Page 61

I turn on the engine and my headlights illuminate South Lincoln Street, empty except for an orange tabby cat that slinks across the road, giving me a hard glare as I slide past it. As much as I don’t like MacKenzie’s theory about Bristal being involved with what happened last night, she has some good points. The ODOT connection is glaring, but what I had said to MacKenzie still holds true; Bristal doesn’t stand to gain anything from it. Sure, Mom and Dad are saying nice things about her, but it’s not like they bought her a car, or tried to adopt her.

Still, she had made that comment about the extra bedroom with the silver tea set, and building a connection with a family she perceives to have money certainly wouldn’t hurt her cause in any way. I shake my head, turning on my signal at the intersection, even though there’s no one to witness me going left. I could ignore all the signage outside of town and drive as fast as I want. There’s no one out here. No one for me to hit, and no one to see me speeding, the farther I head out of town and the closer I get to Far Cry Road.

My mind continues to cycle, gnawing on the problem that MacKenzie had dropped in my lap. If Bristal hadn’t set the fires, then who had? Dad had been on the phone all day today, working from home and refusing to go into the office until we knew who was responsible for it. The sheriff had come by, and a guy who is going to replace the window had come and taken measurements. There had been a lot of murmured conversations, as Dad tried to keep gossip from rising through the radiators of our old house and reaching my bedroom.

But I still heard things.

Josephine Walters wasn’t the only person who connected the dots and figured out where the signs had come from. All the county employees at ODOT had been questioned, but they don’t have security on their buildings, and nobody was particularly surprised to learn that they don’t lock their doors, either. It’s Henley, and quite frankly, no one had ever seen a reason to. They knew that Helen Gurtz occasionally snuck in and scooped some of the road salt for her front walk, but when a report came out that regular road salt was abrasive to cat’s paws, she’d gone the noble route and started buying kitty-safe salt.

The truth was that everybody had an idea about who might have done it, but nobody had any proof. While I’d shut down commenting for On the Ground in Flyover Country, there was nothing I could do about the Block Watch page on Facebook, other than choose to not expose myself to it.

I turn right onto Far Cry Road, dimming my lights as I slip past the few houses that are out here. There’s an old homestead with a crumbling barn in the back. The moon is bright enough that I can see the construction year, fashioned in slate tiles across the roof—1889. The other houses I pass are trailers, one surrounded by a dog fence that hangs heavy with signs warning off intruders, trespassers, and liberals. I spot Bristal’s Neon tucked into an overgrown turnaround, and I pull in beside her.

“Dear God, she actually did it,” Bristal says when I open her passenger door, releasing a cloud of vapor. “Lydia Chass, breaking the law.”

“I’m not breaking any law,” I inform her. “I’m eighteen and have all the rights and freedoms of an adult.”

I wish I could say that Bristal wasn’t breaking any laws, either, but the open container by her gearshift says otherwise.

“Aren’t you on probation?” I ask her. “What are you thinking?”

“I am thinking,” she contradicts me. “It’s a Friday night, I’m gonna catch bigfoot, and not to hurt your feelings or anything, but my leg hurts like a fucker on fire. So instead of lighting up, or popping an Oxy, I’m doing the intelligent thing and indulging in some underage drinking. Won’t show up on a piss test.”

“You were smoking weed the other day before we interviewed Bailey Foxglove,” I point out.

“Yeah, but”—she exhales, and I roll down my window—“my piss tests are at the end of the month, and Jo-Jo has never hit me with a surprise one.”

“Jo-Jo? Oh, never mind,” I say.

Of course Bristal would have an affectionate nickname for her probation officer. She turns her head, and for the first time I get a good look at her black eye. But black isn’t the word—it’s a deep purple, the swelling pushing the soft skin under her eye into a glistening bulge. It’s hard to look at, and I turn away, knowing she caught that punch on my account.

“How’s your leg?” I ask.

“Decent,” Bristal says, stiffly pulling her left leg up and propping it on the dashboard, then rolling the cuffs of her jeans so that I can see the gash, neatly stitched with purple thread—as promised.

“Your mom did a good job,” I tell her. “Those are nice and even.”

“She’s got enough practice,” Bristal says, pointing to another scar on her leg, then shoving her sweatshirt sleeve up and showing me a third on the inside of her upper arm. “I kind of attract trouble.”

“Yeah,” I say, not wanting to follow that particular line of conversation any further. The question of whether Bristal attracts trouble—or wholeheartedly throws herself into its path—isn’t one I want to consider, given MacKenzie’s suspicions.

“Hey, so, seriously, about that—”

“I don’t want to talk about it,” I say stiffly.

There’s a moment of quiet as Bristal lifts her beer and takes a swig. Staring down into the can, she says, “You still pissed at me?”

“Pissed at you?”

“About the podcast?”

“What—oh . . .”

“’Cause I am sorry, okay? I was trying to help, in my own way—which I know probably isn’t always the best way. You said your mom and dad were all upset about the first episode catching so much flack, and all the aggressive weirdos in the comments. I just thought, Hey, I’ll do something stupid and have fun at the same time, and maybe they’ll get off your back.”

“No, it’s . . . look, I actually think I’m the one who should be apologizing.”

“Oh?” Bristal’s voice for once isn’t thick with sarcasm, or feigned innocence. She’s truly surprised.