The Naturalist (The Naturalist #1)(41)

She shakes her head. “No. They said I was making things up. They said Chelsea’s room was cleaned out. Her car was gone. That doesn’t make any sense.” Her voice gets defiant. “I know she was there that night. I picked her up. We took my car, left hers behind.”

“Is it possible she played a prank on you?”

“I wanted to believe that. But for this long? Ha-ha, Chelsea. Where the fuck are you? Nobody does this for that long.”

“Is there anyone in town that would want to kill her?”

“Chelsea was the nicest person you’d ever meet. But she slept around a lot. Older men, especially. I think a few of them were glad she went away.

“Did anyone kill her? Hell, this is Hudson. Anything is possible. You hear about that Indian family that went missing?”

I remember them from the missing-persons database. “Yeah.”

“What the newspapers don’t say is that they were running their own little meth lab. Without permission. That’s why they disappeared.” She grins knowingly and lowers her voice. “Know who the last two people to see them were? Bower and Jackson.”

“Bower and Jackson?”

“The police officers who got arrested for trafficking crystal. That’s how fucked-up things are around here.”

“Has anyone else ever mentioned something like what you saw the night Chelsea went missing?”

“I talked to some Chippewa guy. He grew up on a res. He said they have lots of stories like that. I don’t believe any of that. What I saw was a man that wanted me to think he was an animal. But I saw him walking, plain as day.” She narrows her eyes. “I thought they caught the bear that killed your girl.”

“They caught a bear. But there’s nothing that ties it to her.”

Amber watches a flock of birds fly overhead. “At least you know she’s gone. You have something to bury. Everyone around here is pretending Chelsea is out there somewhere having a gay old time. But they know. They know Chelsea’s dead. They just don’t care.”

I can feel the sense of loss she’s experiencing. It’s a quiet desperation, like clinging to a rope in a fog.

“Do you remember the spot where she disappeared? Where you saw the man?”

“Round about. I took the police there.”

“Did they find anything?”

“Are you kidding? They spent about ten minutes, then left. They didn’t give a fuck.”

“So it was never made a crime scene?”

“They didn’t make it a crime.” She stabs the air with her finger. “They didn’t care!”

The words come out of my mouth without thinking. “Can you tell me where it happened?”

Before she can answer, I hear the familiar sound of squealing truck tires.

“Shit,” Amber mutters. “My boyfriend is here.”

Here we go again.





CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE


BAD PRINCE

I feel my spine stiffen as Devon’s boots stomp across the grass. He comes to a stop over my shoulder, his shadow falling over me.

My right hand grips the can of Mace in my pocket, but my fingers are trembling. I don’t know if I’ll be able to pull it free quickly enough, let alone muster the nerve to squeeze the trigger.

I’m terrified that trying to defend myself will only aggravate him further. Last time he took my money but left me well enough to walk away. Fighting back might put me in the hospital, or worse.

Amber looks over my head at Devon and gives him a little nod. “What’s up.”

“Who’s he?” Devon asks.

My body slackens a little when I realize he hasn’t recognized me under my hat and sunglasses. I keep my head down and avoid looking up at him, lest he see the bruise on my face and recognize his handiwork.

“He’s nobody,” Amber replies. “Just an old friend of Chelsea.”

“Friend or customer?” Devon replies with a mocking tone. He walks past me without turning to look. “Make sure he knows your pussy is no longer on Craigslist.”

“Fuck you.” Amber flips him the bird as he steps inside, closing the door behind him.

Amber shuts her eyes and shakes her head. “You probably think I’m a horrible person.”

I keep my voice low, afraid he’ll hear me inside. “Aside from what happened yesterday, I think you’re swell.”

“Yeah, whatever. We only started doing that after a trucker roughed up some girl from Quiet Lake. They fucked his shit up when they got to him.

“Devon was getting pissed when he saw the guys calling me. It was one thing if they were a local, someone we knew who was okay.”

I’m trying to understand the relationship dynamic. “Is Devon your . . .”

“Pimp? Fuck, no. I’m not a fucking whore,” she says sharply.

“I was going to say ‘boyfriend.’”

“Oh. We have an open relationship. Not that it’s any of your business.”

I’m embarrassed by the whole discussion. “I didn’t mean to imply anything.”

“You have a judgmental face.”

“I’m a scientist. I look at everything this way.”

She tilts her head toward the house. “Devon wanted to be a scientist.”