Page 73 of Nowhere Good

The trailer was dark and so quiet, Seth could hear his own pulse. By the front door, he made a silent gesture for Claire to wait there while he took another step in. He grazed his weapon with his thumb to reassure himself it was there.

He left the lights off and cleared each room. There weren’t many, so it didn’t take long. The living room, kitchen, bedroom, and all the closets. Last, the bathroom. He yanked back the yellow floral shower curtain and was met with nothing but the smell of Claire’s body wash.

“All clear,” he called out, then stepped into the hall.

With her head down, Claire went for the kitchen and flicked the lights on. Seth leaned against the archway as she collapsed at the small round table in the corner of the room, holding her head between her hands. There was a pan on the stove with black bits of bread on it, filling the air with a burnt smell. A plate had been abandoned right beside the sink with a glob of ketchup solidifying on it. Evidence of Dillon’s grilled cheese, he assumed. The rest of the kitchen was spotless, sprinkled only with Claire’s charm. Butterfly magnets held pictures of Sullivan and Clementine up on the fridge.

Claire smoothed her palms over her face. She exhaled slowly, creating a whistle sound. In the dim light of her kitchen, the pink around her eyes only deepened.

“You wanna tell me what that was really about?” he asked, testing his luck.

She rolled a hair band off her wrist and fidgeted with it. “It’s nothing.”

“Come on, Claire, it’s not nothing.” He couldn’t help his frustration, and it leaked into his tone. How could he protect her if she wouldn’t help him understand?

Big mistake.

When she looked at him, her face had turned into a closed vault again. “You promised you would leave, so just leave, okay? I told you I can’t do this. Not now, not tonight.”

He stared at her, pleaded with her. He didn’t want to feel like he was spinning out on ice anymore, but when he tried to think of a way to get through to her, he didn’t know how. He was exhausted, exasperated, and his head was filled with blood. If he opened his mouth again, he’d probably only make things worse.

After everything, she still didn’t trust him.

“Please stay indoors until we catch this guy,” Seth said, then left without another word.

He felt like he’d taken a blow straight to the chest.

TWENTY-TWO

Morning light broke through the curtains of the trailer. Dillon’s shower was running, but Claire was glued to the TV screen in the living room as she bopped her pajama-clad knees together and bit her thumb, listening to the woman on the screen.

“In breaking news, police have confirmed the identity of the victim in last night’s attack as thirty-one-year-old Melissa Starr, a school teacher from the neighboring town of Watfield.”

A photo appeared of a pretty woman with a big smile and an endearing gap between her front teeth. She wore her hair the same way Claire did: long, mostly-straight, and parted down the middle. Claire felt jittery as she glanced at the photo of her mom on the end table. Melissa Starr had brown eyes, but maybe the killer was getting less choosy.

The TV segment continued.

“…they do believe the perpetrator is the same person who murdered Eliza Johnson, twenty-six, and Kelsey Campbell, twenty-three, further confirming this as Fairview’s first known serial killer in history. Police have released the following footage of the suspect and the suspect’s vehicle in an attempt to appeal to the public.”

A grainy video played on the screen—footage from the gas station, where a man in all black ran past the pumps, never looking back. He got into a van parked across the street and sped off.

“The suspect vehicle, seen in the video, has been described by eyewitnesses as a work van, white or possibly light blue, with no significant bumper stickers or markings. The suspect is thought to be between the ages of twenty-five to thirty-five.”

They showed the composite sketch next. Beside the couch, Claire’s old digital camera, a shiny pink, was plugged into the wall. She’d spent all morning digging through her closet till she found it at the bottom of a junk box, and she prayed it could still take a charge after all these years.

Because the face in the sketch could be familiar, but she needed to compare. Then she could confirm it with Seth.

You need to nut up and talk to him anyway.

There was her conscience again, dredging memories up with it.

God, she’d made a fool of herself last night.

She hadn’t had a flashback that debilitating in years. She remembered heaving, glitching in and out of memory and reality, being in front of the trailer, under the moonlight, and then Seth. His smell, smoky yet clean. It’d taken her a few moments to realize she wasn’t fourteen and in the cage. She was ten years older, tucked into that man’s chest, feeling his fast heartbeat on her forehead. He was holding her.

“See? You’re okay.”

His voice, brassy and warm, firewood burning on a cool night.