The Dead and the Dark(65)

She was alone.





27


Chokecherry And Other Menacing Flora


Logan was not okay.

Maybe she’d never been okay. It’d been two weeks since the fight with Ashley. Two weeks since Alejo was arrested. Two weeks of visiting him in the holding cell at the Owyhee County police station, talking about nothing, waiting for something to come to a head. Two weeks since her dreams of being buried alive had become a nightly occurrence. And for the last two weeks, Brandon was hardly more than a ghost in her life. No—given everything, ghost wasn’t the right word.

He was nothing at all.

Logan sat alone in the back booth of the Chokecherry. It was the same as always: mildly populated, playing country a little too loud with the lights a little too low. It didn’t set her on edge like it had the first time Ashley walked her through these doors. In a way, it was almost comforting. It was familiar.

“Can I have another porter?” Logan asked as Gus approached her table.

He slapped a plastic cup of water on the table and fixed her with an arched brow. “You’re drinking water.”

“Ugh, this sucks.”

“I don’t think you like beer much, anyway,” Gus said. “Your dad used to order beers and he always made that same pinched-up face you do.”

“Huh.”

Logan was decidedly not into dad talk.

“Brandon was always doing stuff like that. Trying to order stuff to make him look normal.”

Logan blinked. This was maybe the first time she’d heard someone tell a story about her fathers that wasn’t about Alejo. She’d given up on the idea of an investigation the day Bug died, but she still wanted to understand. She cleared her throat. “Did Brandon come here a lot?”

Gus threw his dish towel over his shoulder. “Let me get the dishwasher running, then I can tell you all about it.”

He made his way back behind the bar.

The bell at the front door rang and the door swung open. Late-afternoon light spilled into the Chokecherry, painting the cracked cement floor a sickly shade of yellow. The first to enter the bar was John Paris with Fran hanging on his arm, honey-brown curls bouncing at her shoulders. John’s glorified shadow, Paul, tagged along behind them. He sneered at the dark corners of the bar.

Logan shrank into the shadows and held her water cup close to her chest. She’d never been one to hide, but she was already at rock bottom. She didn’t have the mental fortitude to fight anyone anymore.

“The booth at the back is empty,” Fran said.

“No,” Paul said. “There’s someone—”

Hefty footsteps clapped over the cement floor, each one louder than the last. Logan braced herself.

“Haven’t seen you in a bit,” John Paris scoffed.

He slid into the booth opposite Logan. Fran and Paul hung back, watching the scene unfold with a strange mix of fear and admiration. Logan gave a fleeting glance to the rest of the bar, but no one did anything. No one said anything. They just watched.

She was alone.

“Yeah, haven’t been out much,” Logan said. She took a sip of water and avoided eye contact. “No offense, but I was really hoping to just sit by myself today.”

John laughed. “Ashley couldn’t make it?”

Logan grimaced.

“Uh-oh, trouble in paradise?” Paul asked.

“Probably she didn’t like your dad killing her best friend,” John said.

“John,” Fran warned. This was apparently an argument they’d had before. Fran crossed her arms and tapped her foot. “Let’s just sit somewhere else.”

John held up a hand to quiet her. “Why did he do it? What was the reason? I’ve been trying to figure it out for weeks.”

“John,” Fran snapped.

Logan’s hands curled into fists under the table. “As much as I’d love to sit and theorize, how about you fuck off?”

John reached across the table and grabbed Logan sharply by the elbow. “Tristan was my friend. Bug was my friend. Ashley’s my friend, too. If you people do anything else to my friends, I’ll kill you.”

Logan swallowed. The bar was silent. The handful of other people in the room watched quietly, eyes wide, lips parted in surprise. But they weren’t outraged for her. It was like the store all over again. People in this town didn’t care what happened to her. Logan wanted to kick herself for the sinking feeling of disappointment in her chest. She was still the enemy. In Snakebite, she always would be.

A whistle sounded from behind the bar.

Gus made his way out of the kitchen with the Chokecherry’s decorative double-barreled shotgun in hand. “Not in my bar,” he said. “Get out of here.”

“You couldn’t fire that if you wanted to,” John scoffed.

“I could,” Gus said. He gestured toward the door. “Now get.”

John rolled his eyes. Reluctantly, he pushed himself out of the booth and made his way to the door. Fran and Paul followed behind him—Fran cast a glance over her shoulder, torn somewhere between sympathy and anger.

Once the three of them were gone, Logan exhaled.

“Mind if I sit?” Gus asked.

Logan motioned to the seat opposite her. Banjo plucked from the speaker mounted on the wall, but other than that, the bar was quiet. Unrest simmered in the air. The rest of the bar patrons were apparently too afraid to speak. Logan didn’t like the idea of someone having to protect her, but she didn’t fight it. Gus returned his shotgun to its mount behind the bar, then slid into the seat across from her, pressing the table away to make room. He watched the sidewalk outside until John and the others disappeared around the corner, then leaned across the table.