“The reason I came to question you the other day about Everett’s connection to the Blanchards is because we’re gathering evidence linking him to Herman Blanchard’s death.” Sheriff Theriot delivers the bombshell in a matter-of-fact voice. Even in his white church shirtsleeves, there’s no mistaking he’s the law. “We had a witness come forward, one of Herman’s neighbors. Says two years ago, ’round the time Herman was found dead in his garage, her son—young boy, ’bout seven at the time—told his mother he saw the Low Man visit Herman. Said he spotted the man walkin’ out of Herman’s house, and when he saw the boy, the man put his finger to his lips to shush him and then ran away.”
Goose bumps rise on my arms despite the heat.
“The woman didn’t say anything until now because at first she thought her son was tellin’ tall tales, and course Herman’s death was ruled accidental. But with all the talk about the Low Man floatin’ ’round Fred and Renard’s deaths, she thought she better come talk. At first, I was ready to dismiss it as more occult hysteria.”
“Then why are you telling me?” My voice is thick.
“Because I don’t know ’bout no Low Man, but you know what I did realize? The creature’s supposed to be pale and morose and good-lookin’ enough to tempt a person. You know who fits that bill? Everett Duncan.”
The sheriff glances at my father and they exchange portentous looks.
“Absolutely not,” I said.
“Everett fits the description of a man a gas station attendant out in Forsythe recalls gettin’ in a big fight with Fred Fortenot not too long before Fred went missin’.”
That hits like a sledgehammer. Ever has never mentioned getting in a fight with Fred. It can’t be true, then. It has to be someone else or something the sheriff invented to pin him.
Everyone watches me. They’re waiting for me to break into tears, I realize. Gasp, scream, show some sign of horror. I make sure my face remains expressionless.
“We believe this explains why Everett didn’t come back to town last summer. He knew the boy saw him outside Herman’s house and he wanted to let the heat die down, make sure he wasn’t gonna get caught.”
“You have it all wrong,” I say. “Everett is one of the best men I know.”
“You’restilldefending him?” Barry’s voice is incredulous.
“Told you she was obstinate.” My mother’s icy tone is the soundtrack of my childhood.
“Listen.” The sheriff puts out his hands, placating. “Everett’s going down for this, no two ways. But we need your help first. Why’d he comeback this summer? What’s he planning? You’re his only friend. You have to know something.”
To see me, I think, then feel naive. “He came back to sell his father’s house,” I say instead.
Barry shoots the sheriff a worried look. “He’ll have no more ties here. He could slip away.”
Exactly what I’ve been worried about.
“Ruth.” The sheriff’s voice grows grave. “We suspect Everett killed not only Herman, but Fred before that and his own father before Fred. We’re waiting for money to exhume Killian’s body and test it, since it wasn’t done when he died. That’s three murders we know of. Do you know what that makes him?”
The sun beats down on us—distorting the air, giving everyone auras. There are no bird calls, no frog croaks. The world is silent in this moment of anticipated dread.
The sheriff’s voice is steady. “Ruth, your friend is a serial killer.”
31
NOW
It’s late when I meet Ever at the bar. There’s no chance he’ll be safe at the Blue Moon after the stunt he pulled at church, so I’ve asked him to meet me at the Alibi, a place I’ve heard mentioned in gossip. It’s in a deserted part of Forsythe, nothing but trash tumbling down the street when I hurry across it. The only light comes from the red and blue bar signs.
But inside it’s busier. I’ve noticed in Forsythe, people don’t talk to each other much, maybe on account of it being a bigger town where everyone doesn’t know each other’s business. In the dim and moody Alibi, men sit alone, staring morosely over their beers, or in pairs at the bar, talking quietly. I spot Everett in a red booth and straighten my shoulders. I need to keep my wits about me tonight. It’s not the time for emotion: it’s time for logical thinking. Investigative Ruth, getting to the bottom of the sheriff’s absurd accusations and finding a way to counter them.
“Got you this,” Ever says when I walk up, sliding a glass of something so shockingly pink it can only be Boone’s Farm across the table.
He wants me to sit across from him instead of next to him like usual. Okay. Taking the hint, I slide into the booth. “You assumed I’d need the hard stuff after what happened at church, looks like.” I’m going for lightto undercut the tension, a classic Everett move, but he doesn’t smile. “Well, I’m just glad you agreed to meet me.”
He looks away, jaw tightening, so I take the opportunity to study him. He’s in a white T-shirt and blue jeans, innocent enough, though his sleeves are rolled up on account of the heat and it makes him look a little tough. The way he’s sitting, arms folded over the table, shows off his pronounced muscles, his broad shoulders—and once again, like when he was wrenching open the safe in Earl’s garage, I’m struck by his bulk and cut, things I stopped paying attention to when he became an extension of me. He’s taken the gauze off his bullet wound: I can see the path the bullet took across his skin, red and angry. But even scarred and half-shadowed in the murky bar, I still see my Ever.
Of course, I know better than anyone you don’t need to look like a killer to be one.
“Hey,” yells Ever suddenly. Across the bar, two men stop playing pool. “Guy in the plaid’s cheating.”
