Page 66 of The Devil Knows Her Name

“He threaten you?” he asked, an obligatory question.

“Not in so many words. Just said he was disappointed and he’d find a way to change my mind. Then he left.”

“Which way did he go?”

I pointed west, the way I’d taken the truck yesterday. “Tore off in that direction. Surprised he didn’t leave any rubber on the road. What is this about, anyway?”

Broder ignored the question. “Would you say he was driving erratically?”

It was so tempting to say yes. Tempting to color the account a little more, to say I could smell the booze on him, but I resisted. He wouldn’t have believed it anyway; he would’ve only heard an attempt to smear his newest friend and savior.

“Erratically, I don’t know. Aggressively, sure. Did he get into an accident or something?”

“Nothing like that. The missus called because he didn’t come home last night. Technically it’s not a missing persons case until he’s been gone forty-eight hours, but it is unusual for him by all accounts. If you see him again, tell me.”

He issued it like a command, and I bit back a scathing response. “You and I are going to come to an understanding on this fawn,” he said, just before he closed his car door—a parting shot. I scraped up just enough magic to curse him as he drove away, the words so poisonous they stripped the taste off my tongue as I said them.

As soon as he was out of sight, I bolted back up to the house and to my room. I thrust my arm under the mattress; the deed came out water stained and torn. I had almost destroyed it last night, but I’d been so frantic I hadn’t trusted my own mind. I’d waited, trying to anticipate if I’d have some use for it, but it was stupid to have kept it at all.

I took it downstairs and held it over the sink as I struck a match. My hands were trembling and it took a few tries, but the paper went up quickly, and after a few seconds, I washed the ashes down the drain. I knew in my heart it wasn’t the last I’d see of it; Zeke probably had more than one copy. All I’d done by burning this one was hide the motive for the murder, give myself plausible deniability that I knew the true ownership of the sanctuary.

The sanctuary belongs to me, I told myself. A single piece of paper doesn’t change that.

Christine called me the following day. I stared at the phone for several seconds, trying to summon the will to speak, to act as if nothing was wrong. I picked it up on what was probably the last ring and forced cheer into my voice.

“Hi, Christine.”

“Hey, Tess, glad I caught you. How are things?”

“Oh, not too bad. What’s up?”

“Well, I wanted to let you know the harvest festival planning meeting today is canceled. We’re organizing a search party for Pastor Zeke.”

I was half-turned to look at my wall calendar, not even flipped to the correct month, but I froze when she mentioned a search party. I’d known they would find the truck eventually, but I had hoped for more time, more wind and rain and dust to settle over it and obscure the tracks I’d missed.

“I thought you might want to come help,” Christine continued. She did not say to prove you’re not a bad person or to show you hold no ill will, but it was there in the long exhale that followed.

“Of course,” I said. “Of course I’ll help. What happened?”

“Rachel said she hasn’t seen him since the day before yesterday, but you know how it is with the police—”

“Yes, forty-eight hours and all that.”

“Right, yes. But some out-of-towner was checking on his hunting cabin yesterday and found the truck in his driveway, no sign of Pastor Zeke.”

I closed my eyes at my wretched luck—of course the private drive had been to a hunting cabin. With bow season only weeks away, the truck was bound to be found.

“I’ll bring first aid supplies,” I said. “Where are we meeting?”

She gave me directions on how to get to the very spot I’d dumped the truck, which I probably needed anyway; the whole event was a blur in my mind, and I wasn’t sure I would’ve found my way back on my own.

“I’ll see you there in an hour,” she said. “I just need to make a few more calls.”

I hung up, feeling bile rise in my throat. The whole town would know. There was no way to smother the curiosity, no way to make people forget, no redirection or diversion I could provide.

I bolted to the bathroom and retched into the toilet, my breakfast of black coffee running like acid over my throat. As I was bent over the bowl, I heard the sound of the fawn’s hooves across the floor, and I kicked the door shut behind me. I was no longer willing to show her my weakness.

When there was nothing left in my stomach but gnawing anxiety, I washed out my mouth and went to pack a first aid kit. I was not particularly thorough, knowing there’d be nothing to find, but as I shoved the sterile gauze, antiseptic, and disposable gloves into a backpack, I found myself wishing I’d kept something of the pastor’s—a scrap of sleeve or, ideally, a boot.