“What road?” His tone shifts, a trace of disbelief creeping into his voice.
“Hunter Trail,” I reply, the name of the road sounding foreign to my ears now, like it belongs to someone else’s life.
The man chuckles, the sound deep and rumbling in his chest. “If there was a police chase and a suicide on Hunter Trail, I woulda heard about it,” he says, shaking his head like it’s the most absurd thing I could have said.
The door to the store chimes, and we both turn to see another customer entering. It’s Louie. I’m relieved to see him. He’ll be able to help.
“Hey, there, Petra!” Louie says with genuine joy. “How’s the writing going?”
The clerk, sensing an opportunity to share the strange conversation we’ve just had, speaks up before I can respond. “Louie, you heard of any police chase or suicide in the last couple weeks? Specifically on your road?”
I pause, my breath catching in my throat as I wait for Louie’s response. He looks from me to the clerk, a puzzled expression on his face, before he laughs, shaking his head. “Not around here,” he says with a chuckle. “We haven’t had a self-inflicted death since 2014. Been even longer than that since we had a police chase.”
The words hit me like a punch to the gut. I feel my insides begin to buzz with anxiety, my mind racing as I try to make sense of what I’ve just heard.
How could that be right? I was there. I saw the police lights, I talked to the detective.This can’t be happening.
I shake my head, my voice weak as I speak. “But ... itdidhappen. The road your house is on, Louie. In the middle of the night. A detective came to my door ...” My words trail off, the confusion thickening in my mind. “Your wife even knows about it.”
Louie looks me up and down, his eyes narrowing slightly. “A detective? We don’t have detectives.”
“You from Los Angeles or something?” the clerk asks. “You a reporter?” There’s a note of suspicion in his voice now, as if he’s sizing me up, trying to figure out who I am and why I’m asking these questions.
“No,” I say, my voice barely above a whisper. “I’m a writer ... fiction. Not a reporter.”
“She’s been staying in our remodel,” Louie says proudly.
My hands are shaking as I reach into my purse and pull out my phone, the weight of the confusion and fear hitting me. My fingers tremble as I scroll quickly through my camera roll, searching for the photo I’ve been hiding. Two nights ago, I took a selfie of me and Saint, a moment of weakness, a moment I wanted to remember. I hid it in my phone, tucked away where no one would find it.
I hold the phone up to Louie, my hand shaking as I show him the picture of Saint. “Is this guy a police officer in this town?” I ask with an unsure tone.
Louie takes the phone from me, his brow furrowing as he stares at the picture. After a long moment, he laughs, the sound harsh and mocking. “We have two policemen who patrol this area, and both of them onlywishthey could look like this man.”
The blood drains from my face.This can’t be right.I feel a wave of nausea rise in my stomach, my mind spinning as I try to make sense of what Louie just said.
“No. He was at your house too. He spoke to both of you about the accident.” Did Mari fail to mention that Louie has dementia or something?
Louie is looking at me likeI’mthe one with dementia. “Show Bill,” he says. “He’s the closest gas station to the lake, so the man has probably been here to the store for gas.”
The weight of my confusion is pressing down on me, making it hard to focus. My heart is racing, and I can feel the sweat beginning to form on the back of my neck. I hold the phone up for Bill, the clerk, desperate for answers.
“Do you know who this is?” I ask, my voice trembling slightly as I try to keep my composure. The photograph of Saint on my screen feels like the only tangible piece of evidence I have, the only thread that ties all this together.
Bill shakes his head, his expression calm but indifferent, as if this is just another mundane conversation in a long string of them. “Don’t know his name,” he says flatly, but then his eyes narrow slightly as he looks more closely at the screen. “But I’ve seen him.” He grabs my phone and a pair of glasses and inspects it even more. “Yep. Yeah. That’s a face that’s hard to forget. Tall guy. Drives a black car. But don’t know him.” He hands my phone back to me.
I latch on to that small morsel of information like a lifeline, my mind racing to make sense of it all. “Where did you see him?” I ask, leaning in closer. “Here?”
My grip tightens on the phone, my knuckles turning white as I wait for his response, hoping that what he says next will finally start to make sense of this twisted situation.
Bill nods slowly, his brow furrowing in thought. “Yeah, if it’s the same guy I’m thinking of,” he says after a pause, as if he’s piecing it together himself. “He’s come in a couple times in the past few weeks. I reckon he’s staying in one of the rentals because I’ve never seen him before.” His tone is casual, but the words hit me like a punch to the gut.
This doesn’t line up with the story Saint told me at all, with the way he described his life here.
“Maybe he’s new to the area?” I say, trying to rationalize all this, grasping at straws to make it fit. “Maybe he just started working here as a detective.” My voice sounds weak, even to my own ears. I’m trying to convince myself as much as I am Bill, but deep down, I can feel the cracks beginning to form, the doubt creeping in.
If Saint just started working here, why wouldn’t Louie or Bill know him? Why would they be so adamant that he doesn’t work around here?
Louie, who’s been standing nearby, senses the shift in my demeanor. His eyebrows draw closer together in concern, and he steps forward. The air between us feels heavy, thick with the weight of unanswered questions. “Petra, I don’t know who this man is to you, but I can assure you he is not from around here. And he definitely does not work around here. Not as a cop. Not even as a security guard. Not even at Taco Bell.”
