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Tean settled back in his seat. He wriggled his shoulders to work out some of the kinks.
“Oh my God,” Jem said under his breath.
“What?”
“You wouldn’t understand.”
17
Heather’s house sat behind a line of dogwoods at the end of an overgrown drive. Not far, Jem was interested to learn, from the Mid-Missouri Big Cat Sanctuary. They’d gotten the address by calling Kristin, who had looked it up in the IHCPA directory. One side of the structure humped up with a second story and a gambrel roof, while the rest was a plain old ranch, all of it covered in wood siding that desperately needed replacing. A lean-to against the side of the house held three push mowers and one rider, but the grass was still knee high. In front of the house, a massive CRT television lay on its side next to a minivan—presumably where Heather had dumped it after unsuccessfully trying to hock it. The back of the van was open, and shadows suggested dog crates stacked inside. Lights were on in half the windows, and Jem decided Heather might not live alone.
When Tean stopped the Jetta and shut off the engine, the sound of barking dogs filled the stillness.
Jem’s first, automatic response was to tighten up. Then he breathed out, relaxed his back, spread his legs.
Tean, of course, hadn’t missed anything. “Maybe one of us should wait. Keep the car running.”
“Nice try, wonder-butt.”
“Jem—”
“Meth?”
“Um, no thank you?”
“No, Mr. Responsible. I’m asking if you think she does meth. I’ve been trying to figure out what she’s using.”
“Did she seem like she was on meth?”
“I don’t know. I’ve only seen her—what, once or twice?” His memory was good, but on their first encounter with Heather, he’d been more interested in the game she’d been running, the animal psychic thing. “Something was definitely off. Maybe it wasn’t meth. She didn’t seem wired. Maybe oxy? God, I don’t know. We’re going to have to riff.”
Tean made a face.
“I’m sorry, but do you have a better plan?”
“We ask her if she killed Yesenia and then we leave?”
“I’m getting out of the car now.”
When Jem knocked at the front door, a chorus of howls and barks and yips erupted, and the sound of nails scrabbling on floorboards rushed toward them. Fear spiked again inside Jem before he could tamp it down: LouElla’s basement, Antony’s wide, manic eyes; the teeth snapping, closing, tearing.
Tean’s hand settled at the small of Jem’s back, and Jem let himself shiver, once, before pulling the pieces together.
Heavier steps moved toward them, and the door opened.
Heather looked worse than he remembered: her face sallow, her eyes sunken, the whiff of an old, unclean body seeping out through the screen door. She stared at them blankly for a moment, and then, in a questioning voice, asked, “Dr. Leon?”
“Hi, Heather. I’m sorry to show up like this. I know we don’t know each other well, but I think we need to talk.”
Heather shook her head. “I can’t, I’m—Harry, no!”
A Corgi pressed past her to shove his nose up against the screen. He sniffed a few times, and when Heather hooked his collar and pulled him back, he barked. Another Corgi immediately took his place.
Oh my God, Jem thought. A pack of bloodthirsty Corgis.
“I can’t,” Heather was saying again, reaching for the door. “I’m sorry, but I have to go—”
“It’s about Yesenia,” Tean said.
