Page 37 of Nowhere Good

Right now.

Get on your bike. Take the cash you’ve saved up and go.

Go where?

She didn’t know how to drive a car. She didn’t know how to defend herself. She didn’t know how to shoot a gun.

She’d never learned how to stand on her own two feet.

She’d never been allowed to learn.

Even now, she struggled to stay upright. She felt as though she’d been punched in the gut.

Because deep inside, she knew he was right. The devil she knew was all she’d ever get.

ELEVEN

It was strange to see Detective Winslow on the TV screen in her living room as though he hadn’t once been sitting on this very couch. Despite the morning sun trying to break into the trailer, Claire kept her curtains shut, hoping to indulge in the last pieces of privacy before Dillon returned.

Her hands shook as she sipped her morning coffee, filled with sugary vanilla creamer. It wasn’t often she tuned into the local news station, but the cops’ press conference on the murders wasn’t something she wanted to miss. Winslow stood on the podium, a grim line of officers, including Chief Wells, behind him. He appeared self-assured, his posture as straight as always.

“He’s sweet on you, y’know.”

Her dad’s words taunted her, a cruel joke. A man like Winslow would never. Handsome as he was, Claire wouldn’t even allow herself to go there. To torture herself with some sort of fantasy life she’d never have.

“We’re setting up an anonymous tip line,” Winslow was saying. “I encourage anyone who might have information about this to come forward. Anything at all, any small detail, might help. Until then, we’re recommending all townsfolk stay inside or travel in groups after dark, especially women.”

The reporters chattered up, and he chose one of them with a motion of his hand. A man said, “Just to get this right, are you saying we have an actual serial killer operating right here in Fairview?”

“As I said, we believe these two homicides are connected.”

“So, what, you’re waiting for more people to die before you’ll call it what it is?”

Winslow paused as the crowd stared at him. Claire bit on her thumb, still jittery. She could imagine it was stressful, having all those people watching him, all those expectations.

“We’re doing everything we can to prevent there from being more victims,” Winslow said. “Which is why it’s so crucial now to execute caution, and please, call the tip line if you’ve seen anything. The electronics store downtown will be carrying a heavy stock of security cameras moving forward. It never hurts to have home surveillance.”

More chatter erupted over the crowd, at the same time a car door slammed outside the trailer. Claire turned off the TV and ran to the window, peeking beyond the curtain. Dillon stepped out of her dad’s pickup. Crap.

He stormed inside. Claire stood there, stunned as he appeared in the doorway to the living room. He looked horrible—his right eye was bruised and black, his skin pockmarked and sallow. But it was the scowl that made him truly ugly.

After a moment, he clicked his tongue. “Don’t act so happy to see me.” He stomped down the hallway, toward their room.

Something in Claire snapped, and she chased after him. “The hell would I be happy to see you for after what you did? The whole town knows you can’t keep your dick in your pants now.”

He stopped and faced her. “And you actually care about that?”

Claire said nothing. She hadn’t cared about Dillon—about whatever semblance of a “relationship” was left here—in a long time.

“Yeah, that’s what I thought,” Dillon said. “Look, just leave me alone.”

“No, you need to tell me what happened. Why do you have a black eye?”

He laughed, but there was something different about him. Something defeated. “Why do you think?”

She crossed her arms, putting the pieces together. It wouldn’t have been the cops. “My dad did that?”

“He doesn’t want me knocking up anyone but you, so go ahead and stop your birth control or whatever and we can get this over with.”