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The fire roars to life as I toss the dung onto the flames, the acrid smoke rising in thick black plumes. I watch it burn, the heat scorching my skin even from a distance.
“You always were a problem solver,” I mutter to myself, my voice lost in the crackle of the fire.
“That’s not good for the environment, you know.”
The voice slices through the crackle of fire, sudden and close. I whirl around, my grip tightening on the shovel.
Clyde stands at the edge of the property, just outside the fire’s reach. Hands buried in his jacket pockets, posture easy. But he’s watching me too closely for it to be casual.
“Burning animal waste releases harmful gases,” he says, stepping forward. “Could poison your soil if you’re not careful.”
The fire spits behind me, as if in warning. I didn’t hear a truck. Didn’t hear the gate. Just his voice, like he’d been standing there long enough to choose his moment.
“Thanks for the science lesson, Clyde,” I say, forcing a brittle smile. “What are you doing here?”
He shrugs, his eyes scanning everything, the fire, the barn, the fence line.
“Figured you might need help with the pigs. With everything going on with your dad.”
We aren’t even friendly, let alone people who check in with each other.
“I’ve got it handled,” I say. Too sharp.
Clyde doesn’t respond right away. Just watches me, subtle, deliberate, like he’s taking inventory.
“What’s with the fire, then?”
“Just clearing out some waste,” I reply, steady, even.
But the smoke coils thick, and the smell is wrong. It’s not just manure, not just wood. Something fatty and sweet is buried in the burn. Something that shouldn’t be there.
“Seems like a lot of trouble.”
I shrug. “I like to keep things tidy.”
He chuckles. But there’s no warmth in it. “You’ve always been… thorough, haven’t you?”
It’s not a compliment anymore, not even curiosity. A test.
I don’t answer. I turn back to the fire, letting the heat blur the edges of the world and give me a moment to think.
Clyde steps closer.
“By the way,” he says, like it just crossed his mind, “Mrs. Wolfe’s PI stopped by my office. Asked if I’d seen anything strange.”
The shovel handle creaks in my palm.
“He’s making his way through everyone in town?” I ask, tone flat. “That’s one way to stir up gossip.”
“Maybe,” he replies. “But he mentioned patterns. Disappearances. Plural. Said folks are starting to wonder what they’re missing.”
I tilt my head slightly, eyes narrowing.
“Careful, Clyde. Folks might start wondering why you care so much.”
That catches him, just for a beat. But then he smiles again, that smooth, unreadable kind.
“You and Mr. Wolfe weren’t close.”
