River Bodies (Northampton County #1)(72)

Chitter put up both hands. “No. I just think someone should know what the hell is going on, even if it’s not me.”

“Hap will know.”

“Okay,” Chitter said. “You’re calling the shots.” He handed John a flip phone. “It can’t be traced if you decide to use it. But whatever you decide, destroy it when you’re done.”

John took the phone.

Chitter put his hand on John’s shoulder. “I’m not questioning you, man. I’m just trying to look out for you.”

John covered Chitter’s hand with his own. “I know,” he said. “Now get the guys out of here. By the time you get back, everything will have been taken care of.” He tossed the keys to the prospect. “Don’t fuck up my bike.”



John was sitting behind the barn watching the leaves burn in the fire pit. He’d eaten some time ago, and the meat lay in his stomach like a rock. His throat was dry. He couldn’t spit. The flames rose and fell in flashes of yellow and orange, the black embers falling to the ground by his feet.

He took out the disposable flip phone. Hap picked up on the first ring. In the background, John heard the guys hooting and hollering; then it grew quiet.

Hap must’ve stepped away from the noise. “What’s going on?” he asked.

“Is everybody there?” John asked. “The whole crew?”

“Yes,” Hap said. “Everyone but you.”

“You tell everyone I’m there too.”

“What’s this about?”

“I’m cleaning up a loose end. It’s best you and the club don’t know any more than that.”

Hap was silent. Eventually, he said, “Okay. Do what you have to.”

John hung up the phone, tossed it into the fire.





CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

Ten-year-old Becca was skipping rope in the driveway not long after she’d watched her father talking with Russell at the edge of the yard. Sheba was chasing the rope, tripping her up.

“Stop it,” she said to Sheba and patted the dog’s head. “How do you expect me to reach one hundred if you keep biting the rope?”

Her father finished mowing the lawn, parked the John Deere in the garage, and strode to where Becca was petting the dog. He knelt on the ground and grabbed her by the arms, pulled her close so that their faces were inches apart.

“What were you doing in their barn?” he asked. His breath was hot and smelled like cigarettes.

“I wasn’t in their barn,” she said.

“Don’t lie to me, Becca.” He squeezed her arms, pinching the skin. “You forget whatever it was you saw. Do you hear me?” He shook her.

Tears stung her eyes. She wanted to tell him that he was hurting her. She wanted to tell him about John and the knife and the dog attacking Sheba, because she wasn’t sleeping, because she was scared. “I did see something, Daddy,” she whispered. “There was a knife and a blue sweatshirt covered in . . .”

“No.” He cut her off. “You’re not allowed to tell me.”

“But why?”

“Because, that’s why. You have to forget all about it, do you hear? You’re never to tell anyone. Not me. Not your mother. No one. Ever.” He shook her again. “Do you hear?”

She nodded, a sob caught in her throat.

“It never happened,” he said, giving her arms a tighter squeeze. “And you’re never to talk about it again. Do you understand?”

She nodded.

“Say it. Say you understand you’re never to talk about it. You’ll forget it ever happened. Say it. Promise me.” She heard the fear in his tone, felt it in the grip of his hands on her arms, and it terrified her.

“I promise, Daddy,” she said, tears streaming down her face.

He hugged her then. “That’s my girl,” he said. “It will be our little secret.”

She didn’t hug him back. Her arms stung and hung at her sides. After another minute, he released her and stood. She looked up at him through watery eyes.

“Now go and wash up,” he said and wiped his own cheeks dry. “This never happened.”

She did as she was told and went straight to the powder room in the downstairs hall. She washed her face and hands and examined her arms in the mirror. Red welts appeared on her skin where her father had clutched her. He had never raised a hand to her or squeezed her arms so hard, and she was confused and ashamed by what he’d done to her now.

She raced to her bedroom and pulled on a long-sleeve shirt. Sheba followed her, jumped on Becca’s bed, and lay down. Becca buried her face in the dog’s fur. She would never tell anyone what had happened in the barn with John and the dogs. She’d bury it, force herself to forget all about the bloody knife and the soiled sweatshirt at John’s feet.



Becca stepped into the kitchen to find Jackie hanging up the phone. Romy went straight to her water dish. Jackie kept her back to Becca, as though she were trying to gain some composure before turning around to face her.

In that moment Becca wondered if she’d arrived home too late and whatever had happened had happened in her absence. The last few days, the entire week, living in this house under the same roof with her father, picking at the scars of old wounds had been for nothing. She hadn’t accomplished a thing. She should’ve opened her mouth and talked with him sooner. She should’ve found a way.