CLARK
Fifteen minutes later, Clark’s truck roared to a stop outside the darkened windows of Lott’s Hardware. She jogged to Joel’s ruined convertible, parked just where Browder had told her it would be, and found it empty. She had a pretty clear idea of what had brought Joel here in the first place—she too had seen tiny little Mr. Lott in the photograph with Corwin Broadlock and her mother—but in searching the seats of the convertible Clark found no sign of where Joel might have gone.
Gone. Or been taken.
Reaching for the trunk-pull, she spotted something in the window pocket of the driver’s door: Dylan Whitley’s knife, still in its sheath. She took the knife with her as she dug her fingers in the corners of the empty trunk, ran her hand over the rug for anything someone might have dropped or left behind. Nothing.
Slamming the trunk lid, she stared at the warning carved in the paint. GET OUT NOW FAG.
There were no lights on in the hardware store. The back door down the alleyway was locked. She had never seen the town this empty. Wind moaned through the fiberglass chicken above the door to the Egg House. The gutted bank sat unguarded. No cops would miss the game, of course. She doubted any robbers would, either.
She heard the faint pop of firecrackers to the north. She headed to the Bison field.
The crowd in the parking lot buzzed with the lethal, giddy energy of a riot. Sparklers and cherry bombs burst against the pavement. She saw a shirtless man covered in green paint bash in the window of his own truck with a camping chair and let out a roar for a cheering crowd. There were no deputies in sight. These people would go on like this all night, Clark thought. The town’s memories of a weary, terrified week were being demolished before her eyes, one bottle at a time.
Clark pushed her way through the gates and hunted for any sign of Joel.
She spotted Darren, Paulette Whitley’s boyfriend, standing in the line for the toilets. She’d had her doubts about the man’s alibi for last Friday night but now she grabbed him by the arm.
“Joel? Here?” Darren shouted over the noise. “Since when did he care about football?”
“Clark?” Paulette Whitley said, coming up beside Darren. “Is something wrong with Joel’s phone? It don’t even ring before it goes to voice mail.”
Clark forced on a professional smile. “I’m sure he just let the battery die.”
A few cheerleaders stood sipping water and taking selfies near the edge of the field. As Clark approached them the girls all suddenly remembered something they had to do elsewhere. She watched them leave, hoping to spot Kimbra Lott or Bethany Tanner, someone who might have spoken to Joel. But neither girl was here. Odd.
She glanced over her shoulder to the field house, searching for some sign of him among the players filing toward the parking lot, or of big Coach Parter with his idle smile and the best years of his life behind him, but she saw neither. She turned back to regard the cheerleaders one last time. She spotted Dashandre, the lone boy of the squad, eyeing her cautiously.
“You’re friends with Kimbra, aren’t you?” she asked him, stepping over to where he sat massaging his feet.
“I thought I was.” He took a sip of water. “She left school early, didn’t bother telling any of us.”
Heat prickled between Clark’s shoulder blades. “And where’s Bethany Tanner?”
“Being Bethany.”
Clark studied him. “Thank you,” she finally said, and turned to go.
“Did y’all ever talk to that crazy guy on Grindr?” Dashandre said from behind her.
Clark froze. The noise around her faded.
“What crazy guy?”
“I tried to tell Mr. Whitley about him last Sunday night but he blocked me ’fore I could say nothing.” Dashandre shrugged, tried to look bored, but Clark could tell he was spooked. “It’s just this weird dude pops off on there sometimes. It probably don’t mean nothing.”
She held out her hand. “Show me. Now.”
“It ain’t that big a deal.” He unlocked his phone, tapped it a few times, handed it over.
On the screen Clark saw a blue message that had arrived for Dashandre at 9:10 p.m. seven days ago, a little more than an hour before Dylan was last seen alive.
Right after halftime, Clark realized, when the Bright Lands boys had been passing around links to Dylan’s doctored escorting ad.
IF ANY OF U FUCKING FAGGOTS COME NEAR MY BOY I WILL FUCKING CUT U N MAKE IT LOOK LIKE A ACCIDENT.
Clark read the message twice. “Faggots?” she said softly to Dashandre. “Isn’t this an app for gay people?”
