Page 40 of Nowhere Good

“Eight. How’d she die?”

“Since we never had a body, we can’t say for sure, but we found her blood on a rock out deep east in the woods where she used to like hiking. Some animal prints were nearby—a black bear, no doubt. Never found the den, but you can put two and two together. Looks like she took a tumble while hiking and Winnie the Pooh cashed in.”

“Was the case originally treated like a homicide?”

“Homicide-slash-missing-persons. With the blood on the rock, we couldn’t be too sure someone hadn’t landed it on her. After really looking at the evidence we had, we had to give the family an answer. Accidents can happen. There were no suspects.”

“But—”

“We didn’t decide it overnight, Detective. We really looked for her. She was one of our own—a real town belle. People volunteered hours of their time, the type of community canvass you only ever see for a missing child. We scoured that forest day and night. What happened to Celine Dyer is part of Fairview’s history, and whoever made that call would know that. Probably some teenager telling ghost stories, like they’ve been telling since it happened. They are trying to throw you off and waste your time, I promise you that.”

Chief Wells was probably right. And if Haylock had any sort of “map” or talked to this guy before, he would have it on record. Probably.

“I don’t want you buggin’ the Dyers about this either,” Chief Wells said. “I remember Celine’s disappearance like it was yesterday. Two little girls losing their mom, a husband losing his wife. They don’t need to be reminded of it.”

“Yeah…” Seth trailed off. “Thanks, Chief.”

Hours later, cooped up in the conference room, Seth had a pile of files open in front of him, the names of suspects in the sexual assault from eight years ago. No matter how hard he’d tried to focus on other avenues, his mind kept going back to this morning.

He didn’t want to let that catatonic phone call get to him, but it’d dug roots into his brain, created neural pathways that wouldn’t shut down. It’d bothered him from the beginning—the victims’ appearances and their striking resemblance to Claire Dyer. He remembered the photo he’d seen of Claire’s mother in her home. A spitting image of Claire.

And of the current murder victims.

A look wouldn’t hurt. Just a peek into the archives, something to satisfy this itch. He needed a break anyway, so he scooted out of his chair.

The station had cleared out around dinnertime, with half the officers on patrol and the other half on break. Only the receptionist and Officer Yess remained, watching the tip line. Seth stopped by Yess’s desk as he was cramming a sandwich in his mouth.

“Hey, Yess—what’s the code to get into the archive room?”

“Uhh—2801 I think,” Yess said, mouth half-full of bologna. “Why, you need something about the assault? I can get you all the files.” He went to move, but Seth held up a hand.

“No, don’t worry about it, man. Enjoy your dinner.”

Yess didn’t fight back, easing his wide body back into his chair. Seth slipped past to the archive room. After punching the code into the padlock, he found himself in the smallest physical archive room he’d ever been in. He went to the shelf dedicated to closed cases.

There, among the boxes, he found it.

Dyer, Celine.

He carefully lifted the box and placed it on the floor, peeking in to find a scant number of files and photos.

The evidence was slim. Photos of the crime scene, angles of a rock out in the woods with a splotch of blood the size of a baseball dripping down the curvature. She could’ve fallen face-first on it, bled out right there. Or maybe she’d moved, tried to call for help, but didn’t make it much farther. More evidence photos showed broken sticks, blood spatter on some wood, and some prominent bear tracks.

No body, no crime.

Maybe it was merciful to let the family believe Celine had died under a random circumstance. Maybe it’d helped prevent them from wondering, for all these years, if she’d died another way, a crueler way. Claire had seemed at peace with her mother’s death when they talked about it.

He peeked beneath the photo, at the file’s heading beneath. When he checked who the case had been assigned to, he had to do a double take.

Detective Robert Haylock.

TWELVE

The wheels of Claire’s bike clicked beneath her as she pedaled down the country road under the gaze of a million stars.

Finally, a clear night, equipped with a wan moon that emanated rings of light, illuminating her path ahead, even in the absence of streetlights. Walled in by cornfields on either side, she peeked over her shoulder—no headlights, but if she were right, then when Dillon left earlier, it was to meet with her dad and Marty. And they’d be meeting at the farm.

She stood on her bike and pedaled harder, her thighs burning, her pulse hammering against her throat as the night’s heat wore on her. Almost there.