Page 75 of Nowhere Good

“All right, so if I’m understanding this, you think one of Ron’s former farmhands is our guy,” Wells said, interlacing her fingers on the table. “If that’s true, and Ron does have an inkling of it, why hasn’t he come forward?”

“Is it not possible the killer could know something Ron doesn’t want getting out?”

“Sure, but why all the theatrics? If the killer has dirt on Ron, why not just report it?”

“You heard what he said. He doesn’t think Ron—or whoever he’s talking about—will pay for any of his crimes.”

“Yeah, ‘not without the body,’ I heard it.”

“And he’s probably right.”

Seth’s mind went back to last night, to being in his car with Claire, before her panic attack. Through her stutters, she’d tried to tell him something. The word “found” had slipped through.

“We don’t know if what this guy thinks is true,” Seth said. “All I’m saying is it could be the motive. He’s obviously not going about it in a sane or rational way, but when dealing with killers like this, sane and rational go out the window. I want to know who those farmhands were, but I can’t trust Ron to give me their names.”

“So I’ll go ask Ron myself,” Wells said. “I’ve known the man my whole life. I remember some boys coming and going on his land back in the day. Maybe he doesn’t feel comfortable talking to an outsider.”

What a joke; if there was one thing Ron Dyer liked, it was the sound of his own voice. “No, Ron loves talking to me, just not about the truth.” He paused. He’d told Chief Wells about his visits with Ron, his theory about the farmhands. But there were still things he hadn’t given her—and didn’t want to. Not yet. “Chief, I need this to stay quiet until we know what we’re dealing with. I think I have a witness who will talk.”

Wells’s brows stitched. “Who?”

He hesitated. Claire’s panic attack last night had been his fault. He’d gotten too bold, hadn’t properly considered her feelings, and subconsciously assumed she could handle anything. Then he had the audacity to get frustrated when she still wouldn’t open up. That wasn’t the way he was supposed to conduct things with a witness.

But Claire wasn’t just a witness to him. She knew things about him. And he was starting to feel like he knew her too.

And one thing that had been important to her since the first day was her anonymity.

Maybe she still didn’t trust him, but he had to find a way to show her she could.

“You don’t want to tell me,” Chief Wells stated.

“Let me see if I can get them talking on the record first.”

“Oh, brother…” She tugged at her cross necklace before dropping her hand. “Look, I’m not one to step on toes. You’ve got your process, and I’ve got mine. If you think this farmhand angle is worth chasing down, I say chase it down, but I need a suspect, Winslow. I need the names of these farmhands and a damn compelling reason to bring one of them in. If you think this ‘witness’ will talk—get them talking. Otherwise, I’ve got no choice but to start digging into this lead my way.”

“Just give me a few hours. Not a word to anyone else until then. If they still won’t talk, then we’ll switch tactics.”

Wells’s lips pursed as she focused on her hands on the table, her expression growing cloudy. “After everything with Norm, my judgement’s a bit shot. I don’t want to believe Ron Dyer could be hiding anything, but I didn’t want to believe Norm could be either.” She looked at him. “I won’t say a word. Just get it done.”

Seth let out a breath of relief. “Thank you. I’ll go call them now.”

Claire sat on her couch and skimmed through the reel on her old digital camera, little windows into her past life—a life when she was eleven and living on the farm. A life when she’d been punished with the cage before, but hadn’t known water torture yet. How generous of her dad to wait till she was older to whip that out, she thought glibly.

There were pictures of herself as a little girl. Her old room, which was Sully’s room now, painted pink with butterfly stickers on the wall; her white paint-chipped dresser, piled up with rope bracelets she’d made at school. Some of those bracelets were still on her wrist most days.

Finally, she came to some shots of people—“portrait shots,” she remembered. Marty, younger and less stressed, smiling with a curly-haired Dylan with a Y. Right—Dylan was a bit younger than Marty, had dark hair and thick eyebrows, but he was also sort of heavyset.

Claire flipped to another photo. Trevor, wearing overalls in front of a cornfield. He was thinner, but also dark-haired and pale-faced. Furry brows, sort of like the composite sketch. He had round-ish features. Claire had forgotten that Trevor was actually cute, in his own way, but seeing his dark eyes again, she remembered the way he’d sometimes stare.

She glanced at the living room window. Dillon’s car was long gone, along with her dad’s truck. They should be out all day, so she’d have time. She pulled up Seth’s number, unsaved in her phone, and let it ring. She bit into her thumb and tapped her foot on the floor, rattling the pictures on the walls.

Finally, his voice came through. “Claire, I was just about to call you.” There was some noise in the background—chattering—but it quieted with a slam. Him getting into his car, maybe.

“Hi,” she peeped. Embarrassment burned her cheeks, thinking about last night, but she held it together. “Um, is now a bad time?”

“No, just got accosted by fucking reporters,” he grumbled. “Nothing brings in the press like the word ‘serial killer.’ Sorry. What’s up?”

“I found my digital camera. I have some pictures you might want to see. And I’m remembering more now. About the boys on the farm.”