Page 41 of Nowhere Good

Up ahead, the previous cornfield broke off, leaving room for plains on each side. And there, up ahead, her family’s farmhouse loomed like a specter in the night, backed by the silhouette of the barn and a cornfield. She angled her bike in a ditch past the shoulder of the road. The rest of the way, she’d have to go on foot.

Keeping low, Claire used the cover of the tall grass to get closer. It was after midnight—there were no lights on inside, but a pair of headlights lit the front of the house, occasionally broken by some figures moving in front of them. Claire held her breath and drew closer till she made out the shape of Dillon’s car parked beside two pick-ups—both Marty’s and her dad’s. It was Marty’s lights that were on, his truck sitting in idle.

Marty hauled something out from the direction of the barn around the back of the house. A crate balanced above his shoulder. He loaded it into his pick-up truck and closed the bed, just as her dad appeared behind him and looked it all over. Like an inventory check. Satisfied, he patted Marty on the back and sent him on his way. Claire dropped to her hands and knees, taking full cover in the grass. She didn’t dare peek till the sound of Marty’s engine disappeared eastward, in the opposite direction of town.

Whew.

Claire inched closer till she could make out some muffled words. Her dad faced Dillon, a firm hand on his shoulder.

“…know it was hard on ya. I only did it ’cause I know how much potential you’ve got. I wanna see you become the type of man your daddy will regret walkin’ out on.”

“I know. I’m sorry, Ron.”

“Come on, ride with me tonight.”

Claire ducked as they got into her dad’s pick-up. The engine grumbled to life, and she held her breath. The lights appeared between the blades of grass. She kept herself hidden till they shifted away, feeling like she was on some sort of prison escape. The truck bounded down the road in the same direction as Marty.

Slowly, Claire stood on wobbly legs.

They were gone.

The only people left in the house would be Clementine and Sully. Long as she didn’t wake them, she’d be home free.

But she had to be quick. There was no telling how long they’d be gone—could be minutes, could be hours. Claire rushed onto the property and made a beeline for the barn. There were a couple of them, but this one was closest to the house, and ever since she was a kid, she’d been told to stay out of it. No surprise, that the same rusted padlock still dangled from the latch. Claire yanked on it, but of course it needed a key. Damn it.

Next best thing was the house. For this, Claire did have a key. She snuck up to the front door, wincing at every creak of the porch, every jangle of her keys as she took them out. She unlocked the door and stepped right into the house.

Inside her childhood home, Claire froze. It smelled like old wood and wax. The farmhouse’s bones moaned against the wind, like they opposed her very presence there.

If it were up to her, she’d burn this place to the ground, so the feeling was mutual.

From her spot in the foyer, Claire could see into the kitchen, and beside the kitchen was the closed door to the basement. Dread crept up her spine. There had to be something in this house that would tell her what her dad was hiding, but the basement? Hell no. She could never force herself down those stairs.

She turned back to the staircase leading to the second floor. There could be something in her dad’s room.

On the very tips of her toes, keeping her knees bent to absorb her weight, she crept up the carpeted staircase. The old wood resisted her and let out a whine. Sully didn’t cry out, so she pushed forward till she found herself on the top level, face-to-face with her old bedroom, which had been converted to Sully’s room.

Down the hall to her left, the door to her father’s bedroom was slightly ajar, moonlight spilling out of it.

Claire tiptoed over and went inside. It was so nondescript—a king-sized bed and a dresser, paintings of flowers on the wall so old, they must’ve been from her mother, or maybe even her grandmother. Claire hadn’t been in here since she was a child. A strange memory nudged at the corners of her mind—her dad, tossing her and Clementine on this very bed, tickling them, laughing with them.

The sudden nostalgia stung her heart. Maybe there had been a time, somewhere in the deep cervices of her past, where her dad hadn’t always been a monster. But it wasn’t enough.

She stepped deeper inside, disturbed by the familiar smell. She started with his dresser and pulled out the drawers. Folded clothes—the showy ones, the ones he wore to make an impression. Nice jeans and tartan shirts, usually red, white, and blue. Her daddy was nothing if not an All-American man.

Something on top of his dresser caught her eye. A glint of silver in the moonlight through the window.

A chain necklace.

Claire picked it up, feeling the loose chain over her fingers. As she lifted it to the window, she observed the charm: a butterfly encrusted with turquoise gems. A woman’s necklace. And a familiar one at that.

A voice shattered the silence of the room.

“What the hell are you doing here?”

It was bullshit, a waste of time, a misdirection. Seth had been trying to tell himself that for the rest of the night. Back at the motel, he brushed his teeth in the bathroom, full of yellowing porcelain, his skin and hair still damp from the shower he’d just taken. The water pressure had been surprisingly good, but it hadn’t rinsed the thoughts away.

That damn call on the tipline. Haylock being in charge of Celine Dyer’s investigation. The victims looking so much like her.