Page 27 of Nowhere Good

“So, we’ve got a problem,” Wells said.

Seth followed Chief Wells through the bullpen to Pereira’s desk, where Pereira sat hunched over her computer screen. Her posture was jittery, her naturally tan face paler than usual, and Seth wondered if she’d slept at all since yesterday.

“Bring it up, Pereira,” Wells instructed.

Pereira opened a video on her computer. Grainy, black and white video footage loaded of what appeared to be Sunny Stone Trailer Park at night, with its single-wide mobile homes and narrow roads. Across the street, Seth recognized the shape of Claire and Dillon’s home through the pixels—the wind chimes, the decals of birds Claire had stuck against the siding. The neighbor across from them must’ve installed a ring camera.

“First decent camera angle I’ve seen since I got here.” Seth leaned closer to the screen. “If Beamish left that trailer…”

Wells tapped Pereira’s shoulder. “Play it back, hon.”

Seth had his sleeves rolled up to his elbows, but it barely helped against the heat. He crossed his arms as Pereira skimmed through the timelapse footage of last night.

Wind shook the trees. A skunk hobbled by, followed by an opossum sniffing near some trash bins at the side of the road before skulking away.

Then, movement from the trailer.

Claire burst outside and went digging into Dillon’s car. After rummaging through, she locked up, went back inside for a moment, then came back out. She grabbed her bike from around the side and took off into the night.

If the theory were correct, then Dillon would have to leave the trailer within minutes in order to fit the timeline. Seth held his breath.

Dillon never came out.

Then the officers showed up and knocked on the door, resulting in Dillon being dragged outside in his pajamas after throwing a sucker punch at Officer Morgan.

It hit Seth like a kick to the stomach.

He was wrong.

His whole theory about Dillon’s revenge and the women looking like Claire? Dead wrong. Dillon Beamish was innocent. At least of one crime.

“Unless Dillon Beamish is a real Houdini, I don’t think he’s your man,” Wells said.

Frustration crawled up Seth’s neck. The police station, with its sputtering fans, suddenly felt way hotter. “No, he isn’t.”

“The community will need answers, so we’re doing a press release first thing tomorrow,” Wells went on. “We’ve got two dead girls now and a very unfamiliar detective in charge of the case. I assume you’ve got a strategy in mind. Think hard about what you’ll say to those folks.”

He’d done press releases before, in front of massive crowds in New York with so many cameras flashing they’d create spots in his eyes, so this should be a cake walk—but he hadn’t expected another body to drop the same day he’d arrived. There was something more intimate about speaking to this tightknit community, where everyone knew each other, versus in the big city.

“I’ll figure it out,” he said. “I need some air.”

With that, he took off through the station, ignoring the burning feeling of Chief Wells’s gaze on him the whole time.

“Air” came in the form of two cigarettes—one before he went to get coffee, one on the way back. Seth drove toward the station and blew smoke out the open window of the Caprice, the sun beating down on the windshield and creating a mirage. The bitter taste of nicotine and coffee on his tongue distracted him, but it was fleeting.

Whoever killed those girls would do it again. He could feel it in his bones, deep as the Missouri heat.

Like Lieutenant Delaney had warned him about when he’d taken this job, there were less resources in a small town like this. It wasn’t like his job had been easy back in New York or Kansas City; city killers were adaptive predators. They knew how to avoid cameras, conceal their identities, blend into crowds. Dillon Beamish was far from the first Wrong Guy he’d taken in.

But damn, Seth had wanted it to be him.

He took another harsh drag off his cigarette. This was one setback—he’d recover.

He parked outside the station and hauled on the second half of his smoke, then stuffed it in the car’s ashtray. He grabbed his phone from the cupholder and called Lieutenant Delaney—no point in delaying the inevitable. After a few rings, she answered.

“Winslow, I was just about to call you. Roslyn told me what happened with the second victim this morning.”

Right—Chief Wells and Lieutenant Delaney were friends from the state academy, way back when. “That’s good, I can spare you the report. Thought I should check in and let you know how it’s going.”