Page 42 of Nowhere Good

It didn’t have to mean anything. Lieutenant Delaney told him herself that Haylock worked a handful of cases in Fairview—it was no surprise he’d handled Celine Dyer’s case. On top of that, the man on the phone sounded young, twenties or thirties at most. Why would a twenty-year-old case have anything to do with what was happening now?

Still, it bothered him. Maybe some actual sleep would help.

He finished in the bathroom with mouthwash then moved past the dresser toward the bed. As he passed, he caught a glimpse into the trash can.

There, at the top, was the dime bag. The heroin he’d thrown out.

He hadn’t realized it before, but there was more garbage in there too—some chocolate bar wrappers from whoever had rented this room before him. This was the only motel in Fairview, but perfect, hotel-style cleanliness clearly wasn’t at the top of their priority list. He was lucky there weren’t any used condoms lying around.

But an idea had sprouted in his mind, growing roots.

He left the motel room, into the night. Just one last thing to satisfy the itch of a hunch that would not seem to piss off.

One thing, then he’d let it go.

Haylock’s former room was a mirror to Seth’s, but it was on the first level of the motel and adorned with different patterns. Pinstripe bedding and dotted wallpaper. The owner of the motel, Gary Stillwell, was an old man with glasses that made his eyes ten times bigger, and he hadn’t cared enough to question Seth about why he needed to look. One of the many perks of having a badge.

According to Gary, no one had stayed in here since Haylock. He said they’d cleaned it, but Seth already knew what that meant. The first thing he did was move toward the trash can beside the dresser, like the one he had upstairs.

Sure enough, there was garbage inside. Seth snapped on a pair of latex gloves; it wasn’t the first time he’d dug into someone’s trash. An old cup from White Castle. An empty pack of smokes. He dug deeper, past more fast-food wrappers, certain he was acting like a raccoon for nothing. Until he found something crumpled up at the bottom. A piece of paper.

He unfurled it and flatted it out. A piece of white sketchbook paper with a crude drawing of a road wedged between what appeared to be a cornfield and a forest. The hand-drawn trail led up the road, around the cornfield, and into the woods, where it eventually led to a house—or a cabin, maybe—circled with arrows pointing at it. The words EAST FOREST, BURSELL FIELD were hastily drawn. If the handwriting matched the killer’s, carved into the women’s skin, it’d be hard to tell, but both favored capital letters. That didn’t tell him much.

But one thing was certain: this was a map, given to Robert Haylock. Just like the caller on the tip line had said.

Claire jolted so hard, the necklace slipped from her fingers and onto the rug. Clementine stood in the doorway to their dad’s bedroom, wearing her full pink nightgown, gawking at her.

“I said, what the hell are you doing here?” Clem asked, shoving past Claire and reaching down to grab the necklace. She lifted it up and looked at it in the moonlight. “Why are you creeping through Daddy’s things?”

“Is that yours?” Claire asked.

“No, it ain’t mine,” Clem said, putting it back on the dresser.

“Then whose is it? Dad doesn’t date, you know that.”

“Why’s it matter? Are you gonna tell me what you’re doing here?”

Claire chewed on her lip. She hadn’t exactly practiced her if I get caught speech. Maybe this whole plan had been a bit adrenaline-fueled and short-fused. “I… I don’t know, Clem. I’m looking for something.”

“Looking for what?”

Frustrated, Claire threw up her arms. “Something? Anything? Evidence of what the hell they’re always hiding? A damn key to get into the barn?”

Clementine’s face went deathly serious. “Claire, you know how Daddy will react if he finds you messing around. I don’t know what’s gotten into you lately. This is not gonna go over well, you know that.”

She did know that. More than anyone. More than Clementine.

Before Claire could respond, Clementine gripped both her arms. Her sister smiled sympathetically, but it was forced.

“Hon, our life is good now. Don’t you see that? And so much of that is ’cause you’ve been good. Daddy’s been so happy with you. Why would you wanna mess all that up?”

“Good?” Claire ripped her arms away. “How can you say that, Clem? How can you forget what he put us through to make us ‘good’? Have you seriously forgotten about the cage?”

“Shh!” Clementine shushed her, then harshly whispered, “What’s so wrong with being good, huh? What’s so wrong with wanting Daddy to love me and be happy with me?”

“He doesn’t love us, Clem. He owns us.”

“Maybe I don’t feel owned. In case you don’t remember, I stopped getting put in that thing years before you did. I did my best to keep you out of it too, but you could never stop gettin’ in trouble.”