It shouldn’t make me feel anything. It does anyway.
“Phone,” he reminds me now, nodding toward the glowing rectangle clutched in my death-grip. “Inside. Locks first.”
“Yes, Dad,” I mutter, but I unlock the door and we step in.
Habit takes over: locks, chain, deadbolt. The ornaments glitter brightly from the tree in front of the window, catching the washed-out daylight. They look out of place in all this gray.
I shove that thought away and tap the news alert.
STATE POLICE RELEASE INITIAL FINDINGS IN LUCY FALLS DEATH
Authorities investigating possible connection to prior incidents.
Of course they are. It’s the only phrase worse thanno comment.
“Sit,” Bran says behind me.
“I’m fine standing.”
“Your eye’s twitching,” he says. “Sit. Please.”
Thepleasetakes the sting out of the command. Barely.
Ido notflop onto the couch like my bones are jelly. I lower myself in a controlled, dignified manner. Mostly.
Bran takes the chair with his usual economy of motion, angling it so he’s got the door and window in his peripheral.
“Read it out loud,” he says.
“I can read in my head, thanks.”
“And I can read upside down from here,” he says. “But if you read it out loud, I hear it at the same time you do, and I can head off whatever stupid idea you get halfway through.”
I narrow my eyes. “Define ‘stupid idea.’”
“Any idea that ends with you closer to Henry Thurston,” he says flatly. “Read, Tallulah.”
His tone leaves less room than I’d like. I blow out a breath and scroll.
“‘The victim, a woman in her mid-twenties, was discovered at Lucy Falls yesterday evening by an out-of-town hiker,’” I read. “‘Authorities have not released the victim’s name pending notification of next of kin.’ Blah blah…‘no obvious signs of foul play at the scene.’”
Bran snorts. “Bullshit.”
“‘However, due to the location and certain similarities to prior cases, state police are coordinating with Lucy Falls Sheriff Jack Brady and federal authorities.’” My mouth twists on Brady’s name. “Congrats, Jack. You made it to the majors.”
I keep going.
“‘Community members are urged not to speculate on social media and to avoid spreading rumors that may hinder the investigation.’”
“Too late,” I mutter.
Bran lifts his chin. “Scroll.”
I skim the rest. Bland assurances, a non-quote from “sources close to the investigation,” a carefully vague reference to “events from last year.” No names. No details.
No Henry.
“They’re dancing around it,” I say, locking my phone and tossing it onto the coffee table. “But they’ve basically strapped a neon sign to the Falls that says SERIAL KILLER? QUESTION MARK.”
