All the Inside Howling (Hollow Folk #2)(92)

“Asshole.”

“No, Vie. Assholes aren’t saints. Saints are nice people. You’re mixing them up.”

“I meant—” I cut off because he had that mocking curl to his lip, not quite a smile but teetering on the edge of being one, ready to take the plunge. “Anyway,” I said, refusing to rise to the bait. “Frankie was the one who helped me draw the connection between River and DeHaven. DeHaven was insane. He had this obsession, or paranoia, I’m not sure what. But he hated homeless people.”

“He did know that he was homeless, didn’t he?”

“I think so, at least in part. I think that’s what drove him crazy. He couldn’t make those two facts fit. He killed a guy, a bum. I think maybe he’s killed a lot of them. Which is why it made perfect sense for him to be Mr. Big Empty’s killer.”

“Except he’s dead. That’s a bit of a problem.”

“Yeah. And he was killed exactly like Salerno, exactly like Frankie.”

“But not River?”

“What?”

Emmett traced the condensation on the Coke bottle. He had long, slender fingers, and nice knuckles. And if that wasn’t batshit crazy, I didn’t know what was, because who the hell thinks a guy has nice knuckles. But they were nice, somehow. When Emmett spoke, I started and blushed, as though somehow he’d caught me. “You said you found River’s body mutilated. You said his face was so messed up you wouldn’t have recognized him, if not for the clothes. But none of the others were like that, right?”

“No, they were just fine, aside from having their throats ripped out.”

He flicked a bead of condensation of me, and it splatted against my nose, cold and wet. “Why?”

“Because Mr. Big Empty killed them.”

“No, not why were there throats ripped out. Why wasn’t River’s?”

I thought back to the dream: River lying with arms and legs splayed against the garbage in the Dumpster, his face cut and torn and slashed so savagely that it was just curling strips of red meat, the ends too heavy and wilting down under the pull of gravity like paper streamers at the end of a party. The throat hadn’t been slashed. Cuts and gashes marred his whole body, but his throat hadn’t been cut.

“I don’t know,” I said. “Maybe, like you said, it was different because it was meant to be a message. Maybe slashing his throat isn’t part of what Mr. Big Empty’s planning to do.” I bit back the last two words: to me.

“Maybe.”

“You’re the one who said it was a message.”

“God, Vie. I’m not arguing with you. I’m just saying maybe.”

“I wasn’t arguing either, I was—”

“So go back to the old guy. Frankie. He helped you put together the connection to DeHaven? So what? Why kill him?”

“If you’d asked me yesterday, I’d say it was because Frankie helped me. But if DeHaven wasn’t the killer, then it doesn’t matter.”

Emmett’s eyes shut. “This is a mess. And DeHaven?”

“I don’t know.”

“We have four people dead, and no answers about why they were killed. Sorry, I guess I was wrong. Maybe we really don’t have anything. What do we do now?”

I shoved my hand in my pocket, working my fingers through the hole and into the space between the denim and the lining. The little brass key was still there, its edges worn smooth, and I held it out towards Emmett. “This is our last shot.”

“What’s it go to?”

“A locker. See the number? A57.”

“A locker where?”

Mentally, I reviewed Frankie’s memory of the night he had seen River. The carnival lights had painted everything with a glare. Under the green metal awning, River leaned towards the blond girl, flipping a coin in his hand. Only it wasn’t a coin. I couldn’t be sure—Frankie’s memory was fixed, and I couldn’t get new details out of it, I could only try to pay attention to the details that Frankie might have missed or misinterpreted—but I thought it wasn’t a coin at all. It was a little brass key that River kept tossing in the air and letting tumble back into his palm. I was sure. Well, pretty sure.

“Union Station,” I said with more confidence than I felt. “In Denver.”

Emmett’s phone buzzed, and he glanced at the screen. “Becca is asking if we’re together.” That cocky smile tugged at his mouth again. “I’m going to say not right now, but it’s a definite yes in the long-term, right?”

“You’re an idiot.”

“I’ll take that as an agreement.”

“You can take it and shove it. Tell her to ditch class. We’re going to pick her up and then we’re going to Denver.”

“Oh yeah?” Emmett said. “What if I say no?”

“You want that ‘definite yes in the long-term’ to be anything more than a possibility? You’d better pack a bag.”

He pretended to think it over. Then, with a frown, he said, “I won’t need underwear, right?”

Somehow, he dodged the bottle cap I launched at his head.





It took surprisingly little work to convince Becca to come with us. When the Porsche pulled into the alley behind the school, Becca was already waiting for us: her arms wrapped around her, her eyes sparkling with fresh silver decal, a bag already slung over her shoulder. I explained the plan, and when Becca asked if I was crazy, I just shook my head.