Page 87 of Nowhere Good

“Copy that, Winslow. All units, be advised, suspect is mobile, whereabouts unknown. Suspect vehicle last seen along the far east side of the Bursell cornfield.”

Trevor could be anywhere. With his weapon still drawn, Seth glanced at the path up ahead. They were still a way back from the split in the tree, the marker to where the cabin would be, but maybe Trevor walked there.

He turned to the cornstalks on his left. Trevor could be out there, hidden among them.

He could be close by, watching.

Or he could be moving westbound toward the Dyer farm.

Seth spoke into his radio. “Jacobson, confirm your position.”

No response came. He cautiously moved to the edge of the corn to take a closer look. He was no tracker, but it looked like a path had been cleared through the corn, some of the stalks shoved aside and stamped down on.

“Jacobson, I repeat, confirm your position,” he said into the radio again. Nothing.

At the sound of wheels approaching, he turned to see a patrol car rolling up, spewing dirt beneath its wheels. It came to a stop behind his car, and Yess hopped out as fast as his big body would let him, a car jack in hand.

“Don’t bother,” Seth said. “We need a forensic team on this van ASAP.”

Yess nodded. “I’ll call it in.”

A second cruiser ripped up moments after. Officer Jacobson’s tall, lanky frame ambled out of the other police car. “What’s going on—where’s he at?”

Seth’s stomach sank. “Jacobson, what the fuck are you doing here, man? You’re supposed to be watching the farm.”

A clueless look slapped across his face. “I—I was responding to the call, I thought we had eyes on the suspect.”

“I never said that—you just left your post? Is no one else there?”

Jacobson had nothing, but Seth couldn’t be bothered with him right now—he was already running toward his car. If Trevor was moving west on foot, then—

“Shit.” He jumped behind the wheel. “He’s going after the Dyers.”

TWENTY-FIVE

Claire leaned her weight on the edge of Sullivan’s crib and gently stroked his small, velvety hand. His dark brown eyelashes were so long and pigmented, they even made her envious. He was such a good sleeper—Marty had a hard time wrangling him sometimes, but Clementine knew exactly how to calm him down. Claire had never met a baby as good as him.

He was the only innocent thing here. He had their blood, but he knew nothing of their history.

If her dad had it his way, he’d raise him to be a tyrant. But Claire couldn’t imagine Sullivan ever being anything but an angel.

Something clunked downstairs—probably Clem slamming the kitchen cabinets shut, since she’d gone down to make some sweet tea. But it’d been a few minutes now, and the tea should’ve been done. Claire pushed away from the crib and went downstairs. She stopped by the front door, taking a peek out the window. Huh, that was odd. The officer wasn’t parked in the driveway anymore.

“Clem?” she called out. “You know where Officer Jacobson went?”

No response. No clinking of glasses from the kitchen. A breeze moved through the house, bringing with it the smell of summer and the sound of a cicada buzzing. They’d been told to keep all the doors and windows closed.

A bad feeling roiled in her. She approached the doorway to the kitchen. A jug of sweet tea had been left on the counter. The sliding door to the backyard was wide open.

And Clementine was gone.

A snap of adrenaline. Claire dashed for the knife block and unsheathed the biggest one. Wielding it, she ran to the back door and looked outside. A stool on the porch had been knocked over. The grass leading toward the cornfield to their right had been stamped down, the blades smooshed in uneven directions, exposing the soil beneath.

Oh, God.

Her phone vibrated in her pocket. She took it out with a trembly hand, keeping the knife up and her vision glued to the yard.

“Hello?”