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“Virgil was only ever at four places—the store, the bar, church, and home.”
“Don’t see how he can get lost visiting the same places day after day.”
“Maybe he isn’t lost. Maybe he ran.”
Everyone is right. Virgil only went to those places each day. He was like clockwork. So, no one would question seeing him walking to the store, going around back to open it for the day. The only thing strange about that day was me. He never suspected me.
The pastor steps up next, his voice soothing but firm. “Let us remember, as we search for answers, to keep Mrs. Wolfe and her family in our prayers. This is a time for unity, for trust in God’s plan, no matter how unclear it may seem.”
I swallow hard, the irony of his words bitter in my throat. God’s plan. If this is His plan, He must be laughing.
Gerald glances at Pastor before continuing. “I’ve been reviewing the initial investigation, and one name keeps coming up, a man Mr. Wolfe used to associate with years ago. Can anyone here tell me about… Nathan Kerr?”
The name hits me like a slap. My breath catches, and the room seems to tilt. I remember him, one of my father’s friends, one of the men who’d lingered after service with eyes that burned into my skin. He moved away years ago, but not before leaving scars I could never erase. Murmurs ripple through the crowd again, and someone near the back clears their throat. “Kerr moved to Charleston, didn’t he? Haven’t heard from him in years.”
Grayson nods, jotting something in his small notebook. “It’s possible he had contact with Mr. Wolfe recently. If anyone recalls anything, please let me know.”
The pastor steps forward to close the meeting with a prayer, his voice smooth and soothing, weaving a soft blanket of false comfort over the room. As heads bow, I keep my eyes open, staring hard at the floor, my mind churning, spinning through thoughts I can’t seem to slow.
Back in my cabin, the darkness feels thicker than usual, pressing in at the windows, heavy against the walls.
I spread a map of West Virginia across the table, the paper crackling under my fingertips. I trace the jagged lines of the city streets, pausing over places I know too well, places I’ve stayed away from for years, for good reason.
Outside, the pigs grow restless, their grunts and squeals splitting the night, scraping against the silence like sharp little claws. I can feel their hunger, their need, no longer just for feed tossed carelessly into their pen, but for something deeper, darker. Something that tastes of bone… and flesh.
Nathan Kerr.
His name is a poison, seeping into my thoughts. Memories I’ve tried to bury claw their way to the surface, his voice, his hands, the way he’d whisper to my father with a smirk that made my stomach turn. I close my eyes, inhaling deeply. He thought he was safe. He thought he was forgotten.
He was wrong.
A simple search on the computer and I found as much information as I could about Kerr. Nothing too interesting and nothing that will raise any flags. My search time is clearly after Gerald Grayson brought him up. Any concerned citizen would look him up. Especially if he might have any useful information about Mr. Wolfe’s disappearance.
The pigs’ sounds rise again, a sharp cry cutting through the night. They’re waiting. And so am I. I stare at the map laid out on the table. Each circle I’ve drawn marks a step closer to the inevitable.
Kerr is next.
Spring came soft and useless. As most everyone in town spent their free time soaking up the early spring sun and watching the patches of white snow melt into nothing, I spent my time building Eleanor Marks from scratch. Kerr wasn’t hard to find. Finding him was never an issue; it was coming up with the perfect situation, the reasoning for why I’d place myself in his path. Eleanor needed to be more. Kerr always made sure my time was ‘more’ with him. I took my time, creating Eleanor’s persona. She was a Mountain Health Services employee. Equipped with her official badge. A business card with a phone number that forwarded to a burner phone. A story so clean that I almost believed it.
His routine was easy to discover, easy enough that I’d memorized the creak of his screen door and the exact minute his porch light clicked off each night. He didn’t have a life. There was no reason for him to deviate from his daily comings and goings. That worked in my favor. Kerr had been living forty miles from Hurricane for years and no one touched him. I’m about to change that.
CHAPTER
SEVENTEEN
The drive to Genoa is a slow, winding crawl through mountain roads where the forest crowds close on both sides, dense and unrelenting. The heater blows steadily, filling the truck with a low, mechanical warmth, but the cold still snakes its way in. Spring needs to toughen up if it plans to overpower the brisk wind. I’m far too young and have been through far too many things in my short twenty-nine years on this earth. It’s like God had his punishment set for me the moment I was conceived—and if I’m being honest, I’m getting tired.
My fingers curl tighter around the steering wheel as I ease through another sharp curve, eyes darting to the dashboard clock. Barely noon. But outside, the world is wrapped in a muted gray, the overcast sky smothering the light, making it feel later, heavier, like even the sun is too weary to push through.
Genoa is a quiet, unremarkable town an hour and a half away. Kerr had buried himself here, living quietly, blending in like a wolf in sheep’s clothing. The people back home all thought he had ended up in Charleston, but men like him don’t settle down in one place for too long. He wasn’t in Hurricane long, so I’m not sure why they thought Charleston would be any different.
His face flashes in my mind, sharp features, deep-set eyes, the faintest sheen of sweat on his brow as he’d leaned over me, whispering promises of silence, threats disguised as mercy.
“You’re a good girl, Lydia,” he’d murmured once, his hand heavy on my shoulder. “Good girls do as they’re told.”
I shake the memory away, but it clings like sticky cobwebs. The truck feels smaller, the air thinner. My foot presses harder on the gas.
The town itself is a cluster of aging storefronts and modest houses lined along a single main street. I park a block away from the address I’d found. His house is a small bungalow with a sagging porch and peeling paint. The place looks as tired as its occupant must be.
