Page 65 of Nowhere Good

Deeper in, he came to a square of reddish-brown tents, topped by banners that read: CELEBRATING OUR 80th ANNUAL CHILI AND CORN COOKOFF!

Ron Dyer stood behind one of the tables, pouring ladles of chili into paper cups and handing them to happy customers. He wore an apron over a simple black T-shirt that showed more of his tattooed arms.

Seth waited for a lull in the lineup to approach. Ron was stirring chili in a massive pot.

“Evening, Ron.”

Ron looked up and grinned. “Detective! Nice of you to show up an’ support the community. Believe it or not, we usually have a bigger turnout than this. Our chili’s a bit different from the usual fare. We’re usin’ ground turkey instead of beef.” Before Seth could object, Ron was already pouring chili into a cup and placing it on the table with a plastic spoon. “Here, on the house. Family recipe. Only myself and the girls know it.”

“Thanks.” Seth shifted the warm cup toward him, but kept it on the table. He had to admit, it smelled delicious, but he wasn’t here for pleasure. He took out his phone. “You have a chance to check the news this afternoon?”

“Haven’t had a minute to look. Marty’s supposed to be here helpin’ out, but he ran home to grab some of the napkins we forgot to pack.”

Seth showed Ron the composite sketch of the suspect. Ron leaned in, squinting.

“This your man?”

“Possibly. You recognize him?”

Ron looked more. Squinted harder. But as usual, he was a blank slate. “Can’t say I do, but the mask don’t give me much to work with.”

“It’s the best we could come up with.” He tucked his phone away and picked up the chili. “Thanks again.” He took a bite as he walked away, hit with the taste of salt and chili powder, mushy kidney beans. He’d been living off bagels and diner food for days now, and he hadn’t realized how much he’d needed something of real sustenance.

“Can I count on your vote?” Ron asked as Seth walked away.

He lifted his spoon. “Of course, Ron. It’s delicious.”

Ron cackled to himself. Seth kept moving through the fair, up the next row, still hawking for signs of anyone suspicious. He finished the cup of chili and tossed it in a trash bin, and as he turned, he caught Dillon Beamish storming through the crowd. Seth hadn’t seen him since the arrest, but that purpling bruise on his left eye was new.

“Dillon,” he called out.

Dillon tried to ignore him, but Seth slipped in front of him.

“Whoa, hey, what’s with the black eye?”

“Nothing, man. I gotta go, I’m just here to vote for Ron’s chili.” He tried to move past, but Seth stopped him again. That bruise was probably a few days old, judging by the color, but it looked like it’d been nasty.

“You good?” Seth asked.

Dillon averted his gaze, then gave him a look like he was stupid for asking. “Yeah? Whatever, man.”

Whatever indeed. Dillon liked to run his mouth, so it was no surprise someone had punched him out. Seth had bigger things to worry about, so he took his phone out with the sketch on it. “One thing. Does this guy look familiar to you?”

Dillon shrugged. “No? Can I go now?” But he was already walking away, and this time, Seth didn’t stop him.

He kept going through the fair, asking a few others he recognized about the photo, but no one had anything to say, and weren’t all that receptive to being asked while trying to enjoy themselves. A few booths down from the chili area, Clementine sat behind a table tucked within a white event tent, surrounded by displays of candles in mason jars as she cradled Sullivan.

Claire was nowhere in sight. She’d never texted him back. Maybe she’d changed her mind about talking to him, but it left him both curious and worried.

It shouldn’t have bothered him, but he wanted to see her again with fresh, sober eyes. He wanted to show her he was still himself, not the drunk mess she’d stumbled into that night. He wanted her to know that whatever it was she wanted to say to him, she could still trust him.

He supposed, if he were being honest, he wanted to redeem himself.

But she wasn’t here. He approached Clementine anyway. The sweet smell of candles reached his nose, and it reminded him of Claire’s trailer. At the front of the table was a stack of deep red candles with bits of dried strawberries floating on top, solidified. It looked and smelled good enough to eat.

“Oh, hi, Detective,” Clementine said. She hauled Sullivan into a stroller. “If you’re lookin’ for Claire, you just missed her. She took off a few minutes ago and left me to watch her dang booth for her.”

“This is Claire’s booth?”