“I didn’t think of it until this morning,” I replied, glancing pointedly at the reception desk with its clearly-listeningoccupant, then over in the direction of the annoyed deputy who had escorted Hart out here. “But the animals are up at the house. Goats, chickens. And they probably didn’t get fed yesterday, because that’s where…” I paused, swallowed, allowing my genuine stress to come through in my voice. “Where Elliot was going… So Ihaveto feed them today.”
Hart stared at me, either trying to decide if I’d lost my mind from grief or if there was something else going on. I wasn’t sure what he decided, but he let out a heavy sigh.
He turned back to the deputy. “I’ll be back to finish our… conversation,” he said, his voice cold. “But, given the general incompetence with which you’re handling this case, I expect it hasn’t even occurred to you that it’s likely connected to the Mays murder, has it?”
The deputy made a small noise, although it wasn’t clear if he was reacting to being eviscerated by Hart or suppressing outrage. One advantage of being a federal agent, I assumed, was the fact that as much as local LEOs might hate you, they still had to follow orders when they came from the federal government. Well, they had to pretend to. At least in public.
“I’m going to examine the scene,” Hart growled out. “And decide whether or not I feel the need to claim federal jurisdiction. You got me, Deputy Grange?”
The deputy nodded, his face twisted with anger or hatred or both.
“Great.” Hart turned to me. “I assume you know the way?”
I nodded quickly.
“Then let’s go.”
Hart closedhis car door and started the car, not bothering to wait for me to buckle my seat belt.
“You’d better have a good fucking reason why I’m driving you to feed some goddamn chickens instead of getting access to that fucking car,” he said.
“Elliot’s alive,” I blurted.
Hart turned to stare at me. “What?”
“He called,” I told him. “From the Hills’ farm. But he said it was someone from the Sheriff’s department who ran him off the road, so I wasn’t supposed to say anything in front of them.”
Hart let out a long, shaky breath. “Jesus fuck. Thank fucking God.” He rested both hands on the wheel. “Fuck. Okay. He’s okay?”
“I think so,” I answered. “He said he was a little bruised.”
“So he’s going to look like fucking hell,” Hart replied, his tone simultaneously bitter and affectionate.
“As long as he’s alive, I don’t care,” I replied, my voice cracking a little.
“Deep breath, Mays,” Hart told me, then put his Charger in gear and backed out of the parking space.
I obeyed, sucking in a long breath, letting it out, then taking another, the low rumble of the Charger’s engine and the patter of rain on the roof helping to slow my racing pulse.
Until Hart grumbled, “That fucker is following us, isn’t he?” half under his breath.
“What?” I turned in my seat, trying to spot the culprit. There was a green minivan behind us, a police cruiser behind that, and a burgundy sedan behind that.
“Fucking Grange,” Hart muttered. That was the name he’d used in the station, too. “Shithead is following us, and not being subtle about it, either.”
“Why?” I asked.
“Because he’s unfortunately not as fucking stupid as he looks,” Hart answered. “And he’s making sure we’re going where we said we were.” He sighed. “I don’t suppose this farm is anywhere near the murder site?”
“The Hills are our—my parents’—neighbors.” I swallowed, horrified that I’d fallen back into the very, very old habit of thinking of my parents’ house ashome. Because it really, really wasn’t. My stomach churned.
“And they’re trustworthy? Or are they in the same fucking cult your family is?”
“No, they’re not Community members,” I answered, trying not to keep checking the rear-view as Hart drove back toward Staunton proper.
“Are we stopping at the hotel?” he asked.
“I don’t need to.”
