Page 35 of Nowhere Good

“Two weeks ago? Enough time for Charlie-boy to find a new… I mean. Yeah, two weeks ago.”

If that were true, then this could be the killer. He’d been here before he’d ever killed Eliza Johnson. Was this where he’d concocted his plan to murder them, or had it already been in his mind?

Seth took out his phone and found a picture of Eliza, then flashed it to the girl. “Have you ever seen this person here?”

“Not here, nope. Know who she is, though. Lady who got murdered. She didn’t hang around our crew. Not like we wouldn’t have her, she was just a bit of a loner.”

He flipped to a picture of Kelsey. “And what about her?”

“Hmm… nope.”

Seth tucked his phone away, frustrated. He felt close to the killer—standing in the same damn room he’d once been in—yet he still had nothing. A place like this saw too much traffic; even if he could get forensics in, the evidence would be compromised.

“What else can you tell me about this guy? Was he older, younger? Tall, short?”

“Not too old, but he wasn’t a kid either. He had this bad energy around him. I can pick up on that kind of stuff, ’specially when I’m high. My mind opens up to a whole new dimension—people have colors, and his was real black. Not like yours. You’ve got a calmness around you, maybe blue. Not light blue, though. Dark.”

When he was a teenage addict, he might have found that deep, but he saw things for what they were now. The “colors” she saw were not from another dimension—that was probably her intuition.

It was a longshot, but he asked, “Do you think you could identify him in a lineup?”

“I mean, yeah, prob’ly. I’d sense his energy again.”

“What if I could get a sketch artist in? Would you be willing to work with them?”

“What, like, at the cop shop?” She wrinkled her nose. “You’re gonna have to give me more than a few high-end smokes for that one.”

“You know I can’t give you cash. How about a stipend for some groceries? Actual food for yourself and the people here.” He motioned around the room. There were at least five others, passed out and probably high.

She kicked at the floor, fidgeting with the pack more, before she nodded. “Maybe, but I ain’t making any promises.”

“I know. What’s your name?”

“Isabella.”

“Okay, Isabella.” He fished a card from his pocket and handed it to her. Hesitantly, she accepted it. “I’ll come find you when I have an artist. Until then, if you see that guy again, I need you to call me or find me right away. He’s dangerous. Whatever you do, keep your distance.”

“Sure. I’m trustin’ you. Only ’cause of your blue aura.”

“Thanks. I’ll be in touch. And just so you know—we’re gonna have to be watching this place in case he comes back.”

Isabella nodded in understanding. It was as friendly of a warning as he could give her. He wasn’t here to punish them for being addicts, but the other cops might feel differently.

Without another word, Isabella retreated into a different room. Seth peered through the doorway, where she curled up on a mattress, surrounded by a pile of books and a teddy bear. If she had dark blonde hair like the killer liked, she’d probably be dead. He wished there was something he could say to wake her up—to wake all of them up—and tell them life can be more than getting high, but he also knew how it felt for this to be all there was. It was a choice, but it didn’t feel like one.

Seth would be lying if he said he never missed it. The things he saw on this job kept him up at night. He hadn’t slept much since becoming a homicide detective, but whenever he took a killer off the streets, the world felt less evil, if only for one day, and it helped fill that hole inside him. It helped remind him.

Refocusing on the wall, he took a few steps closer. The words sharpened into view. Crudely carved, whoever did this had treated this plank of wood the same way he’d treated two women’s bodies. As though they were his canvas.

He pulled out the replica of the murder weapon, a 0.6-milimeter boxcutter, given to him by the coroner this morning. He jutted out the blade, then slotted the edge of it into the S on the wall.

A perfect fit.

Claire had never been comforted by the rumble of her dad’s truck beneath her during the rare nights he wanted to drive her home. She hugged herself in the passenger seat and watched the streets of Fairview skim past the window.

“You didn’t have to drive me, Daddy,” Claire murmured.

He gave her nothing more than a grunt. The streetlights caught on the silver of his beard as he turned a corner.