Page 33 of Nowhere Good

Claire ducked away. It was like her energy had depleted the second her father appeared. Moments later, two tumblers of bronze scotch appeared before them.

“Thank you,” Seth said to Claire.

Ron gave her a look, then Claire disappeared to the other side of the bar, wiping up a phantom spill with a rag.

“Well, son, cheers.” Ron held up his drink. “I’m glad my future son-in-law ain’t some murderer. Here’s to Dillon’s innocence.”

Seth hesitantly clinked glasses with him. The scotch burned down his throat, oaky and mellow, easing his nerves. “I wouldn’t celebrate so soon, Ron. Dillon’s been cleared for the murders, but the dime bag in his car is not a good look. There might be more questions about that.”

Ron threw back a gulp of scotch, then rested the glass on the table with a thud. “How old are you really, kid?”

“Twenty-eight, sir.”

Seth braced himself for the inevitable. Sure enough, Ron burst into a wheezy laugh.

“Shit, man! You’re practically a baby still shittin’ in his diaper. Where does the state get off sendin’ a detective here who ain’t even hit thirty?”

“I’m experienced, sir. Experienced enough.”

“Sure ya are. Anyway, Dillon’ll be released tomorrow, and I trust that’ll be the last we’ll be hearin’ from ya. Unless you wanna sit for a drink with my beautiful daughter, of course, which you’re always welcome to, long as you’re buyin’.”

“Like I said, there could be more questions.”

Ron heaved out a theatrical sigh. “Look, you’re doin’ your job. You wanna find the sick bastard slicin’ up those girls. We all want that, right?” He turned to the bar, spread out his arms, and in a booming voice, said, “Hey, who wants the cops to bag that killer slicin’ up those girls?”

The room, half-drunk and half-paying attention, nodded and muttered in response.

Ron turned back to Seth and shrugged as if he’d made a point. “See? We all want that. So I know why you’re doin’ what you’re doin’. Gotta cross all your x’s and dot all your i’s. But Dillon ain’t your guy, and you know it now. I hope you won’t waste more time on it. Hell, you just got here and another body’s already dropped. I doubt you’ve got much time left to waste.”

Seth knew what Ron was doing. It irked him, but he tried not to show it. “I just found it odd Dillon was linked to two murder victims who died within a week of each other. You can’t blame me for looking at him the way I did.”

“You ever lived in a small town before?”

“No, sir, I’m from Brooklyn. I moved to Kansas City six months ago.”

“Out here, you’ll find a lot of coincidences. Assloads of ’em. Just ’cause I banged Eliza Johnson’s mother forty years ago doesn’t mean I killed ’er daughter.”

Seth turned away. Ron’s words left a bad taste in his mouth. Claire was still across the bar, busying herself by organizing some napkins. She peeked over her shoulder and caught him staring as he sipped his scotch. She looked away, but he lingered on her a moment longer, taking her in. He wondered how someone like Ron could raise someone as nice as her. He remembered the photo in Claire’s living room, the one of her late mother. Maybe that was where her sweetness came from—nature over nurture.

Ron was still waiting on a reply, so Seth said, “Point taken.” He slammed the last of his drink and stood up. “Thanks for the drink, Ron. Let’s do it again some time.”

Ron chuckled and shook his head, lips still to his glass. “Cheers, son.”

Seth left without another word. Once he was outside, making his way through the drizzly parking lot, his phone buzzed. A text from Claire’s number:

The house is at the corner of Main and Weston. Can’t miss it.

TEN

Damp air heaved into his lungs. The pavement pounded against the soles of his feet and reverberated through his legs—Seth knew it was counterintuitive to be both a smoker and a runner, but he hadn’t started paying the price yet. He pushed forward on the sidewalk, amazed by how dead downtown Fairview was at this hour. Not a soul in sight.

But this was more than midnight cardio. Nothing got him back into character like his high school playlists in his ears—Interpol and industrial rock. He caught his reflection in the window of a closed business. With his black hoodie on, sweat sticking his hair in clumps to his forehead, skin damp, eyes bloodshot, he looked like himself again. Who he used to be.

The type of guy who wouldn’t think twice about going into an abandoned building full of strangers, as long as it meant he could get a fix.

As Claire said, a dilapidated house occupied the corner of Weston Street, covered in graffiti and boarded up windows, wedged between two commercial buildings that probably hadn’t seen a business in years.

Seth crept up to the building and tugged out his headphones, embraced by the street’s ambiance; the hum of a radiator in the next building, the distant chirp of crickets. There’d be a point of entry somewhere around here, and he found it along the side of the house. Darkness swallowed him as he entered, along with the smell of mold. He was standing by a staircase, looking out into a living room. No signs of life.