Page 55 of We Are All Guilty Here

“Yes, boss.” Virgil unclipped the mic from his shoulder as heleft the shed. Gerald slipped his support away from Emmy and followed. They were leaving without her.

She called, “Dad, I—”

Gerald cut her off with a look. His expression had gone stony. He’d made up his mind. “Call your mother to drive you.”

Emmy hopped on one foot, trailing after him. “I don’t need to call Mom. Dad, where are you going? What bar?”

Gerald ignored her as he walked through the backyard, talking in low tones to Virgil. She saw Walton standing on the kitchen stoop. She tested her ankle, gritting her teeth as she limped after her father.

“Dad!” Emmy tried. “Which bar? Tell me which bar.”

Gerald disappeared around the front of the house. Emmy hobbled after him, grabbing onto the bottom of the porch railing so she could get to the driveway. Her father was already sitting in Virgil’s cruiser. They were pulling out as Brett Temple was pulling in. Both vehicles stopped. The windows rolled down. Gerald was giving Brett orders.

“Fuck,” she muttered. “Fuck, fuck, fuck.”

Brett pulled in alongside Emmy’s cruiser. He gave a low whistle at the state of her. “What happened?”

“Did they say where they were going?”

Brett shrugged. “Above my paygrade. Virgil said stay off the radio.”

“I need to—” Emmy felt a wave of nausea from the pain. Her hand was on fire. Her head felt like it was inside a ringing bell. “Cheyenne’s necklace is in the grass on the side of the house by the kitchen steps. Mark it off, make sure the scene is protected. The father—”

“Walton,” Brett interrupted. “He pulled my little cousin’s molar last week.”

“Interview him.” Emmy didn’t have time to play Six Degrees of North Falls. “He says he might have some old shooting pistols in the house. You need to search this place top to bottom. Start in the basement. That’s where the suspect lives.”

“Okay,” Brett said. “But your dad told me to call your mom to take you to the hospital.”

“I already texted her. She’s meeting me there.” Emmy hadnever lied so smoothly. She had to get out of here. “You’re wasting time, Brett. There could be something in that basement that we can use during the interrogation.”

Brett looked skeptical. “I don’t think you should drive yourself.”

“It looks worse than it is.” Emmy started to unbuckle her equipment belt to show that she was off duty. She took the mic off her shoulder. “Interview the father. He’s been out of town, but he might know something. We still have to build a case, Brett. Arresting Adam Huntsinger doesn’t guarantee anything. He’ll try to use the location of the girls for leverage. We haven’t hit the twenty-four-hour mark yet. Madison could still be alive. We’ve got to take his power away from him.”

Brett started nodding. “Yeah, okay.”

Emmy tried not to limp as she walked to her cruiser. She tossed her equipment belt onto the passenger’s seat, clenched her teeth as she got behind the wheel. Her left ankle had been sprained and her right hand had a two-inch gash, but she could still drive.

She backed the cruiser out of the driveway, swinging onto the road. Emmy didn’t bother turning up the speaker on her scanner. She knew that Gerald would maintain radio silence. He wouldn’t want half the town showing up, things getting out of control. There were at least twenty dive bars in Clayville. Her uncle Penley owned half of them. Emmy would drive to every single shithole until she found the right one.

Dust clouded up behind the cruiser as she sped away. She mapped the route in her head. Back toward the interstate, then fifteen minutes to the Clayville exit. Ten if she used lights and sirens. Emmy was reaching for the switches on the dash when she realized the backroads would get her there more quickly.

She wasn’t going to waste time accessing the track from the main road. She took a sharp turn, cutting across an open field, tearing up the grass. The tires bumped, the chassis groaned, she hissed out the pain in her body as she fought to keep the car straight. Her grip only loosened when the tires thrummed down the hard clay of the track. The blood on the steering wheel had turned sticky. Emmy saw the bright white fence that marked the beginning of Taybee and Terrell’s farm.

Her phone started to ring.

Emmy used her left hand, awkwardly digging in her right pocket. She tapped the button to answer at the same time she saw the Caller ID.

Hannah.

“Emmy?” Her voice was hoarse with grief. “Why are all the police going to Clayville? Have they found them? Are the girls okay?”

Emmy could still remember the tiny sprig of hope that had withered inside the empty shed. She couldn’t do that to Hannah. “I-I don’t know. You need to wait until—”

“Stop lying to me!” Hannah yelled. “Emmy, please! Have they found them? Should I go there? Where are they?”

“Hannah, I’m not lying!” Emmy was yelling because Hannah was. “Just stay home. I promise you I’ll—”

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