“Okay then,” he says. She likes his smile. The way the lines around his eyes are a little paler than the tan of his cheeks.
“Okay,” she says, and slides her hand into his.
She has asecond drink when she gets home, watches another one of the TikToks Jane has sent. A petite blond with crimson lipstick leans toward the camera.Get a load of this. Number one on our look back at college murders that were never solved. Amber Fields, murdered in her dorm room bed on February 14—that’s right, Valentine’s Day. The image cuts to a pale-pink rose on a white sheet, a smear of what is or is made to look like blood on the petals.
Maybe it’s the drinks or maybe it’s the stupid videos or maybe it’s the sizzle of the goodbye kiss from Adrian—the hard press of his hand on her hip, hint of his tongue in her mouth—but when she lies down she tosses and turns, adrenaline zipping through her. She’s finally fallen asleep when there’s a pounding at her door, three urgent knocks. She checks her phone and it’s 2:00A.M.
Jane, she thinks. It can only be Jane. A fall. A blood clot. A seizure. Some ugly aftershock from the accident gripping her in the night.
She runs to the door and flings it open.
Billy Fauver is standing on her front porch.
“Nice place,” he says, and his smile makes her gut drop, puts a metallic taste in her mouth. She calculates the time it would take to get her personal weapon from the safe, but that would mean turning her back on Fauver, and she doesn’t like that. He’s a big man, but surely he’s out of shape. She could hold him off, unless he’s got a weapon she can’t see.
“What are you doing here?”
“And looking nice. Where were those legs the other day, Officer Hauser?”
“It’s Chief Hauser. And you need to get off my porch. Now.”
He puts his hands up. “I only came because I remember something. There’s a name you should know.”
“Humor me.”
“Trent Brentwood.”
“Who is that?”
“A little bitch.”
“You drove here in the middle of the night to tell me this? Why do I need to know the name Trent Brentwood?” As she speaks she’s doing another calculation in her head. If Fauver had something to do with Jenna’s disappearance, would he really take the risk of showing up on her porch in the middle of the night?
“Let’s just say I have friends keeping their eyes and ears out for me. I heard my name came up at the bar.”
Callie stares at him. Does he mean Reynolds or Collins? Did one of them tell Fauver she was trying to put the screws in them, angling for probable cause? Is this what that look from the biker was about back at the bar? “Who do you mean?” she asks.
He smiles. “Someone pretty close to you.”
Her stomach lurches. Is he talking about Jenna? Is he keeping her somewhere?
“My mother—” she starts, and he raises his hands.
“I don’t have shit to do with that. Or this Riley thing. Look up Brentwood. Ask him what you asked me. Goodnight, Officer Hauser. Don’t let the bedbugs bite.” He steps off the porch, whistling into the night.
She follows him. The temperature has dipped into the forties, and her bare legs sting. Goose bumps rise on her arms. She winces as a rock stabs the sole of her bare foot. He’s parked far down the lane. Wanted to scare her, or at least catch her off guard. Couldn’t risk her seeing his headlights, hearing him pull up. And it also tells her he’s capable of being strategic. Not just a puppet jerked around by his own impulses. Someone who could commit a crime and cover it up, or plan a crime and the cover up.
“Fauver. Why did you and Sabrina get into an altercation in front of the bait shop?”
“I told you, she was crazy. She was going on about me ratting her out for stealing something. A necklace some guy had meant foranother girl, or something like that. That he was super pissed. But I didn’t know anything about it. What would I give a shit about any necklaces for?”
“Did she say who she stole it from? Who was he?”
“I don’t know. Brentwood was the only guy I know who she was fucking around with. Everyone thought he was such a charmer, but he dropped her fast. You wanna know about what happened back then? I have no idea. Go ask him.”
“What makes you think he’s the father and not you?”
“I never slept with her. She didn’t want to.”
