Page 31 of Nowhere Good

“Maybe not about the man who led Dillon’s arrest. Okay?” Irked, Claire stood up and began tidying her space. “Anyway, it’s almost five. I’ve gotta clean up and get ready for work, so...”

Clem stood up. “I can help—”

“It’s okay, Clem. Thanks for coming over.”

She did appreciate it, but damn, all Clem did was force her to think about everything she didn’t want to think about. She dropped the wax bucket into the kitchen, then came back out into the living room to see Clem standing by the front door, all knobbly kneed in her Pilates get-up.

Then, before Claire could process it, Clem trapped her in her arms. Claire froze, enveloped by the smell of her sister’s familiar, flowery shampoo. Lillies and orange peels. She was the first person to offer her real comfort, and all the frustration Claire had felt disappeared. Tears burned her as she hugged Clementine back.

“I love you,” Clem said. “Sorry I’m such a screw-up.”

“You’re not a screw up,” Claire choked out. “You were trying to help. Thank you.”

Clem pulled away and cleared some hair from Claire’s face. Her hands were so small and cold. “Remember you can talk to me, okay?”

“I know, Clem.”

But she couldn’t talk to Clem. She couldn’t talk to anyone. As embarrassing as it was, the one person who knew the most about the truth of her situation was Detective Winslow.

And Claire sincerely hoped she’d never see that man again.

NINE

By nightfall, Seth had exhausted as many sources of information about Kelsey Campbell as he could get. Maybe it was morbid curiosity that had brought the end of his day here, parked inside of his car outside The Stalk and Barrel, contemplating going in. A damp haze settled over the town, the air swollen with the threat of rain.

He’d spent most of his day interviewing those who knew Kelsey. Since her parents had died in a car crash, the Pilates studio she worked at downtown was her anchor. Her friends were her coworkers. They described her as bubbly, a ray of sunshine—but secretive too. They were all surprised to hear about her affair with Dillon Beamish, claiming she was far out of his league. But maybe that was why she’d kept it such a secret.

From what Seth could see as he spent the other half of the day researching Kelsey’s life, she didn’t like to be judged. Her social media gave the impression of a girl who lived in a big city, not a small Missouri town. Kelsey only showed the world what she wanted them to see.

Everything about her painted a completely different picture than Eliza Johnson.

Everything except their appearances.

Something about thin white girls with long, dark blonde hair meant something to the killer. It made them worthy of his words, cleaved into their skin. Worthy of his hatred, love, fury—a mixture of all three.

If that were the case, then who was his blueprint? Another living girl? Someone he’d already killed, who was never discovered? His mother? An ex-lover?

Who was this message really for?

Seth gazed at the flickering sign of The Stalk and Barrel, a neon red hue against the gauzy night sky.

The killer had done something else different this time too. When Seth went to the morgue this morning, Dr. White, the coroner, showed him more X-rays of Eliza Johnson’s neck and the bruising she had. With Kelsey, however, he’d skipped that step—he’d gone straight to cutting her throat after subduing her with heroin and carving his sentence into her arm.

Perfecting his method, Seth supposed. But it was odd.

Without another thought, he stepped into the night.

Inside the bar, the air was sticky with the scent of spilled beer. A handful of laggardly patrons slumped over some tables while others leaned against pool cues. Seth’s eyes followed the wrap-around bar, dotted by drink rings on old varnished wood, until they landed on the first pretty thing he’d seen all day.

Claire. At the end of the bar, she stood with her hair tied back in a low braid, the loose strands catching the amber lights like flicks of fire. She hummed along to the Stones on the jukebox and wiped up the counter, a calm expression on her face, eyes half-lidded and focused on the motion. She looked peaceful like this—in her element. Away from Dillon. Away from the home they shared.

Then she noticed him, and it all melted away, replaced by caution. He’d tainted the moment like the smudge of a dirty fingerprint on glass.

He walked up to her anyway, just as she tossed her rag aside and pulled a tray full of clean dishes toward her.

“Hey, Claire.”

“Detective.” She began sorting dishware into their designated spots. “What brings you in?”