All Good People Here(23)

Those spray-painted words appeared in Margot’s head, and she gave Pete a disbelieving look. “But this message—I mean, don’t you think whoever wrote it was talking about Natalie? And why would it have been written here if they weren’t also referring to January?”

“Well, sure, I think that’s what this asshole was going for, but so far there’s no reason to think it’s anything but a hoax.”

“A hoax? You think this is a hoax?”

“I’m just repeating our official stance. That’s all.”

She gave him a look.

“What?”

“I don’t think this town’s gonna buy it. I think you’re gonna have a mob on your hands. I mean, I was at Shorty’s for five minutes the other day and I know everyone here believes that whoever kidnapped Natalie Clark also killed January. I’d bet you anything they’re gonna think this barn note was written by the same guy.”

This time, Pete was the one who looked skeptical.

“What?” she said. “I heard them talking. Linda, the bartender, told me to my face she thinks January’s killer is back. You think they’re all lying?”

“No.” He shook his head good-naturedly. “It’s just that, well, people in this town can get caught up in January’s memory. It’s a compulsion, talking about it. But people here turned on the Jacobs family a long time ago for what happened to January and I think once some time passes, folks will find their way back to that.”

Margot’s eyes flicked over his face, the word compulsion settling uncomfortably in her stomach. “Interesting theory.”

“You think I’m wrong?”

She shook her head. “I don’t know what I think.” But as she looked around at the very place she used to call home, the words on the barn flashing in her mind, the tail of yellow caution tape flapping in the wind, Margot knew one thing for sure. She did not think this was a hoax.



* * *



—

The moment she was back in her car, Margot pulled her phone out of her backpack pocket, opened her banking app, and logged in to her account. For a long moment, she stared at the number in her savings, trying to calculate how quickly she would go through it without a steady paycheck. Though it wasn’t a completely anemic amount—she’d done her best to save over the years—with all her extra expenses and no money coming in, it wouldn’t last long.

“Two weeks,” she said aloud. She’d give herself two weeks to research and write this article. If this story was as big as she thought it was, her byline beneath it would be enough to get her old job back. Or, she thought, suddenly feeling excited, it could help her win a new job at a bigger paper, one that valued thoughtful work and supported its writers. Two weeks was far longer than she’d ever had at IndyNow, and if she couldn’t get it done by then, she’d ask Linda for a waitressing gig at Shorty’s until she could find something else. If she could break this story, she didn’t care what she had to do after. Because in her bones, Margot knew the state police were wrong. The local police were wrong. Pete Finch was wrong. In a town eight miles away, a little girl went missing, and less than twenty-four hours after the press conference covering her case, a message appeared on the Jacobs family barn. Maybe the age of the two victims and the close proximity of their hometowns could be construed as coincidence, but the timing of this barn message could not. Someone was trying to connect January Jacobs with Natalie Clark, and Margot was going to figure out why.

She turned her key in the ignition and looked toward the Jacobs yard one last time. Though she could only see the pitched roof of the barn above the line of trees, she could see the spray-painted words clearly in her mind: She will not be the last.





EIGHT


    Margot, 2019


When Margot walked into Shorty’s later that Saturday morning, it looked almost unrecognizable as the place she’d been two nights previous. In the daylight, she could see that all its surfaces, from its dingy carpet to the faux-wood-paneled walls, seemed to be sticky with beer. Dust particles floated lazily in the air. And far from the bustling hub of action it had been the other evening, now it was completely devoid of customers. The only thing that was the same was Linda behind the bar.

“Hi, Margot,” Linda said. There was an eager glint in her eye, which Margot attributed to her own newcomer status—newcomers were always potential sources of gossip in Wakarusa—but then Linda continued. “Have you heard about what was written on the Jacobs barn?”

Margot nodded. “I have.”

“It’s horrible, isn’t it?”

“It is, yeah. Actually, that’s sort of why I’m here. I was hoping to do some interviews about it. But…” Margot glanced around at the empty tables. Two nights ago, she’d gauged the place’s vibe as the town’s go-to for gossip, where people went to talk when there was news. But maybe she’d been wrong. If so, she wasn’t going to waste time away from her uncle to sit alone in a restaurant. She’d swung by his house to check in after visiting the Jacobs place earlier and he’d seemed completely fine, but losing him yesterday had her rattled. If she was going to finish this story by her self-imposed two-week deadline and also manage to help Luke around the house, she needed to be smart with her time. “Where is everybody?”