Page 45 of Murder Road

“Ignore her,” he said. “She’s just some local kid. Do you think we should go back to Hunter Beach?”

“We can try, but I doubt they’ll talk to us. We need to start with Kal. He won’t talk to us if we walk into the Coldlake Falls police station, and I never want to go back there anyway. We need to meet him in private. I bet Rose knows how to get a message to him.”

We were interrupted when the girl from the next booth approached our table. “Hi,” she said, in a tone that was bold and not shy in the least.

I looked up at her. Now that she was up close, I could see that her T-shirt had Gwen Stefani on it and she was wearing cutoff jean shorts. Black eyeliner lined her eyes, a little smudged, belying the roundness of a face that had only recently emerged from childhood.

“Hi,” I said.

The girl had a newspaper in her hand. She put it on the table between us, slapping it down dramatically. “This is you guys, right?”

It was a local paper, the Coldlake Falls Free Press. The headline on the front page read: arrest in local hitchhiker murder. The photo was of Rhonda Jean. It was a school photo, and Rhonda Jean was giving a shy smile that was a little sad, her freckles sprinkled across her nose.

“What do you mean?” I asked the girl, tearing my gaze from Rhonda Jean’s face.

“Here.” The girl planted her index finger on the article, pointing out a paragraph. Breckwith was apparently discovered injured on the side of Atticus Line by a couple passing through town, who claimed they were on their way to their honeymoon. Coldlake Falls PD will not comment on whether the couple are persons of interest in the investigation.

“No comment,” Eddie said.

I stared at the line, livid. Which jerk on the Coldlake Falls PD had refused to say we weren’t suspects anymore? Quentin? Or Beam?

“It is you,” the girl said. “I saw you at the grocery store with Rose. You’re staying with her, right? Rose doesn’t have any friends, and she never has guests.”

“Who are you?” I asked her.

“I was curious,” the girl said, as if I hadn’t spoken. “I figured you might be this couple, so when I saw you get out of your car and come in here, I looked in your car windows. Half the fabric in the back seat is cut out. That means you’re these people.” She tapped the newspaper again. Her nail was smooth and manicured, painted with opalescent polish. “Rhonda Jean Breckwith was in your back seat, right?”

I glared at her. “You’re annoying me.”

“How do you know Rose?” Eddie asked.

“I used to work at the grocery store until I got fired. She hates me, but that’s cool.” The girl looked at me again, unafraid of my murderous expression. “What did Rhonda Jean say to you when you picked her up? Did she say Max Shandler had killed her? I want to know everything.”

For God’s sake. “Why is it any of your business?”

“I live here.” The girl sat in the booth next to Eddie. He slid down politely, because he was a gentleman, and she settled in, leaning forward. “This is my town. I’ve met Max Shandler. If he’s been killing girls like me, I want to know about it.”

She had a point. Eddie and I exchanged a look. He seemed puzzled and almost amused. We should probably get rid of this girl, but Eddie was in no hurry to do it. I let myself think through the angles for a minute. This girl knew Max Shandler. Maybe she could answer some of our questions.

“What’s your name?” I asked her.

“Beatrice Snell. What’s yours?”

“April Carter.” I nodded toward Eddie. “That’s Eddie Carter, my husband.”

“Hi,” Eddie said.

“Hi,” Beatrice said. “Do you think Max Shandler killed Katharine O’Connor, too? What about Carter Friesen?”

The back of my neck tightened, and I saw Eddie straighten a little. “Carter Friesen?” he asked.

“August 27, 1991,” Beatrice said. “Stabbed on Atticus Line after getting picked up hitchhiking. He barely made it from the bus station. He was found on the stretch just past the turnoff to town. He was eighteen.”

There was a second of silence at the table as we stared at her.

“There are more,” Beatrice said. “Rhonda Jean was stabbed, right? So was Carter. But not all of them were. Max couldn’t have killed all of them, but if he did the last three, why do you think he changed his method of killing?”

“Jesus,” I said. “How old are you, fifteen?”

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