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“Probably four or five days ago.”
This aligns with Jesse’s story. The day after he saw “someone” in the abandoned house—presumably Crystal—he was approached at the pool hall and paid to deliver the letters. Was it Crystal who approached him? For some reason, I can’t see it. And if so, she is so skinny that no matter how high Jesse was when he was approached, he would have remembered that the person was small in stature.
“And what about his dad?” Rhett asks. “When was the last time you saw him?”
A scowl squeezes her face. She looks over her shoulder, out the window, as if looking for someone.
“Please.” I say. “Anything you could tell us would help us.”
Crystal refocuses on me, hesitates. “Let’s just say around one o’clock in the morning… things get real interesting around here.”
“What do you mean?” I ask.
She shifts onto her knees and begins gathering her things. She’s done with this conservation, and with us.
“What do you mean?” I ask again. “What happens—”
“One a.m.,” Rhett interrupts, “thank you.”
Crystal nods, continues packing.
I frown at Rhett’s dismissal of me.
He jerks his chin to the door—let’s go—and exits the room.
I flicker another glance at Crystal. I don’t like her, and I don’t like this situation. I feel like she is keeping something from us.
Rhett calls my name from the front door, his deep voice echoing through the vacant house.
I don’t move.
“What aren’t you telling us?” I ask.
“Nothing.” Crystal zips up her pack and hurries past me. “I have nothing more to say to you.”
“Wait.”
“Sylvia, let’s go!” Rhett calls again.
I chase Crystal out the back door. Rhett chases after me, grabs my arm.
“Let me go!” I swat him away and step out the back door.
But like a ghost, she is gone.
24
Sylvia
“What was that about?” Rhett snaps, pulling me around the side of the house. The streaks of blood have dried down his cheek and neck, but the skin is now disgustingly swollen and puffy. My response catches in my throat as we step directly into the blinding glare of two headlights. We freeze like deer—literally—caught in headlights.
Rhett’s grip tightens around my bicep.
I shield my eyes from the light. The truck door squeaks open. A man steps out, his dark silhouette stretching across the driveway. Tall and lanky, his hand is resting on the gun on his hip.
I recognize the large spotlights on the top of the truck and the gait of the man as he strides toward us.
Detective Stroud.
