Page 14 of Nowhere Good

The detective took another glance into the trailer. “Your girlfriend does a nice job decorating, by the way.”

Claire’s cheeks went up in flames. Dillon looked like he wanted to punch the detective as he left through the screen door. Claire exchanged a look with Winslow as he passed.

“Have a good evening, Claire.”

As he breezed toward his vehicle, she watched Dillon disappear into the trailer. She had a few seconds alone with the detective—a few seconds to get answers.

Detective Winslow was opening the driver’s side door when Claire hurried over to him. “Wait—wait, please. Is Dillon cleared? What’d he say to you?” Who the hell is that girl you mentioned?

He turned back. When his eyes found hers, they were nothing but honest. She stopped close to him, close enough to smell something smoky and masculine on his shirt, and she tried to ignore the strangeness of learning this stranger’s scent.

“Listen,” he said, “I know you want to protect him, but you don’t have to. If you’re worried about his reaction, we can help. Abuse can often start psychological, but—”

“Abuse?” Offense bloomed through her, an automatic response fueled by ego. Even if this was screwed-up as hell, at least she could pretend she was strong, control the narrative.

It wasn't like she could control anything else.

“I know you’re trying to do a good thing, but it’s my relationship, Detective. It’s not your place to judge it. I already told you he’s not violent with me. That’s not gonna change, no matter how many ways you try to make me say it.”

“You’re right.” His calm demeanor cracked, revealing a frustrated edge to his tone. “It’s not my place, but I’ve seen situations like this before. It doesn’t always end well.”

“Why are you saying this? Did Dillon say something about me?”

“It’s not that, it’s just—” He took a breath. “You deserve better. That’s all I wanted to say.”

She hugged herself, her heartbeat a wild bird. His words made her too emotional, too conflicted. Another childish response slipped off her tongue: “With all due respect, you don’t know me.”

“No, but I know you’re a good person. It’s the way you talked about Brad, because you remembered he was somebody who mattered. I bet you feel that same empathy for Eliza.”

She knew what he was doing; sweet talking her, preying on her good nature. With that angel face of his, Detective Winslow probably had an easy time getting women to open up to him, trust him. It wouldn’t work on her.

But that didn’t mean his words had zero effect. When she thought about Brad, dead like that, it took everything in her not to cry. She didn’t believe Dillon could’ve killed Eliza, but if he was some kind of drug dealer, didn’t that make him partially responsible? For not only Eliza’s death, but Brad’s too?

When Winslow realized she wasn’t going to take the bait, he pulled something from his pocket, then flashed it to her, pinched like a cigarette between his index and middle fingers. A card with his name and number on it, along with the crest of the Kansas City police.

“If your memory changes—or if you want to tell me anything else—give me a call.”

Claire searched his face, terrified to take it. She glanced at the trailer—no sign of Dillon peeping through the windows.

She snatched the card and tucked it into her back pocket.

Claire yanked the husk off a cob of corn, then parted the silk strands from the kernels. They got caught on her fingers, sticky bits of yarn, and she shook her hand off to drop them into the bucket below. Within twenty minutes of Detective Winslow leaving her home, she was shucking corn in the backyard of her family’s farm, because of course Dillon wanted to talk to her dad about what happened, not her.

The evening sun beat down on her bare arms, pouring over the cornfield that stretched behind them. The Dyer farm kept a small crop, nothing like the miles and miles some of the farmers had. Claire had grown up here, playing in the stalks, dreaming of a pony suddenly appearing in the empty stable out back.

She peered back at the farmhouse. Its clapboard siding had faded to a soft, sun-bleached gray, with patches of paint chipping off to reveal the bare wood beneath. Inside the kitchen window, through the curtains with strawberries on them—relics from her mother—Claire caught sight of her dad’s back at the table. His posture was lax as he talked with Dillon and Marty about God knows what.

When Sully let out a squeaky laugh, Claire turned her attention to her sister, Clementine, who sat cross-legged in the grass with the baby in her lap.

“You gonna help out or just keep sittin’ there?” Claire muttered.

“I’m a mama, gimme a break.” Clem kissed Sully’s chubby cheeks. Her hair was parted in the center, like Claire’s, but it was even longer, reaching her hips, and dyed bright orange.

“And there’s a perfectly good playpen right there,” Claire said. “I can’t believe Daddy asked us to shuck fuckin’ corn at a time like this.”

Clem stood up with Sully. Her waif-like arms looked like they might snap beneath his weight, but they endured as she dropped him into the playpen. To Claire’s surprise, Clementine actually joined her at the makeshift corn-shucking table.

“If Sully’s first word ends up being ‘fuck,’ I will slap you silly.”