Page 71 of Nowhere Good

Claire was quiet for several long moments. “Is that what you talked to my dad about?”

“No, it’s a working theory. I’m asking you.”

“But what did you ask him?”

She wanted information, same as him. But he needed hers. “Let’s dial back to my question first. Can you think of anyone like the person I described?”

Claire sank in the seat, thinking. “Maybe… we had a few farmhands over the years. I can’t remember them all.”

Keeping an eye on the road, Seth opened his phone, tucked in the center console. The sketch was already there waiting; it was all he’d been looking at all day. “I’m not sure if you saw the news, but we released a possible suspect sketch.”

“Hmm… I dunno,” she said. “It can’t be Robbie, I don’t think. He was blond, had real light eyebrows. I might have some pictures of Trevor or Dylan with a Y on my old digital camera, if it even works anymore. I went through a photography phase when I was eleven, around the time both of them were there.”

“But like you said, there were a lot of farmhands over the years. Why is it only Dillon and Marty now?”

“I guess my dad’s been satisfied with the help.”

He went back to yesterday, when he was in the Dyers’ kitchen. He’d had this thought that Ron had “picked” the boys for his daughters. “This might sound odd, but did you ever feel like your father encouraged you and your sister to date them? Like he wanted Clementine with Marty, and you with Dillon?”

Claire’s entire demeanor changed, stiffened. But she didn’t answer him.

He wanted to tell her what he was thinking. That maybe one of the farmhands had been “picked” for his daughters by Ron too, but hadn’t made the cut, and now this was all about revenge. But there was a fine line to tread here, and he didn’t want to influence Claire’s answer.

However, the seconds ticked on, and she didn’t give him one at all. Instead, she quietly asked, “What’d you ask my dad about, Seth?”

The sound of his name on her lips made his heart stutter, an unexpected jolt that pulled him from being a detective to just a man. He glanced at her profile. Her cheeks were puffy and red, her eyes shimmering. He’d had thoughts about her, thoughts he couldn’t come back from. Thoughts of her on her knees in front of him; her eyes, looking up at him, but not sad like that. He felt like an asshole for even remembering it now. He had no right to see her that way. She wasn’t his.

He wiped those thoughts away, trying to regain his professionalism, measuring how much information he could—or should—give her.

“If I tell you, I need your word you won’t tell anyone else. The last thing I need is the press coming up with their own theories.”

“You have my word.”

He found her a little too easy to believe. “A few days ago, the tip line received a call from an unknown man implying something about the location of—what I believe to be—your mother’s body.”

Claire winced. Seth pushed on.

“The other day, I played that recording to your father, and he claimed he didn’t recognize the voice. He also said your mother never had any stalkers, enemies, or anything like that. Said the call must be a prank. I could accept that until tonight, when I got another call from the same man. He shared a detail about tonight’s murder that only the killer could know. He kept going on about finding ‘the body’ and about how he’s trying to essentially get another man to ‘come out of hiding.’ That’s who the message is for.”

“And you think that person could be my dad,” Claire breathed out.

“I can’t prove that. Your dad denied it, and the caller never explicitly named him. He did name a ‘Mrs. Dyer,’ which I can only assume is your mother.” He paused, giving her a moment before he continued. “Your father said if it does have something to do with his wife—your mother—then it must be someone he never knew about, some other man. Problem is, the suspect has been described as young, thirties at most, by two eyewitnesses now. That would make him a kid when your mom died, teenager maybe.”

“Like one of the farmhands.” Claire’s voice lowered with realization.

“Maybe.”

Before he knew it, Seth was driving up to the trailer park. He wound through the quiet road, past the rows of mobile homes, until he reached the familiar shape of Claire’s unit. Dillon’s car wasn’t there, and the lights were off inside. He put the car in park. This conversation wasn’t over.

He smoothed his sweaty palms over his pants. “I spend most of my days trying to understand what drives a person to kill. Sometimes, the motive is simple. Sadistic pleasure, and that’s about it. Other times, it’s because they believe they’re on some kind of mission—a crusader, committing acts of evil for the greater good. That’s the sense I got from my conversation with him. He’s trying to expose something.”

“What really happened to my mother,” she stated, her voice barely a whisper.

“What do you think happened to her? I know you were young, but do you think it’s possible it wasn’t an accident?”

“I… maybe…”

Maybe. That wasn’t a no. “You said you wanted to ask me something about her the other night. Can you tell me what that was?”