Page 17 of You'll Be Sorry

I’m going to share something with you now. You’ll have no idea what it means. A single diary entry from November 1790? What the fuck? Like you don’t have more recent troubles to weigh you down.

But trust me. This matters. Our lives are not a single moment, but a journey, and sometimes, that first wrong step happened well before you ever imagined. Say not in your lifetime, or even your parents’ lifetime or your grandparents’ grandparents’ lifetime. Case in point:

Monday 29th—Another snowstormy day. My ninth at this town called Shereford. The villagers have shown me great kindness, and my deep and abiding tiredness has finally begun to pass. George Savage came to the public house for dinner, reporting his wife is very ill. I offered to tend, finding her much suffering. I gave her some urine and honey and licorice and put a plaster to her stomach. Later she was much relieved. Samuel Dixon expressed gratitude on behalf of the townand family. He invited me to stay with him and his wife at their homestead. I am inclined to say yes. Perhaps I have found a home at last.

If only it’d been that simple. But evil men have always been prone to evil deeds. And now, a mere two centuries later…the truth is coming.

Take it from me. Sooner or later…

You’ll be sorry.

6

Mandy got up early and headed straight to the basement of her modest two-bedroom home. There, nestled on a metal rack against one wall, sat five cardboard banker’s boxes. Everything her father had amassed on the Dixon case.

After her mother’s death, Mandy had cleaned out her childhood home. Standing in her father’s study, unpinning each tack from his homemade murder wall, tucking away each photo. She’d filled up two boxes in under an hour, then discovered three more stashed in the closet, holding twenty years of interview transcriptions and case notes. Her father had been one stubborn bastard.

Which she’d always respected him for.

Now Mandy hauled her father’s records upstairs and loaded them into her official vehicle, a Dodge Durango SSV, which was basically the normal Durango but with an extra helping of explosive power for emergencies. A brief respite where she downed a bowl of instant oatmeal and chugged a steaming cup of coffee, heavy on the cream and sugar. Final step of her pre-patrol ritual: securing her twenty-pound duty belt around her waist, Glock 17 snapped into the holster. One last glance in the mirror to straighten the brim of her hat, and that was that.

Another day in the glamorous world of small-town policing.

Which apparently was determined to get off to a busy start as herradio crackled to life while she was still climbing into her cruiser. One of her officers, sounding nearly breathless with excitement.

“We got a report of a stolen car!”

Mandy frowned. “We don’t get stolen vehicles.”

“I know!”

“Sandford, take a deep breath, then give me the details.”

Sandford rattled off make, model, color, license plate, and several apparently relevant bumper stickers, while she put the Durango in gear and headed for town. Long story short, one of the locals had exited the post office to discover his car had gone missing. Admittedly, he’d left the keys in the ignition. And yeah, he’d gotten to talking to this neighbor, then that neighbor—the post office being the social hub of the community—making his “quick” errand more like thirty minutes. But still, he’d arrived in a 2018 silver Subaru Forester, which was now definitely nowhere to be found.

Mandy knew the local in question. Midforties, Dave Lee worked as a mountain guide in the summer while teaching ice climbing during the winter. Good guy with a solid head on his shoulders. If he said his car had mysteriously disappeared, she believed him. Still.

“We don’t get stolen cars,” she repeated upon arriving at the post office.

“Exactly,” Dave agreed. “Why do you think I left my keys in it?”

According to her officer, no one had noticed anything or anyone suspicious. Not a big surprise. This time of November was a dead zone for tourist activity. The leaf peepers had left with the last of the foliage at the end of October. Skiers wouldn’t arrive until the snow hit in December. And nothing would truly get hopping till Christmas break. Meaning…

Mandy perused the parking lot while collecting her thoughts. This far north, there genuinely weren’t many vehicle thefts—not because the mountains were magically filled with honest folks, but because ittook personal transportation to reach a place so remote. If you had your own car, why risk stealing another’s?

Maybe if someone’s ride had broken down or was in particularly rough shape…But she didn’t see anything that fit that bill. Bringing her back to…

Mandy reached the rear of the building, came to a halt. “You gotta be fucking kidding me.”

Back around to the front. “Uh, Sandford. Silver Subaru Forester. You mean like the one parked behind the deli?”

But Sandford was already shaking his head. “That’s a silver Forester.”

“But notmysilver Forester,” Dave agreed.

Mandy kept her gaze on her officer. “Still, asecondsilver Forester.” She waited a beat, watched Sandford’s face work through various contortions. He was a good cop, but perhaps a bit too linear in his thinking.

“Wait a second, do you think…?”