it today…”

Seth prayed Carol would be helpful. Getting a warrant for mental health records would take time—time they didn’t have—so he was relying on whatever she was willing to share. “Like I said, Trevor’s name came up. He’s not in any trouble, I’m just looking for information. Anything you can tell me.”

“Oh, Trevor.” Carol’s voice was anguished. “Please, follow me.”

Carol agreed to let him record their conversation while they walked the paths outside of the clinic. “He came to us when he was sixteen,” she explained as they passed by a bush of bright red roses. “His father dropped him off here and asked us to take care of him. We don’t usually take minors, but his father was willing to pay extra.”

“His father?”

“Yes, his foster father. He said Trevor’s parents died when he was a child, but he had taken him in. He had his records, his social security number, and he seemed like an earnest man.”

“Can you tell me why this foster father wanted to leave him at a mental health facility?”

Carol shot him an apologetic look, fidgeting with the silver rings on her fingers. “I’m sorry, Detective, I can’t get into the specifics without the right paperwork. I want to help you, but Trevor is still a former patient.”

“I know, and I’ll come back with all that, but it could take time. When you say a former patient, what do you mean by that? You don’t consider him a patient now?”

“His treatment has been on and off over the years. There are times when he needs care, and times when he goes months, even years, without therapy or medication. He’s become more of a resident than a patient.”

So maybe Trevor had never been diagnosed with a serious mental illness. If he had, they likely would’ve kept him on something.

“There’s something else too,” Carol said. “After living here for a few months, we informed his foster father he seemed mentally sound and ready to come home, but his foster father insisted the facility was a better place for him. He offered to pay even more if we kept him here, so of course, we did. The payments were… helpful. They allowed us to get additional care for our other patients.” A wistful smile touched Carol’s lips. “Years went on, and Trevor became a part of Belleville. We got him a job working on the gardens when he was eighteen. He’s had a good life here. He’s a very smart boy, Detective. Highly literate. He reads all the time.”

“And what about this ‘foster father’? Did you ever see him again?”

“Oh, yes, often. Once every few months, at least. Trevor was always happiest before and after those visits. He told us that his father would take him home one day, that he was waiting for the right time, but…” Carol looked away, guilty. “Perhaps we should’ve told him the man was leading him on, but we didn’t want to crush his spirit.”

“But that happened anyway, didn’t it?” Seth asked, and Carol nodded meekly. “When did the foster father stop visiting?”

“Around six months ago. The payments stopped coming through too. When I tried to contact him, the number wasn’t in service anymore.”

Six months. When Sullivan was born, like Claire had said.

“But Trevor has been here for so long,” Carol continued. “Of course we weren’t going to put him out. I told him nothing would change. He’d live here like he always had, keep working, and be happy. But he insisted his father would come back for him. I think after the third month, he started to lose hope.”

“What changes did you notice after that? Did his moods darken?”

“Considerably. He became quiet, withdrawn, angry. He started lashing out, but he refused therapy.”

“I know you can’t give me a name, but this foster father—was a he a big guy? White hair, short beard, light blue eyes?”

Carol looked apprehensive, rightfully afraid to say the wrong thing. But she nodded.

Ron Dyer.

Of course it’d been him.

But why the hell would Ron invest years of money into keeping Trevor here? He wouldn’t. Not unless he needed Trevor to be quiet about something.

Seth’s skin pricked, the urge to know more. He wished he had a damn warrant, but when it came to medical records, especially involving juveniles, it wasn’t that easy.

“Do you think I could see Trevor’s room?” he asked. “Just to take a look. I’m curious what kinds of books he’s been reading.”

Carol kept fidgeting with her rings, her eyebrows woven in distress, but she nodded. “Of course. It’s this way.”

There was an old farmhouse built around the back of the main building, much more rustic than the rest of the facility. A staff house, Carol told him. They stopped in front of a door at the end of the hall on the second floor.

“Here it is,” she said, opening it up.