The Dead and the Dark(20)
The boy nodded. “I’m sorry, Tío. I tried to wake you up first, but—”
“Thank you for letting us know.” Alejo sucked in a sharp breath. “Why don’t you get back to sleep? We’ll take it from here.”
Elexis made his way back across the parking lot, ducking into the motel room on the far end of the building. Logan made a mental note of it—if Alejo was his tío, that made Elexis her family, too.
Logan furrowed her brow. “You were gonna say it’s not a big deal.”
A hate crime was a big deal, actually. Logan was no expert, but she was pretty sure hate crimes were illegal. She was pretty sure the police were supposed to do something about them.
Alejo looked over his shoulder, eyes fixed on Brandon, silhouette outlined in the pale light of the motel room. He didn’t seem surprised or angry or even disappointed. He was just … quiet. He looked like he had in her dream, broad and emotionless. Unreadable.
“No cops,” Alejo said. He pulled her into a hug, cupping her head against his shoulder. “Just us. Everything’s gonna be okay.”
Somehow, she doubted that.
10
From The Beginning
“Where’s Paris?”
Ashley slapped her palm on the front desk of the Owyhee County police station, startling Becky Golden out of her usual cheery daze. The station lobby was eerily quiet at nine in the morning, the silence broken only by the hum of an outdated computer and the fridge in the break room.
The world spun too fast. After Fran and John had taken her home, she hadn’t slept. It was a miracle she hadn’t woken her mother with her restless pacing. It didn’t make sense—she’d seen Tristan in the woods, heard his breathing, been close enough to reach out and touch him. Her voice echoed from the brick walls, reverberating back at her like a slap.
Becky blinked. “Ashley? Are you okay? You look sick.”
“I’m fine. Where’s Paris?”
“At home, probably. I can call him if it’s an emergency.”
An emergency. Ashley wanted to laugh. She didn’t have words to describe what this was. Emergency definitely didn’t cover it, though. The rasping, gurgling sound of Tristan’s breathing was branded into her. Even after sleep, it was all she could hear. It was beyond an emergency.
“Tristan was in the woods,” Ashley said. “I think he’s hurt.”
“Oh my god,” Becky said. She took Ashley’s shaking hand in hers and reached for her desk phone. “Where is he now? At the ranch?”
“No. I think he’s still out there.”
“You left him?”
Ashley wavered. “I … I don’t remember.”
“You didn’t see where he went?”
Ashley shook her head. She eyed the mustard-colored countertop. “He was hurt, though. He probably didn’t get far.”
Becky narrowed her eyes, finger paused on the dial pad. This was the same Becky Golden who had started out as Barton Ranch’s receptionist. The same Becky Golden who’d sold Ashley her first horse. Who still stopped by the ranch for chardonnay and gossip on a weekly basis. She had been a family friend since before Ashley could walk, but right now she looked at Ashley like she was a stranger.
“Ashley, I’m a little confused.”
Ashley cleared her throat. “Me and my friends were across the lake and I saw him. I followed him into the trees, but then it was like he just … wasn’t there. I could still hear him. I don’t know how, but I know he was there.”
Becky gave her a pitying once-over. Ashley hadn’t bothered to change into clean clothes—her shirt was smattered with dirt, fingertips black with grime, shoes coated in a layer of muck. She was sure she looked crazy. Maybe she was crazy.
“Ashley,” Becky said softly. “Does Tammy know you’re here?”
Ashley shook her head.
Becky leaned in like their conversation was a secret. “I know this has been so hard for you. I have a cousin over in Ontario. He’s a counselor. Maybe you could talk to him about all this.”
“What?”
“I thought therapy was only for weirdos, but I tell you, it really helped Tom since he lost his mom.” Becky pulled a sticky note from her desk and scrawled out a phone number. She handed it to Ashley with an over-proud grin. “For when you’re ready.”
“Wait,” Ashley said. “I don’t need this. I need Paris.”
Becky sighed.
“I’m not making it up.”
“No, of course not.” Becky frowned and brushed a thumb over Ashley’s knuckles. Her skin was soft and smelled like rose lotion. “Grief can do strange things to your head, though.”
“I wasn’t hallucinating.”
“Sounds like a ghost,” someone said.
Ashley traced the voice across the lobby. A girl sat in one of the plastic lobby chairs with a home-improvement magazine sprawled across her lap. Ashley’s eyes widened with the realization that she wasn’t alone. It was the girl from the side of the road the day of Tristan’s vigil—the girl from the gift shop—slouched in her chair like she’d been there for hours, eyebrow curiously quirked.
Ashley turned back to Becky. “How long has she been here?”