Gun Shy(44)

Amanda nods. “Sure as sure can be. I think table twelve needs their check.” Subtext: Go away.

Cassie looks almost disappointed as she walks back to the front of the diner. Once she’s gone, Hannah makes a beeline for me, snowballing into me, hugging me around my waist as hard as she can. “You miss her, don’t you?”

“Who?” I ask.

“Cassie,” she says, pressing her ear to my chest. And that’s the thing about Hannah. She doesn’t even understand that this is all because of what’s happened to her.

“Yeah, sis,” I say, messing up her hair. “That’s why I got mad. I’m sorry.”

Before we leave, Amanda gives me some sleeping pills that are safe to take in pregnancy and the address of a clinic in Reno. And she makes me swear on Hannah’s soul that I won’t do anything to Hal Carter.





CHAPTER EIGHTEEN





CASSIE





Amanda drives me home after we close up the diner. When we pull up, there’s an ambulance parked out front.

The lights aren’t on.

And there are more cars. Damon’s patrol car. Chris’s SUV. I’ve never seen so many people here at once. The light in the den is on; it’s too bright. We only ever use soft lamps for my mother’s makeshift hospital room. Through the kitchen window, I can see Damon sitting at the table, his head in his hands.

And I know before I’ve even opened my car door, that my mother is dead.





CHAPTER NINETEEN





LEO





I can’t kill Hal Carter, at least not yet. Not until Hannah gets some proper medical care. After I spoke to Amanda, I got Pike to take Hannah home. I couldn’t go there, not until I’d found a way to deal with my rage. Because if I walked into that trailer and saw my mother? I would have killed her on the spot with my bare hands for what happened to Hannah. What she let happen.

So I’m here, at midnight, sitting in the empty garage with nothing but the old car bodies out back as companions.

I’ve been sitting here all day. I watched the sun rise high into the midday sky, and then drop below the horizon until inky darkness claimed the night again. And I’ve been sitting here, freezing my ass off, shaking with the fiery anger that’s burning me from the inside.

I need to hurt something. I think of Jennifer, her bent neck and spread thighs. I think of the way I hurt her. If she were here, I’d do it all again, and I’d feel better for it. But she’s not here. She’s missing. And I can already read the writing on the wall. Sheriff King wants to pin her disappearance on me. I’ve got days, at best, before I’m back in lockup.

I can’t run. I’ll violate my parole, and besides, who would take care of Hannah then?

I can’t tell the truth about Jennifer. If I do, I’ll get the death penalty. It doesn’t even matter if I killed her or not. All that matters is that if they find her car, it’ll probably have my DNA all over the fucking thing. And if they find her body… well then, it really is game over for me.

At one a.m., I finally stand up. My legs are numb from the cold, from sitting for so damn long. I flick my lighter to get some illumination. I find a crowbar. I take it out back to where the Mustang lies, turn on the floodlights so I can see, and I beat the absolute shit out of the car my daddy left for me all those years ago.

I’m beating it so hard, I start to bleed. At least, that’s what I think I see. Red splashes of something on the bumper. I drop the crowbar and it clatters to the asphalt beneath me. I study my arms, my hands, my face - no blood.

Confused, I kneel in front of the car — or what’s left of it — and run my thumbnail across what, upon closer inspection, looks like specks of red paint. I’ve never seen them before; I mean, I haven’t seen this car up close in years. I scrape a little of the red and it comes away under my fingernail. It’s definitely paint. And it’s sparking a vague memory of something inside me long buried.

I call Chris McCallister. It’s the middle of the night, but he answers. He’s on duty, just a block away at the Sheriff’s office. I ask him to come over to the garage, and to my surprise, he’s standing beside me before I can so much as hide the crowbar.

He’s holding two cups of coffee, his uniform looking a little worse for wear.

“You look like shit,” Chris says, offering one of the Styrofoam cups.

“Could say the same about you,” I reply, accepting the coffee and gesturing my thanks with a tip of the cup.

“Missing girls mean lots of overtime,” he says, swigging his coffee. I take a sip of mine and make a face; it’s watery and bitter, but at least it’s hot enough to warm me.

“Your boss is gonna try and pin Jennifer on me, you know.”

Chris shrugs. “Is that why you asked me to come over here? You know I can’t talk about that shit with you unless you’ve actually got some information for me.”

I shake my head, watching as my breath turns into thick fog in front of my face. “No. I actually wanted to show you something. Can you keep it to yourself? Just for now?”

Chris looks dubious.

“It’s not about Jennifer Thomas. It’s about the red paint I found on the hood of this Mustang.” I point to the wreck.