They left The Bucket separately, a precaution Laura insisted on, and Beck understood without being told. She went first, slipping out the front door with a casual wave to Tap behind the bar. Beck waited a full three minutes before finishing the last of his beer, leaving the ten on the counter, and following her into the warm July night.
8
Kinsley Aspen
July
Saturday, 4:34 pm
Kinsley tugged at a thistle sprouting defiantly from the edge of her lawn and flung it onto the burgeoning heap in the small grey bucket beside her. She used the back of her wrist to brush away the beads of sweat forming on her forehead, no doubt leaving a streak of dirt across her skin that she didn’t bother wiping away. It matched her mood.
The convenience store’s deleted security footage had obliterated her last hope of discovering who had retrieved Gantz’s vehicle from Terrapin Lake, and the disappointment had left a bad taste in her mouth.
“Sorry,” the store manager had explained with an unapologetic shrug. “We only keep footage for ninety days unless there’s an incident report.”
Ninety days. That was the window, and it had closed long before she’d thought to sort through it. She’d gone back to the station afterward and pulled every incident report filedat that location, hoping that something, anything, might have prompted the store to preserve a specific stretch of footage. She’d reviewed what had been submitted into evidence and found nothing useful. No camera had captured a flatbed or tow rig hauling a waterlogged vehicle down that road in the middle of the night, and there was no telling when the extraction had actually taken place.
It could have been three months ago or nine.
The trail, if there had ever been one, was cold.
Kinsley drove her trowel into the earth with unnecessary force, gouging a divot deeper than she’d intended. Her flowerbed and front yard had suffered from weeks of neglect, and the evidence was everywhere she landed her gaze.
Crabgrass had invaded the flower beds in thick, stubborn clusters, and dandelions had colonized the lawn in scattered yellow bursts. She loved the dandelions, if she was being honest. There was something resilient about them, the way they thrived where nothing else bothered to grow. It was the rest of the overgrowth that bothered her, the unkempt, untended sprawl that reflected her mental state a little too accurately for comfort.
Sweat trickled down her temple as the July sun beat down without mercy. Her back ached from kneeling on the hard ground, and her right knee protested at the sustained pressure of her body weight with a sharp, familiar pain that radiated up through her thigh. She’d changed into worn shorts and a faded Minnesota Vikings t-shirt after returning from the grocery store that morning, determined to accomplish something tangible with her Saturday. Something she could see and measure. Something that didn’t involve dead ends and deleted footage and the constant, gnawing awareness that someone out there had evidence of the worst thing she’d ever done.
The distinctive rumble of an engine approached from behind, and she didn’t bother peering over her shoulder. Sheattacked another cluster of weeds with renewed vigor instead, yanking them out by their roots and shaking the loose soil free before tossing them into the bucket. The engine cut off, followed by the creak and slam of a driver’s door.
“When Mom said you were in a mood, I didn’t realize you were declaring war on your lawn,” Dylan called out, his footsteps crunching on the gravel driveway. “Mom’s upset you wouldn’t go to the garage sales with her today.”
Kinsley sat back on her heels, ignoring the slice of pain that shot through her knee. She hadn’t been in the mood to spend an entire day with her mother after nearly being thrown in prison for murder, but it wasn’t as though she could state such a fact aloud. She’d made up an excuse about needing to catch up on yard work, which had the benefit of being true even if the motivation behind it was entirely different from what her mother assumed.
She finally shifted position to face her brother, and a witty comment died on her lips as she registered his appearance. Her brother, who was almost always in a pair of ripped jeans and a stained t-shirt, stood on her cement path in a charcoal-gray suit that appeared freshly purchased. The fabric sat well on his frame, and his dark blond hair was neatly combed, though a few rebellious strands had already broken formation and fallen across his forehead in their usual defiant way.
“Who died?” Kinsley asked, unable to mask her surprise.
Dylan grinned, the familiar expression softening the formality of his attire. She peeled off her gardening gloves, revealing red indentations where the material had dug into her skin. It was obvious from the way he was holding himself, shoulders back and chin lifted with barely contained satisfaction, that he wanted to keep her in suspense.
“Beer is in the fridge. Bring me one, would you?”
Dylan nodded and bounded up the porch steps with the same energy he’d possessed since childhood. The screen door banged shut behind him as Kinsley gathered her gardening tools and the plastic bucket of weeds. She brushed grass clippings and soil from her knees, grimacing at the green stains that had soaked into her skin.
The coolness of the fading afternoon provided little relief from the lingering heat. She settled on the porch steps and leaned against the railing, stretching her legs out in front of her and rubbing her knee to ease the discomfort. She knew from experience that only a hot bubble bath would truly diminish the deep-seated ache, but that was a luxury for later. Right now, she was content to sit in the shade and wait for her brother to tell her whatever had put that expression on his face.
The screen door swung open as Dylan emerged, jacket discarded and tie loosened around his neck. She wasn’t surprised in the least. He hated formal attire the way some people hated dentist appointments, with a visceral, almost physical resistance that made even an hour in a suit feel like punishment.
He handed her an open bottle of beer before settling beside her on the step, his long legs stretched out next to hers. The condensation on the bottle cooled her palm, a welcome sensation against her heated skin.
“Cheers,” Dylan said, clinking his bottle against hers.
Kinsley took a long drink as she studied her brother, the cold beverage soothing her parched throat. There was something different about his restlessness today. It had a direction to it, a sense of purpose that she didn’t usually associate with his casual drop-ins.
“I don’t see a wedding ring,” Kinsley said, nodding toward his left hand. “You’ve only ever worn suits to funerals or weddings, so now you have me completely stumped.”
Dylan laughed, the sound genuine and unreserved.
“I didn’t go and marry your best friend just yet.”
