Page 60 of Nowhere Good

In the backyard, bathed in afternoon light, he found Ron crouched beside the wall of a barn with a padlock on it, wearing overalls. Seth had met Claire’s sister on the porch, and she’d told him to head around back to see her dad. His massive body blocked whatever he was doing.

“Hey, Ron,” Seth said.

“Detective.” Ron barely looked back at him. “Gimme a sec here.”

There was a mewing sound. Ron tossed something small and furry onto the grass beside him, limp. Seth dared a step closer. He recoiled, his fear confirmed.

Kittens. And they weren’t moving.

“Tell me you didn’t kill those,” Seth said.

Ron laughed over his shoulder. “You look at dead bodies all day and this is too much for ya?”

Seth loomed over Ron as he dug his hand into a pit beneath the wall of the barn. More mewing sounds. Seth watched in horror as Ron yanked another furry kitten out from beneath the barn.

“Found another one,” he muttered.

“Jesus Christ, Ron, it’s a baby. What are you doing?”

Ron let out a grunt as he eased onto his feet. He towered over Seth, like he always did, creating a huge shadow. Ron’s tartan sleeves were rolled up enough to show the bottom of what Seth assumed was a Celtic cross tattoo. He held up the kitten—still alive, furry and calico with blurry little eyes. It was so tiny.

“This here is called a mercy killing,” Ron said. “Their mama took off on ’em, and the ones who were strong enough to survive went off on their own, leavin’ these guys to be food for the weasels. Snappin’ the neck’s a humane way to kill, over in a flash and wastes no bullet.”

Seth’s palms grew sweaty as the kitten squirmed in Ron’s massive hand. He got the concept of a mercy killing, like shooting an injured deer after hitting it with your car or something, but this was a kitten. Someone could take it, love it. It could have a life.

“Some people don’t take kindly to the sound of bones crunchin’, so they’d prefer a bullet,” Ron went on. “I’ve had some squeamish farmhands before, but those boys didn’t last long. Tell me somethin’—you ever fire that weapon on your hip?”

“A few times,” Seth said. His nerves increased. Ron held the kitten, absentmindedly stroking its fur, almost tenderly.

“Take a man’s life?” Ron asked, looking him in the eyes.

Seth stiffened. A familiar dread clotted in his veins. “No. But I came close.” Five years ago, when he was a street cop.

“Regret it?”

“I don’t. He had a hostage—I didn’t have a choice. Anyway, the guy survived, and this isn’t the same thing.”

“No, but you get it. You gotta be able to do what’s uncomfortable to make it in this world.”

Ron’s hands shifted around the kitten’s neck.

“Wait, wait—” Seth lunged forward, holding his arms out. Thankfully, Ron stopped. “I’ll take it.”

Ron stared at him, deadpan. “You’ll take it.”

He kept holding out his hands, palms up. “Yeah, I’ll take it. You don’t have to kill it.”

“You really are from the city. Always gotta be the hero, don’t cha, Detective?” Cackling, Ron shoved the kitten, still warm and alive, in Seth’s hands as he passed. “Come on inside the house, Clem’ll grab us some sweet tea. I’ll get a box for your new friend.”

Seth looked down at the mewing ball of fuzz in his hands.

Fuck’s sake. What did he just do?

The kitten scratched around in a box tucked in the corner of the Dyers’ kitchen. Clementine hummed a tune as she poured sweet tea into glasses on the counter, the ice clinking together, her feet bare as she wore a long white sundress.

Seth scanned the wall of photos on the floral wallpaper. Generations of Dyers. The families used to be large—the men were always big and brutish, the women long-haired and stoic.

“My daddy worried this farm would never return to its former glory.” Ron stared at the photos with pride. “My mother, God rest her soul, only ever had me, not for lack of tryin’. As for me, I only ever had two girls. Gave me a scare for a moment that the Dyer boys would die with me, till God gifted us with Sullivan.”