Page 63 of Nowhere Good

“’Cause of the Brooklyn Butcher?”

Apparently, Pereira had done her homework on him. “Good guess. Anyway, it got me thinking—what if the killer has farm experience? He tried to snap Eliza Johnson’s neck, and she was his first. The coroner insisted the fracture was a direct manipulation by human hands.”

Pereira shrugged and crossed her foot over her knee. “Could be, lots of that around here. But if he were a true farmer, why’d he mess it up?”

“Ron said something about how some people are squeamish when it comes to bones breaking. Maybe the killer wanted to snap Eliza’s neck, but didn’t like the way it felt—he failed, so he swapped to cutting her throat instead.”

“Could explain why he tried on Eliza, but didn’t bother on Kelsey.”

“Exactly. Perfecting his method…” Seth trailed off. “What do you think about Marty Dyer?”

“I dunno, he’s all right. Quiet, always has been. He’s the only man I’ve ever seen take his woman’s last name. He’s present for Clementine and their baby. Not everyone has a dad who sticks around. Guess Ron set a good example.”

“Yeah.” Seth didn’t know his dad, but he could only imagine he wasn’t a great guy. People don’t have to be like their parents, though. Claire was a testament to that. She was nothing like Ron.

He snapped out of it, realizing he’d gone off on a mental tangent. His head became woozy, but he tried to keep himself upright as he refocused.

“I just can’t figure out the motive. It’s a message, no doubt, but for who?”

Pereira eyed him with a hint of concern. “Maybe you should take a break, Winslow. You look like you’re gonna yak every two seconds. Hangover’s hittin’ you hard.”

“It is. I’m really not a drinker.”

“Could’ve fooled me. You should go sleep it off. A hangover that nasty doesn’t go down without a fight. If you don’t wanna feel it into tomorrow, sleep.”

Being alone was the last thing he wanted right now, but Pereira had a point. If he slept it off, he’d have a chance to start fresh tomorrow.

Despite the exhaustion in his bones, the motel room was hardly welcoming. Memories of last night still haunted him.

Claire, sitting on the edge of his bed, looking over him.

Him, a raw, drunken mess.

It was impossible not to hate himself still, but Claire hadn’t made him feel judged. No, she was too good for that. She’d listened to all his bullshit and responded with grace, because that was the type of person she was.

All day, when his mind wandered, it found its way back to her. The image of her face, rosy-cheeked and smiling, had tattooed itself behind his eyelids. Her voice was musical in his memory, a balm for his anxious thoughts.

So when he finally did fall asleep, he dreamt of Claire, and nothing but Claire.

TWENTY

The smell of the fair—like kettle corn and cotton candy—always brought back memories for Claire, one for each year of her life. This time was no different. The afternoon sun blazed down as she carefully arranged her candles on the display inside her tent, organizing them by color.

“Well, aren’t you a cutie pie,” a familiar voice sounded, and Claire turned to see Clementine approaching, wearing a long yellow dress and big sunglasses. She pushed a calm Sullivan in a stroller.

Claire’s face flushed, and she looked down at her outfit—a pale blue romper cinched at the waist. It was one of the nicer outfits she owned, better than her usual tops and shorts, but still practical.

As in, she could still bike in it.

And in order to enact her plan later, she needed her bike.

“Figured I should try to look half-decent and make some sales,” she muttered. She hadn’t seen Clementine since their fight the other night. Clem was obviously fine with pretending it never happened, because she pushed Sully’s stroller into the shade of the tent, then began helping Claire unload boxes.

“Am I crazy, or is this usually less of a ghost town by now?” Clem asked. “Where are all the sellers?”

“Last I heard, we had three last-minute dropouts. Those are only the confirmed ones.”

Lifting her sunglasses, Clementine shot Claire a bewildered look. “Darn. If the sellers are shyin’ away, the tourists might too.”