Page 46 of Evil All Along

“That’s it?” I said.

“And then I laughed because that was so funny—”

“No, it wasn’t.”

“—and I asked him if he was staying at Mrs. Knight’s dad’s place, and he said yes.”

I opened my mouth—potentially to scream something likeAnd you didn’t think it was important to tell anyone?, even though I knew it was unfair; there was no way Millie could have known I was trying to find this guy. Well,trying to findmakes it sound like I’d made an effort—I hadn’t had a chance, with the nonstop rush of the last couple of days.

Before I could verbalize any of this, though, I remembered where I’d heard the name Vance before. Or, more precisely, seen it: on the California driver’s license in Channelle’s motel room.

“Send me the address for Mrs. Knight’s rental,” I said as I lurched off my stool. “And call Bobby. Tell him what you told me.”

“And tell him about Woody?”

“Yes, obviously.”

“Should I tell him about the party too?”

“Tell him everything.

“Even about my hair?” With an undisguised note of pride, Millie added, “The color is called Virgin Pink.”

I hesitated, hand on the door.

And then, because I’m a very bad person, I said, “You should definitely tell him that. Describe the process to him. Send him pictures.”

I dodged one last sugar packet from Tessa and darted out the door.

Chapter 13

Mrs. Knight’s dad’s place—which was a really cumbersome name, by the way, and probably not ideal for a listing on Airbnb—was so far outside of town that it must have been sitting on the city limits. Hemlock House was like that too, but Hemlock House was south of Hastings Rock, sitting on the bluffs, commanding a priceless view of the Pacific. (I’ve never used the phrase “commanding a view” before, but now I’m obsessed.)

Mrs. Knight’s dad’s place—see? it’s cumbersome—waseastof Hastings Rock. Inland. Not far from the Swift River, where the ground was marshy, and the conditions seemed to be ideal, even in October, for a mosquito love-fest. The conditions also appeared to be ideal for plants. Millie—and, for that matter, Woody—hadn’t been exaggerating when they’d talked about the overgrown lot. When my phone told me I’d arrived at my destination, the only clue was the edge of a gravel turnoff; the rest of the drive was hidden by thick growth of what I thought might be rhododendrons.

Since I didn’t want to scratch the Pilot (and lose my boyfriend), I parked on the side of the road and continued on foot. It was late morning. The sky was still churning with those grease-pencil clouds, and the wind ran through the brush so hard that it crackled and bristled and looked like a dog’s hackles standing on end. It ripped at my hair and tugged on my glasses, and I don’t want to get into the details, but my current situation in the pair of joggers I was wearing was approaching a wedgie. The air smelled like moldering vegetation and, from farther off, thin, dispirited smoke. I felt like I should have been wearinga cool vest and pants with lots of utilitarian pockets while I huddled around a campfire.

Instead, I pulled my joggers out of my, um, crack and pressed forward.

Up close, I could see where the rhododendron branches were broken where a vehicle had forced its way through them. Below, ancient ruts in the gravel held rain from the night before, with a faint sheen that suggested motor oil. I pushed forward, and leaves rustled around me; if anybody was paying attention on the other side, there was no way they wouldn’t hear me.

It would have been a stretch to call the space beyond the rhododendrons a clearing. It was too overgrown, for one thing—most of the ground was covered in a low, gnarled brush that had turned a rich gold in autumn. I’d been in Oregon long enough to hear the locals complain about Scotch broom—pretty or not, the plant was invasive, and it loved taking over.

The other reason you couldn’t exactly call it a clearing was that it was so full of junk. An old coin-operated washing machine poked its head out from the Scotch broom. A rust-eaten Thunderbird sat on blocks, its windows either down or gone, the interior looking like a veritable bonanza of opportunities to get tetanus, beginning with the rusty springs poking out of the upholstery. A raccoon had gotten into the trash, and a mess of bones suggested fried chicken had been on the takeout menu recently. Farther back along the building, several large plastic barrels had been roped together into a pyramid. Why? To what end? These were the kinds of mysteries we paid archaeologists to speculate about.

Sleepily nosing up out of the scrub and junk was a house. It was a hardboard-sided bungalow, and it had a wood shingle roof that probably met every definition of ‘green’ you could find—it had plants growing out of it, for heaven’s sake. At some point, the structure had probably been painted a color, but over theyears, it had faded to a gray that blended in perfectly with the dismal autumn day.

I had a hard time imagining anyone willingly staying there. For that matter, I had a hard time imagining the house staying upright the next time a squirrel sneezed. (Do squirrels sneeze? See, that’s the kind of thing that will make the intrepid writer bravely stop composing to look it up and makesurehis story is one hundred percent accurate. And then he can come back to his writing the next day. Or after a long weekend.) On the other hand, if you were looking for somewhere to stay in a small town during its off-season, when strangers would stick out like a sore thumb—well, in that case, maybe it was perfect.

Following the trail of flattened, broken brush, I continued along the side of the house. Where the gravel drive curled around the back, a white sedan was parked. It had a light bar and the words ORANGE COUNTY SHERIFF’S DEPARTMENT painted on the side. Foster had said he’d seen a police officer, and while a sheriff—or a sheriff’s deputy—wasn’t exactly the same thing, I didn’t think Foster was persnickety about his law enforcement terminology. I tried to think of a reason why a California deputy would be hiding out in Mrs. Knight’s dad’s place. Nothing legitimate came to mind. I’d done enough research about jurisdictional procedure to know that if this guy, Woody Vance or whoever he was, had come to Hastings Rock for a professional reason, he would have been in contact with Sheriff Acosta. But if hewasn’tup here for a legitimate reason, then why come in his official vehicle?

Great question, I told myself. The only problem was that, to answer it, I was going to have to, you know, ask him.

Which was how I found myself on the porch, knocking on the front door and praying I didn’t Big-Bad-Wolf Mrs. Knight’s dad’s place. (They seriously needed to come up with a bettername for it. Like Huckleberry Cottage. Only not that, because that name was cute, and I came up with it.)

The squeak of a floorboard came from inside the house. Then silence for several long seconds. I had the distinct feeling I was being watched. Certain inconvenient facts began to present themselves: a killer was still loose; someone had tried to kill me (or Keme, or both of us) the night before; I was standing on the porch of someone who might very wellbesaid killer, without any convenient neighbors or passersby to act as witnesses; and nobody in the world knew where I was except Millie, who had once forgotten to go to work because she was chasing her chickens. (It was not a euphemism. Also, it was not a great four weeks when Millie decided she wanted to have chickens.) I was easing my weight back, considering a quick return to the road, the Pilot, and the safety of civilization, when the door swung open.

A man stood there, staring at me. He was a bull-necked Latino guy, his salt-and-pepper hair faded on the sides and combed straight back. His dark eyes made me think of the way Bobby looked sometimes. Like a cop. He carried himself the way some of those guys did too, like their shoulders were too big for their bodies, and they were hoping you’d get in their way. He wasn’t dressed in uniform (a tiny voice in my head said,Duh); he wore jeans, a tee with a logo I didn’t recognize, and a lightweight jacket. Southern California, I reminded myself. I wondered if his toes had frozen off yet.

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