What Lies in the Woods(74)

“Whatever you’re looking for, you won’t find it in Jessi Walker,” Jim said.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” I asked, bristling.

He rested a hand on his hip and shook his head almost regretfully. “That girl was a walking disaster. She had a half dozen guys wrapped around her finger thinking they loved her. Oscar just about lost his damn mind over her. Fractured a guy’s wrist for pinching her ass in the diner, but she wouldn’t give him the time of day.”

“He commits assault and she’s supposed to drop her panties?” I asked. Jim scowled at me. Interesting that he didn’t know they’d hooked up—or maybe it wasn’t. Jim wasn’t the kind of guy to keep a close watch on his son’s love life.

“Look, I’m just telling you the girl liked drama. She made bad decisions and laughed about them. Everything was a game to her.” He said it all in a matter-of-fact tone, like he was reporting on nothing more fraught than the weather. “That kind of girl doesn’t end up with a happily ever after.”

“I don’t think she got one,” I said. I watched his expression, feeling that familiar sense of not knowing where I stood. He’d had an abysmal opinion of Jessi Walker, that was clear. Yet there wasn’t a trace of anger or hatred in his voice. It was like he didn’t care at all. That was the way he’d always seemed to me—disconnected. Everyone else seemed to know this affable, charismatic man, but for me it had always felt like talking to a plank of wood, whatever the subject. It was like a milder version of Oscar—I didn’t get to see the charm, because I wasn’t worth the trouble of putting on a show.

He grunted, done with the conversation. “Oscar’s out back. Don’t take too much of his time.”

With that, he turned and headed into the office. I stood there, teeth clenched. Plenty of people would put me in the category “that kind of girl.” The only reason my life wasn’t a mess of drama was that I packed up and left everything behind every time things got hairy.

I finally understood why I’d never been able to figure out how Jim felt about me. It was the same reason he could say all those things about Jessi Walker without the faintest flicker of emotion. She was beneath caring about. And so was I. He’d done the necessary steps to fulfill his obligations and play his part—mayor, best friend’s father, charitable member of society. And that was it. Except for the moments I intersected with some task he needed to complete, I didn’t even exist to him.

Oscar was across the lot when I came around the back of the offices, wiping his hands on a greasy rag, a toolbox open beside him. He looked over and saw me as I approached, but he didn’t move. Waited for me to come to him.

I made my way across the rut-striped yard, keeping my steps steady and reminding myself I was a long way from eleven. Oscar was no kind of threat to me now. But it wasn’t the gas station I was thinking about as I crossed the yard. It was the shed. That time I’d been entirely willing, and that was what made the memory sting. I couldn’t blame anyone but myself for making a mistake like Oscar Green.

“Naomi.” He worked the rag over his knuckles with limited result.

“Oscar.” I stopped a good eight feet from him. I never stopped being startled by how beautiful his eyes were, even now. Big eyes, the kind of blue people wrote poems about. They tricked you into thinking there was something gentle hidden under that rough exterior.

Oscar gave me a grin, sitting his weight back on his heels. “You get tired of that string bean already?” he asked. He dropped his voice low. “I got a cot in the office if you’re looking for an upgrade.”

How did he know about me and Ethan? It didn’t matter. “Get a new shtick, Oscar. That one’s tired.”

He chuckled. “You used to like it.”

“You were only ever a mistake,” I said.

“One you kept on making,” he said. He flicked the rag over his shoulder. “What was it, six, seven times?”

It was six. But I wasn’t going to let him know I’d been counting. When he’d run his blunt fingers along my scars, had he been remembering the knife that made them? Had it been funny to him? Had it excited him?

I swallowed against a sudden wave of queasiness.

He crossed his arms, inspecting me. “The only use you ever had for me was a good lay. So if you’re not here for that, what the fuck do you want?” he asked.

“The FBI was asking me questions.”

“So?”

“About you.” That got his attention. “They seem to think that you might have been the one who stabbed me.” I watched his response carefully.

“What? It was that serial killer,” Oscar said, scoffing. Was that surprise in his expression, or a hint of guilt?

“They don’t think so. They think we made that up. To cover for you,” I pressed.

“Why the fuck would I stab you?” Oscar demanded. “You were an irritating little cunt who thought you were hot shit, but if I killed people for that I’d be neck-deep in cute little corpses.”

I blinked, taken aback. That was vicious even for the version of Oscar he saved for me.

“Why are you telling me this, anyway?” Oscar asked. He narrowed his eyes at me. “Not because you want to help me.”

I drew in a deep breath, forcing myself to stay calm. If I made it seem like I thought the FBI might be right, he’d shut down. “I’m giving you a heads-up. In return, I want some information,” I said.