Page 12 of Nowhere Good

“And Eliza had a stick and poke tattoo on her ankle with the letters D and B, along with a heart,” Seth said. “I don’t know about Fairview, but when I was growing up, kids didn’t start getting tattoos until at least high school.”

“D and B could be anything.” Claire shook her head. “I don’t know what you want me to say. They were two years older than me, so I wasn’t close with them back then.”

“But Dillon lived at your house when he was in high school. Who was he dating at that time?”

“No one, I don’t know. Dillon didn’t bring girls around. My dad didn’t allow that sort of thing.”

Her cheeks were growing red, her movements more flustered. One wrong statement could scare her into self-preservation mode, and whether she was unhappy or not, Dillon was still her boyfriend. Seth needed to switch tactics.

“When I was growing up in Brooklyn,” he began, “my mom brought home a lot of guys. I had a revolving door of stepdads living out of one tiny apartment, and all of them were different people, but none of them were good. It amazed me what kind of lies these guys would tell, sometimes to manipulate my mom, sometimes for no reason at all. They’d lie for the fun of it.” He paused. “They’d also rough her up sometimes, then my mom would ask me to lie for them. She didn’t want them to get in trouble.”

Claire’s face darkened. “I believe I already told you Dillon doesn’t hit me.”

“But he lies to you, doesn’t he?”

“All men lie. I bet you did it just now with your stepdad story.”

That story had been true, but it didn’t matter now. There was only one question he truly cared about.

“Claire, are you sure Dillon was home the night Eliza died?”

“Huh? He was—”

The sound of the screen door flapping open cut into the trailer. Heavy footsteps stomped toward them, rattling the remaining beer bottles on the coffee table. A figure appeared in the entranceway, fists balled, brows pulled into a feral rage.

Dillon Beamish, in the flesh.

FOUR

Claire was certain her head might pop off like a dandelion. She’d already embarrassed herself enough by letting Detective Winslow see her home like this—and here was Dillon, her boyfriend, balling his fists like a twenty-six-year-old man child.

“What the hell are you doing in my house?” Dillon’s eyes blazed on Detective Winslow, a pathetic attempt to be menacing. “You know you need a warrant to barge into someone’s goddamn house, right?”

“Jesus, Dillon, I invited him in.” Claire crammed her palms into her eye sockets. She might pass out right there, on the armchair. “Can you please come inside and act decent?”

Goddamn, it was the least he could do after she was covering his ass. But Dillon, in his typical ungrateful fashion, ignored her request.

“Dillon,” Detective Winslow said, unfazed, “it’s good to finally meet you.” He stood up and extended a hand. “I’m Detective—”

“I know who you are,” Dillon spat, and the detective lowered his hand. “This is my house, man, and you’ve got no right being in it. I’m an American citizen, I know my rights.”

“I get it, man, but I’m just here to talk. Can we do that?”

Dillon’s nostrils flared. Then, with dread, he noticed the print-offs on the coffee table. Those damn images that proved Dillon and Eliza had once been friends. But Claire hadn’t known a thing about that, and she was still wrapping her head around it.

“Dillon, please,” she said. “Let’s answer his questions.”

After an agonizing moment, he huffed. “Fine. What?”

Detective Winslow eased back onto the couch. “Why don’t you have a seat?”

“Nope, I’m good.” Dillon crossed his arms. Claire wanted to curl up like a ball of dirt and get swept under the couch, find better company with the dust mites. She hated when Dillon acted like this, anti-authority to the point of toxicity. The one person he seemed to respect was her father, but the cops? Forget it.

“All right then.” Detective Winslow cleared his throat. “Claire, would you give Dillon and I a couple minutes to talk alone?”

“You don’t have to do that, Claire,” Dillon said.

Claire hesitated, gaze flickering between the two men. Dillon narrowed his eyes, expecting her to behave like him. Then there was the detective—polite, patient, but firm.