Page 63 of Hard Heart

“They wanted the remains of August’s house preserved as a monument to man’s struggle, can you believe that?” she asked as she showed us into a living room not so different from Bitsy’s. Except this one had two chairs positioned on a small platform right in front of the bay window, giving Reba a perfect view over the fence to the street beyond.

“At this stage, I’m not sure what to believe. We just came from visiting with Bitsy Reynolds.”

Reba cackled. “Did she mention the goatman?”

“Yup.”

“Going on forty years ago, her pet spaniel escaped the yard and nobody ever saw it again. She’s been on a crusade against the goatman ever since.”

“I’m almost embarrassed to ask this, but is there any other evidence of his existence?”

“Only a bunch of urban legends. Drunk high-school students getting scared in the woods, that kind of thing. You want iced tea?”

“Uh, sure.”

“Regular or Long Island?”

Hell, it was only mid-afternoon. Subtly, I tried to get close enough to smell Reba’s breath, but she turned away and headed inside. Heidi was trying not to laugh. When I moved to the US, I’d been looking forward to the adventure, but this was like Pan’s Labyrinth meets American Psycho with a hint of Black Mirror.

“Just regular, thank you. I’m driving.”

“I wouldn’t mind the Long Island version,” Heidi said, and I elbowed her in the side. “But on second thought, regular is fine.”

There was a younger woman in the kitchen, rolling out pastry with her hands covered in flour. She looked at Reba, questioning.

“This is my granddaughter, Darcy,” she introduced. “Darcy, these here are two private investigators from the Justice Report, and they’re looking into that business with August Groveland.”

I didn’t bother to correct her, not on our occupations or on the name of my employer. There would already be ten different versions of the story flying around town tomorrow—what was one more?

“August’s name came up in connection with another case, and we’re trying to ascertain whether they might be linked.”

“What case is that?” Reba asked.

“I’m afraid we’re not at liberty to say. Client confidentiality.” I mean, it wasn’t a lie. “Maddy said you like to keep an eye on the neighbourhood, and you live close to August’s former home, so we were wondering if you might have seen anything that night?”

We’d driven past the property on the way here. The old house was long gone, replaced with a tidy ranch home painted sky blue with white trim. The only evidence of past tragedy was a bunch of withered flowers zip-tied to the front fence.

“I wish I could help, but I was in the hospital that night.”

“She was getting a new hip,” Darcy put in.

“All I know is what I heard—August went back inside to find Pebbles, and the EMTs couldn’t revive him. Folks say it was a firework. Those things should be banned—all that noise, scaring the animals and causing accidents. Chester Bollinger blew three fingers clean off, and he was supposed to know what he was doing.”

It was an anticlimactic end to the trip. August was most likely to have fallen victim to a schoolboy prank, and that prank might or might not have been carried out by the son of the local sheriff and/or an unverified species. The only thing that seemed clear was that there was no conspiracy with Big Oil. Reba poured four glasses of iced tea and invited us to sit at the counter.

“There should be a licensing scheme for explosives,” Darcy said. “Because that’s what fireworks are. Explosives.”

“That would seem sensible.”

“How far is Shenandoah National Park from here?” Heidi asked, and she appeared to have come to the same conclusion as me.

“An hour and a quarter, give or take.”

Great. So we’d arrive there just as it was getting dark, and knowing our luck, we’d end up with the goatman as a tour guide. Heidi talked to Darcy about the scenery and also where to find the nearest gas station, a necessity because we’d need to both refuel and pee before we started the drive back to Richmond. Another day wasted. I’d so wanted to have some good news for Sykes this week, but I’d have to report a resounding failure when I saw him on Saturday. Zach Torres was engaged to a private investigator, and I didn’t envy her, not one bit. This work was soul-destroying.

We bid goodbye, and we’d almost reached the car when I realised Darcy had followed us outside.

“Hey, can I talk to you for a second?” she asked.