“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Someone broke into the RV park’s office. And someone broke into Channelle’s motel room. And someone has a necklace that belonged to Channelle. So, if you wanted to talk to me about what you’re really doing in town, explain what’s been going on, help me understand—that’s great. And if not, well, I guess the sheriff will be by with a warrant.”
Woody opened the door. It hit the wall with a soft thud, and he planted one hand on it, pinning it there. He was bigger than I’d realized—or he seemed bigger in that moment, like he filled the doorway. When he stepped out onto the porch, I took a step back. My heel came down on thin air, and for a moment, I wobbled and almost fell. Woody moved forward again.
I told myself to stand my ground.
But he kept coming.
And I stepped back again.
I tried to take into account the step down. It wasn’t far, and I was moderately coordinated. (Ignore the sound of Keme laughing in the background.)
Then Woody shoved me. The movement wasn’t fast. It wasn’t sneaky. I tried to twist away, but the heel of his handstruck me just above the solar plexus, hard enough to send me stumbling backward into a fall.
I landed on my butt, and as my brain was still processing the jolt, Woody closed the gap between us. He planted one big boot on my chest and bore down—not quite a kick, but hard enough that the rubber treads bit into my skin through my hoodie. He forced me onto my back. The pressure of his boot on my chest increased until discomfort became pain. My ribs creaked. It was hard to draw a breath. I grabbed his ankle and tried to force his foot away, but it was like trying to uproot a tree with my bare hands. He didn’t even seem to be breathing hard. The pressure on my chest increased more. Black spots swung in my vision.
And then he lifted his foot.
I sucked in air. The black spots thickened as blood pounded in my ears. I tried to flop over, tried to squirm away, but Woody crouched next to me and grabbed me by the hair. My vision was still clearing when I realized he was holding something in front of me. His phone.
On the screen was a picture. A photo. It showed a staircase and a couple—a man and a woman. They were kissing. A bright red door showed in the background, and I recognized the Bay Bridge Suites. I recognized the people too. The woman was Channelle, of course. And the man was Foster—September’s live-in waste-of-space.
“I’m showing you this so you’ll leave me alone,” Woody said. He shook my head by the hair, and tears sprang into my eyes. His tone was so cool it was almost uninterested. “Threaten me again, and I’ll kill you.”
Chapter 14
After Woody went back inside, I picked myself up and, somehow, made it back to the Pilot.
For a while, I sat there, my chest aching, my scalp throbbing. Drive, I told myself. But I didn’t. I sat there with my eyes closed, breathing short, shallow breaths, my whole face hot. When I opened my eyes again, I gave myself a once over. A muddy boot print showed on my jacket and, where it had hung open, on my hoodie. Another patch of mud was drying on my cheek from when I’d tried to roll away from Woody. More mud on the back of my neck. A few pieces of straw-like grass in my hair. Red eyes. Well, pink really. I gave myself a few experimental pokes. I drew deep breaths. I didn’t think I had any broken ribs.
Part of me wanted to drive back to Hemlock House. Part of me wanted to take a hot bath and stay there until either: a) I dissolved, or b) Bobby came home and took care of me. (This was what Millie not-so-endearingly referred to as my “sadness baths”.) Part of me wanted to cry and feel sorry for myself and maybe—maybe!—see if I could talk Bobby into shooting Woody Vance.
But that was only part of me.
Another part of me was red hot. And that part of me kept seeing the photo of Foster at the Bay Bridge Suites, kissing Channelle outside her motel room.
I drove to the Gull’s Nest.
When I reached the RV park, it looked different from the last visit. Awnings had been rolled up and put away. Hammocks had been taken down. Tarps covered lawn furniture and grills. The wind raked my hair and pulled on my jacket; the tarps billowedlike parachutes, and the tie-downs snapped and thrummed. In the tiny, sad marina, the boats were battened down, bobbing anxiously in the water. Everywhere I looked, the park was hunkered down, waiting. It felt strangely apocalyptic. I wished I had a flame-thrower.
I stopped at a spigot outside the park office and washed my face. The water was freezing, and it had a faintly metallic odor. I decided to consider itbracing; that seemed like something Will Gower would say. I felt better once I’d washed off the mud and picked the grass out of my hair. I gave the park office a quick glance. Police tape warned me off, and a chain held the front door shut. I could see where the jamb had splintered when someone had forced it—just like at the Bay Bridge Suites. When I glanced in through the windows, the interior was dark, but I could make out the signs of a frenzied search: a drawer stood on end; papers made a ski trail across the floor; a lamp lay on the floor next to its shade, and it gave me the sensation that somebody had ripped its head off. I caught a glimpse of myself in the glass. Hair spikily wet, face washed out, collar damp. I looked like a million bucks that had gone through the laundry backward.
(I wasn’t surebackwardmade sense, but I liked it so much I kept it and decided I’d use it for Will Gower one day.)
A quick glance showed me that the office’s other doors—the garage door, and the back door—were also locked. I briefly considered trying my lock-picking skills, but then I decided against it. That wasn’t why I’d come here, and if I did want to commit some light breaking-and-entering, I’d come back later, after everyone was asleep. I couldn’t remember who, but I remembered someone telling me this place was like a fishbowl, and as I swept a gaze around me, at all the huddled RVs and campers, I couldn’t shake the feeling of eyes.
When I got to September’s pull-behind, a bag of trash lay next to the concrete pad, eviscerated and spilling its guts on the ground—empty bottles of Buffalo Trace and New Amsterdam, disposable vape pods, those little plastic tubs that dispensaries sold joints in, plus more depressing stuff like the flattened cardboard shells of takeout chicken wings. Raccoons, I wondered as I stepped around the garbage, or deputies?
Muddy footprints tracked across the concrete pad and up onto the camper’s single step. I followed them to the door. The piece of paper that had said COLLSON was gone now, along with whatever had been beneath it—what I suspected had been the eviction notice. Torn scraps of paper were still stuck to the fiberglass under the remaining tape. I listened, but this time, there wasn’t the muffled noise of a television. NoPrice is Right. The wind picked up, and wood creaked, and a few fat drops of water fell from heavy branches. It went right down the back of my jacket, and I shivered.
I knocked.
The sound rang out hollowly and then died away. It sounded like a long way off that I could hear the water lapping in the marina.
I knocked again.
Nothing.
