All Good People Here(33)

Margot plucked her T-shirt with her fingers and tried to create a breeze against her skin as she walked around the corner to the two big doors, which were closed but unlocked. The inside of the barn was packed: tractors, lawn mowers, a worktable full of tools. It would take hours—days—to sift through it all. But what had she been expecting? It wasn’t as if the author of the message had signed his name and the police had somehow missed it. Had this just been some mean-spirited prank by a few high schoolers? It was possible, she supposed, but she felt deep down that it wasn’t the truth. She believed somebody out there was trying to tell their little town something, and Margot was worried what would happen if they didn’t listen.

She was walking back to her car when she stopped short. There, tucked beneath her windshield wiper and fluttering in the breeze, was a small scrap of paper. Margot glanced around, but she didn’t see anyone and her heart began to beat just a little bit faster. She made her way over and plucked the paper from the windshield. It looked to have been ripped from a notebook and the writing on it had been done by hand. Margot read the message, and despite the hundred-degree weather, a chill traveled up her spine. Once again, she looked around her for whoever had left it there, but the road was empty.

It couldn’t have been Billy, she knew. He would have needed to pass her both on the way there and back. And even if she’d somehow missed him, his driveway was gravel; she would have heard his footsteps. Suddenly, Margot remembered that auburn-haired woman outside Shorty’s, the one she thought had been watching her. With everything that had happened in the past few days, the moment had been scrubbed from Margot’s mind. And at the time, she’d just assumed she was being paranoid anyway. Now, it seemed ominous.

Standing by her car, Margot’s fists instinctively clenched as the words in her hand pulsed against her skin and pounded in her brain: It’s not safe for you here.





ELEVEN


    Margot, 2019


Margot stood by her car door, her heart thumping, the slip of paper tight between her fingertips. She looked around again for a sign of the person who’d left this on her windshield, but the road where she’d grown up was empty, the houses quiet and dark.

She took her time as she pushed her key into the door and slid into the driver’s seat. If whoever had left her this note was watching, she didn’t want to let on how shaken she was. But the moment she was in, she clicked the lock and squeezed her hand into a fist, allowing herself the comforting sting of nails against skin for one, two, three seconds, before forcing herself to stop.

It’s not safe for you here. The meaning of the words was obvious, but Margot didn’t understand the intent behind them. Was the author trying to protect her or threaten her? More to the point, who had written it? She started to mentally sift through everyone who knew about the story she was working on, but the list of names would’ve taken up two full pages in her notepad. She’d interviewed almost half the town by now. It was unsettling, being so exposed.

From inside her backpack, her phone vibrated and she jumped. She unzipped the pocket, pulled it out, and glanced at the screen: Hank Brewer, her old landlord.

Margot closed her eyes as she answered. “Hi, Hank.”

“Margot, hi. Is this a bad time? You sound…preoccupied.”

She glanced at the slip of paper still in her hand. “Now’s fine. What’s up?”

“I’m calling about July’s rent. Can you go ahead and send that over when you get a chance?”

“Oh. Um. I don’t understand. Didn’t…” She searched for the name of the subletter she’d found on Craigslist. “Didn’t James pay you?”

There was a pause. “No one’s paid me since I got your check for last month’s rent. And I haven’t heard from anybody about moving in or anything. You sure the guy you found wants it?”

Margot’s shoulders slumped. “I thought he did.” Calling her subletter had been on her to-do list right under make a copy of Luke’s house key, neither of which she’d done. What with her botched Natalie Clark piece, then getting fired, then the barn note, they’d seemed like tasks that could wait. Apparently, she’d been wrong. “I’ll call him. Can you give me a few days to figure out what’s going on?”

“I’ll give you till Wednesday to send the money, okay? I don’t care who it comes from so long as it comes. That’ll buy you some time to find a subletter for August. I know you got some…life stuff going on and I’m not uncompassionate, but you did sign a lease through October.”

Oh, is that how renting an apartment works? Margot wanted to say, but chose instead, “I’ll get the money to you by Wednesday.”

She disconnected the call, then slammed her palms against the steering wheel. “Fuck!”

Her body radiated with anxiety. First the fucking note, now this? She looked at the clock on her dashboard. She knew she should report the note to the police, and she would, eventually. But she was supposed to be in South Bend for her interview with former Detective Townsend in half an hour and she needed this story to be a story—one that would help her get a job—now more than ever.

Taking a deep breath, she slipped the note into the front pocket of her backpack, zipped it up, then turned her key in the ignition. On her way to South Bend, she called her subletter, James, then Luke to check in, but neither answered.