After a heartbeat, I realized that was kind of a question. Face heating, I said, “I don’t think you will.”
The sheriff made an unhappy sound. “We didn’t see any shredded paperwork in the dumpster, but we’ll keep looking. Meanwhile, I’m going to call the station and have them release Keme. I want Bobby to take him home, and I want you to keep him there tonight. Understand?”
Several long seconds passed before I said, “Wait, for real?”
“Yes, Dash, for real. There’s a legitimate explanation for how his clothing came to be at that scene—JT kept the belongings of any evicted tenants in his garage. Keme’s clothes were literally at the scene of the crime. Add to that, the fact that he was at the station while the RV park’s office was being broken into and Channelle Haskins was killed, and I think there’s enough doubt about his role in events that I—and the district attorney—don’t feel comfortable charging him at this point.” Her voice softened. “He’s not doing well, Dash.”
I caught that mention of the break-in at the RV park, but my throat was too tight to speak, so I only nodded.
“Let me know if you need anything,” the sheriff said.
It sounded like a dismissal, so before she could step away, I managed to ask, “How did she die?”
The sheriff glanced back. Blue and red light chased the shadows across her face, and I thought she wouldn’t answer. Then she said, “It looks like she was hit by a car.”
A moment later, Bobby’s hand was on my shoulder, and he said, “Let’s go.”
We split up and went our separate ways: I drove Indira back to Hemlock House in the Pilot, and Bobby went back to the station in his cruiser. I wasn’t sure how Indira had gotten out to the Bay Bridge Suites without a car, but I had a sneaking suspicion it involved a particularly plangent fortysomething who referred to their bathrobe as their “dressing gown.” On the drive, Indira was quiet. In the night’s weak, ambient light, she looked tired, and she kept reaching up to check her hair. When we passed through the woods of Sitka spruce and fir and pine, and the perfume of balsam and rich duff filtered into the SUV, there was only the light of the dash to illuminate us, and I had the strangest sensation that we were both ghosts.
When we got home, Hemlock House sat on the bluffs, its windows warm and glowing. You might expect a Class V haunted mansion perched up on the sea cliffs to look, well, spooky. And yes, the Last Picks and I had gone all out with the Halloween décor—Millie was an absolute fiend for spider webs, as I’d discovered last year, and Keme, in a rare moment of weakness, had come close to begging for the giant skeleton in the front yard. That memory—of the surly teenage boy reluctantly explaining why wehadto have the giant skeleton, while I tried not to goggle at him and Bobby gave me stern looks—seemed like it had happened a lifetime ago. My eyes stung, and I took deep breaths and shoved away the image of the rage-filled stranger from the sheriff’s station.
I dropped Indira off at the front door, and as she went in, I parked the Pilot in the coach house. When I got inside, I found everyone waiting in the hall.
And everyone, in this case, included Louis.
He was standing with his arm around Millie, one foot raised, his sneaker planted on a priceless Victorian, uh, commode (I hate calling it that—it’s just a chest of drawers). He wore ripped jeans, a flannel over a T-shirt that had a logo I didn’t recognize,a gold curb chain, a backward baseball cap, and hands down themostsparkliest earrings I’d ever seen on anyone outside a drag bar. (Or honestly inside a drag bar.) He was shushing Millie, who was sobbing uncontrollably, by saying with what sounded like forced understanding, “Not so loud, babe.”
Fox stood a few feet away. They were dressed in what I could only describe as “Robin Hood for Her”—a cowled green tunic, some sort of leather vest-and-gloves combo that suggested archery, floral tights, and (vegan) snakeskin boots with little dragons on the tips of their curled toes. In that particular moment, Fox looked like they were wishing some enterprising, uh, Saxon (is that right?) would run Louis through with a broadsword. Indira’s expression wasn’t far off—she was staring at Louis like she was about to reach for her deboning knife.
Louis switched to the saccharine voice a lot of people use with upset children. “You want to go wash your face, honey? Why don’t you go calm down and then clean yourself up? You don’t want Jordan and Erik to see you all blotchy, right?”
Fox’s eyes didn’tactuallyflash red, but I wouldn’t have been surprised to see one of those little dragons perched on the toes of their boots give an angry puff.
Before anything could happen, though, Millie caught sight of me and said, “DASH!”
“Babe,” Louis said, “my ear—”
“IS HE OKAY? IS KEME OKAY? WHAT DID HE LOOK LIKE? WHAT DID HE SAY? IS HE REALLY COMING HOME?”
By some miracle, the sonic buffeting hadn’t knocked me tail-over-teakettle, but it did take me a moment to descramble my brain. I decided to answer the safest questions first. “He’s okay. And yes, he’s coming home. Bobby should be back with him in a few minutes.”
“That’s too bad,” Louis said, “because we’ve got this party—”
“He’ll be hungry,” Indira said. “Millie, why don’t you help me in the kitchen?”
Louis opened his mouth to say something, but apparently he hadsomebrains, because he stopped himself. That was probably because Indira has this way of saying things, and you can’t argue with her. Like, she tells you that it’s time to wash all the pillowcases, and four hours later, you’re still unzipping pillows. Or one time, we’d been walking downtown, and this tourist in a ridiculously oversized pickup kept revving his engine and trying to inch forward (in spite of the foot traffic), and Indira looked at him and said,Stop.
And he turned. his engine. off.
Anyway, Louis looked like he was still experiencing some of that when Indira took Millie by the shoulders and steered her toward the kitchen.
As they left, Fox leaned over to me and whispered, “You’re on your own. If that young man talks over me one more time, I’m not responsible for my actions.” Then, in a louder voice—with a feigned casualness clearly meant for Louis’s benefit—Fox added, “Well, I must get back to my etchings—”
I grabbed their arm. “No, you mustn’t.”
Fox bared their teeth at me in what was definitelynota smile.
“You do etchings?” Louis asked Fox. I mean, Louis was technically looking at his phone—probably typing a message to Jace or Chad or some equally obnoxious-sounding guy—but the question was clearly meant for Fox. Before Fox could answer, though, Louis continued, “That’s dope, dude. You know what you should do? You should do them on the boardwalk. You know those really funny ones where they make you have a big head and you’re driving a race car?”
