Page 13 of Nowhere Good

She stood up and pushed past Dillon, bursting into the warm evening like she’d just come up for air.

She needed a damn breather anyway.

Five minutes felt like an hour.

Claire leaned against the hood of Dillon’s car, a gold sedan parked beside the detective’s unmarked vehicle. The metal had soaked up the sun’s rays, making it feel like a hot pan against her ass, but she didn’t care. She fidgeted with her hairband, snapping it between her fingers, chewing on it, growing more anxious.

Those trailer walls were thin. If Claire got close enough, she might be able to hear something. The curtains were closed, so the detective might not notice her.

After another minute of impatience, she tested her luck. She crept up to the trailer and pressed her ear to the paneling, right by the windowsill of the living room.

Sure enough, voices. Muffled, but clear enough to make out some words.

“Lying’s not gonna help you here,” Winslow was saying.

“I’m not a goddamn liar,” Dillon shot back. “You don’t get to come into my house and call me a goddamn liar.”

“But you are lying to me. You keep saying you didn’t know Eliza Johnson, but I have proof right here that you did.”

“I told you I don’t remember any of this. It’s my goddamn childhood. I can’t remember shit about it.”

“You were sixteen ten years ago.”

“That was before the concussion, asshole. Ask Claire, ask her dad—I hit my head at the farm, lost a bunch of memories.”

“Dillon. Come on.”

Claire chewed on the inside of her cheek. She couldn’t blame Winslow for thinking Dillon was full of it—that story sounded like horse dung, even to her. Wasn’t a total lie, though; Dillon did get a concussion after hitting his head off the tractor one time, but she doubted it resulted in him deleting entire people from his memory.

No, Dillon never told Claire about Eliza because he didn’t want her to know.

Why?

“Look man, I answered your questions,” Dillon said. “I don’t know about the goddamn dime bag. I don’t know about Eliza Johnson. I was home the night she got killed. Ask Claire.”

“I did ask Claire. The problem is, she wasn’t actually in the room with you all night.”

“Bullshit. She knows I was home.”

“But you go out at night sometimes, don’t you? Maybe to meet up with Eliza. Or maybe that other girl.”

Claire froze.

“What other girl?”

“The one who came here, banging on your door. Other people in the park saw her. Said she looked like Claire…”

“That wasn’t Eliza, if that’s what you’re thinking.”

“Then who was she?”

“Nobody. Now unless you’re gonna arrest me, I’m done with this. Get out of my house.”

Footsteps shifted on the floor inside. Claire scurried back to the hood of the car, just as Detective Winslow appeared in the doorway of the trailer with a rumple-faced Dillon hot on his tail. They faced each other. Dillon snarled up at the detective, who must’ve been at least six-foot-two to Dillon’s five-foot-eleven. Claire couldn’t help but think he resembled a rabid bulldog.

“Thanks again for your cooperation, Dillon,” Winslow said.

“Yeah, whatever, man.”