All Good People Here(36)

“So that’s how I know Natalie Clark’s kidnapper and January’s killer aren’t the same,” Townsend said. “As for the barn message, I think the local police got it right this time. It was probably written by some punk kids capitalizing on the town’s legacy and looking to rile people up in the wake of another girl’s disappearance. People in Wakarusa”—he shook his head—“it’s a rite of passage, hearing about January’s story. You told me over the phone that’s where you’re from originally?”

She nodded.

“So you know that her murder is a part of that town’s DNA. It’s no wonder kids fixate on it. Instead of an underpass, they tag the Jacobs barn. Instead of genitals, they mimic those original words on the kitchen walls.”

Margot thought back to what Pete had said only yesterday. People in this town can get caught up in January’s memory. It’s a compulsion, talking about it. It was true—that compulsion was one of the reasons she’d gotten fired. But was it possible that’s all the barn message was? And then what about the message left on her car? Was she supposed to believe that was given to her by some high schooler too?

She leaned over and grabbed the slip of paper out of her bag, then handed it to Townsend. “I found this on my car earlier. I assumed it’s because I’m digging into the story.”

Townsend held the piece of paper delicately, insubstantial looking between his thick fingers. It seemed impossible that something so small could engender as much fear as it had. “When did you find this?”

“Half an hour before I showed up here. I went to get into my car and found it on my windshield.”

“And your car was parked outside the place you’re staying?”

Margot shook her head. “It was outside the Jacobs place. I’d been speaking with Billy.”

“And you think someone gave it to you because you’re looking into January’s murder.”

“Well, that. Or Natalie’s case or the message on the barn. Or all three.”

“Hm.” Townsend gazed down at the slip of paper, his brow furrowed. After a few moments, he turned it over and studied the back as he held it up to the light. “Well,” he said finally. “I’m sorry this happened to you. That must’ve been unnerving. But…thinking about it logically, a lot of reporters are covering Natalie Clark’s disappearance. It doesn’t make sense for someone to drive a town over to target the one member of the media who isn’t paying it her full attention. And it’s not as if Krissy Jacobs is walking around town handing out warnings to people getting too close to the truth. So the most plausible explanation in my mind is that it is indeed written by the same guy who wrote the message on the barn. It sounds like he’s skulking around the Jacobs place and saw you as an easy target. My guess is he doesn’t even know who you are or what you were doing there.

“Nevertheless,” he added, handing the slip of paper back over. “You should report this to the police. It could help them apprehend whoever is terrorizing your town.”

Margot took the note from him, then slipped it back into her bag, feeling oddly disappointed. While she’d obviously love to be wrong about someone following and now threatening her, she didn’t think she was. But there was no point arguing about it.

“I still don’t understand, though,” she said after a moment. “About January’s case. If all that evidence had you so certain it was Krissy, why did you never arrest her?”

Townsend let out a long sigh. Krissy Jacobs, it was clear, was the former detective’s white whale. “I wanted to. I tried. But it was an extremely high-profile case and it wasn’t a slam dunk, which is a bad combination, and the prosecutor didn’t go for it. He maintained that the case was too convoluted, that it would take more than what I’d presented to get a jury to convict a mother for killing her own daughter.” He gave her a rueful smile. “Essentially, Krissy Jacobs messed up the crime scene so much, no one could fucking understand it. And because of that, she walked free.”





THIRTEEN


    Margot, 2019


Margot stared at the police officer sitting across from her. “That’s it?”

The officer—Officer Schneider, or was it Schmidt?—blinked up from the sheet of paper he’d been writing on. “Um…” His eyes shifted sideways then back again. “Yes?”

Margot had driven straight from South Bend to the Wakarusa police station to report the note she’d found on her windshield. And although she wanted to get home, although she was starting to prickle with anxiety about leaving her uncle alone for so long, the reporting process had been maddeningly brief. Officer Schneider-Schmidt—in plainclothes, he wasn’t wearing a name tag—had asked her all the same questions Townsend had and jotted her answers on a notepad. When he asked if she had any theories about who could have written the message, he’d taken notes as she described the auburn-haired woman who’d been watching her outside Shorty’s. And yet, afterward, when he told her that they’d do everything in their power to find the culprit, his tone had been light, almost flip.

“Listen,” Margot said, trying to keep her voice pleasant. “This person”—she pointed at the note, which was now nestled in the corner of a little ziplock bag on the table between them—“I think they’re threatening me because they’re scared of what I’ll write. I don’t think this is some simple, mean-spirited vandalism. I think they don’t want me telling this story. That should concern you.”