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“Is it based on a real event?”
She shook her head.
“Consider yourself lucky then. Go back to your friend. Tell her you kicked my ass.”
Anna’s head snapped back in surprise. “Why would I do that?”
“Because you’re proud and drunk, and because I don’t want anybody to know about this.”
She continued to cower in the shadow of the dumpster. “Then why do it?”
“Because I need you to leave me alone, and now you will. I moved here to live a quiet life in as much solitude as possible.”
“Then you should’ve gone deeper into the mountains.”
“Makes it harder to buy paint.” And almond butter. I was a big fan of almond butter. “I need you to promise me you won’t tell anyone about this. If you do, I can make that nightmare come alive any time I want. It would make life unbearable for you. Do you understand?”
She offered a gruff nod. “How can you do that?”
“You left me no choice.”
“No, I meanhow? What kind of power is that?”
“One I didn’t ask for,” I said simply, and walked away.
I almost made it to my truck. Almost.
I spotted the red lights and knew somebody inside had called the cops, probably expecting a bloodbath. Anna had a reputation, no doubt.
The SUV pulled alongside me. The woman behind the wheel gave me a hard look. She was midthirties; the ends of her choppy brown hair stuck out from beneath a pageboy hat. Two crescent moons cradled her eyes; she looked sleep deprived and deeply unhappy about it.
“Are you the one fighting with Anna Dupree?”
“Do I look like I’m fighting with anyone?”
She inspected me, searching for signs of injury. “What’s your name?”
“Lorelei Clay.”
My gaze dropped to the badge on her shirt. Chief Garcia. I didn’t expect the police chief to look like an extra from Newsies.
“Enjoy your night at Monk’s, Miss Clay?”
“It was an experience.”
Her gaze shifted to my truck. “Have you had anything to drink?”
“No, Chief.”
“Then why come?”
I decided to come clean. Maybe it would garner me points. “I was here to talk to people about a missing girl. Ashley Pratt.”
The chief emitted a small sigh. “Did Steven Pratt hire himself a detective?” She paused. “No, he doesn’t have the money for that,” she said, more to herself. “Anything he makes goes to paying the mortgage on their house.”
“I’m not a detective.”
The chief cut the engine. “Why don’t we sit down over there and talk for a few minutes?” She nodded toward the unmatched pieces of outdoor furniture that looked like they’d been salvaged from the dump. Pops would’ve at least given them a fresh coat of paint.
