AllFreeNovel
Share Us
I get a chill thinking about how the guy who used to run the grain elevator turned out to be a serial killer. There’s no way he’d be here now—clearly no one’s been here for a while—but the fact that Jackson Clarke was never caught is enough to give me the creeps when I’m standing next to his old stomping grounds.
There is a dirt road—barely more than two wheel ruts cutting through a lane of weeds—that leads into the fields between two fence lines. I walk down one of the gravel grooves. If it was broad daylight, the corn wouldn’t be high enough to hide me from any cars driving on the main road. But in the darkness, with no light except what’s coming from the moon and stars, there’s no one to see what I’m doing.
I walk for a good mile or two and find that the road leads into a wooded area.
The same wooded area that abuts Parker’s property.
I step into the trees, and what little light I had from the stars and moon diminishes to almost zero visibility. I pull out my pocket flashlight and move on, only to find that the road ends in a small clearing at the edge of a ravine. A cluster of rusted-out old cars—barely more than husks now—are parked here, sunken into the weeds. The ravine looks to be filled with junk: discarded washing machines and other appliances, stained mattresses with stuffing sprouting from holes, old box TVs with shattered screens, porcelain toilets broken into pieces, paint buckets and beer cans riddled with bullet holes.
It’s clearly a place people use to dump things they no longer want.
But as I turn and head back to my truck, I’ve got an idea.
If need be, I can park my truck here, out of sight, and sneak through the woods to the edge of Parker’s property. I hate the idea of spying on my old friend like that, but I’ve come this far.
There’s no turning back now.
CHAPTER 13
THE NEXT MORNING, as I steel myself for another day of duplicitousness, I fix myself a cup of crappy hotel coffee and flip through the TV channels trying to find something worth watching. As I skip through the endless stream of infomercials, B movies, and depressing morning news shows, I catch a glimpse of—could it be?—Willow.
I stop scrolling and realize it’s one of the country-music channels doing an interview with Willow and the guy she’s going on tour with, Riley Chandler, about a duet they’re recording.
Christ,I think.I can’t escape her.
I’ve seen Willow on TV before, but it’s always a surreal feeling. I’ve held that woman in my arms. Once upon a time, we would sayI love youto each other.
Apparently the song they’re recording is called “Sincerely, My Broken Heart,” and it’s going to be the first single on Willow’s new album. They show some clips of the two of them in the studio and filming the music video. In the studio, Willow’s wearing distressed jeans with dozens of rips in them, along with a tight tank top. Her hair is pulled back in a ponytail. In the video, she’s got on a leather skirt and boots that go up past her knees. Her gorgeous blond locks are spread over her shoulders in all their glory.
God, she’s beautiful.
Riley Chandler has tattoos up and down his arms, a hip haircut I could never pull off, facial hair that looks like it’s been sculpted by a professional. I know it’s just a song, and it’s not like they’re boyfriend and girlfriend, but seeing Willow perform with someone else—especially a young, handsome,coolmusician—makes my stomach churn. Carrie Underwood and Brad Paisley were happily married to other people when they recorded “Remind Me,” but it must have been hell for their spouses to watch the music video.
At the end of the program, the reporter, a bubbly blond woman with a permanent smile, says to Willow, “You’ve had a lot of songs about broken hearts. And you’ve had a couple of high-profile breakups. Is there anyone special in your life right now?”
“I’m just focusing on my career and my music,” Willow says with a laugh. “My life’s full with or without a man.”
I should be happy for her. Besides, I’ve got a good woman waiting for me back home. But the whole interview manages to make my bad mood worse.
The news program switches to a story about Garth Brooks narrating a documentary series about the national parks. I switch off the TV and pour what’s left of my coffee down the drain. Just then my cell phone beeps with a text.
Lo and behold, it’s a message from Willow.
Hey,it says,I’m in town for a few days. I’d love to get together and catch up.R U available?
I take a deep breath. I think about ignoring it. But I figure there’s no harm in telling her I’m out of town for work.
She replies with a frowning-face emoji and says,When will you be back?
Don’t know. Soon, I hope.Then—because what could be the harm in it?—I add,Would love to see you.
Me too,she texts back immediately.Let’s make it happen.
CHAPTER 14
I SPEND THE morning going through the motions on the Cereal Killer case. I conduct a few interviews with people who used to know Jackson Clarke, and I spend a good hour talking to Lieutenant Abrams on the phone. He’s been doing all kinds of legwork on his end, checking leads where Clarke might have ended up, finding known associates elsewhere in the country, talking with police in other jurisdictions with similar murder cases.
Once again, I feel guilty that the Cereal Killer case isn’t my real priority.
