Page 6 of 44.1644° North
“That’s what I always say,” Hailey put in.
Rory was still thinking it over. He said finally, “Yeah, that makes a certain amount of sense. Especially choosing a misdemeanor over a DUI. I can see that.”
It was my turn for a little mockery. “You’retookind.”
Rory was attractive, no question, but something about him bothered me, and the more we chatted, the more bothered I was. True crime attracts a variety of people for a variety of reasons. I like to know who and what I’m dealing with, and the more we talked, the more I wondered what Rory was up to. If he was law enforcement, okay, but why not say so?
Not that law enforcement is welcome at such gatherings. One of the more disillusioning things internet sleuthing teaches you is how often law enforcement gets it wrong. No, worse, how often law enforcement just doesn’t bother. But police departments are like any other organization. There are a handful of high performers, a couple of employees coasting along and taking shortcuts, and a majority of people doing the best they can with the tools they’ve got. In this venue, a cop doing a little sightseeing would probably get a chilly reception.
So even as I was thinking I might like to sleep with him, I wasn’t sure I liked Rory much. In addition to his general evasiveness, there was a sharpness there, a hardness, which I associated with police and policing. Or maybe I had it totally wrong and he was an investment banker with an interest in true crime and a free weekend. Either way, my initial, instinctive interest had given way to wariness. I had good reason to be careful this weekend.
Rory’s eyes flickered at whatever he heard in my tone. But then he offered that spectacular smile. “Would you like another drink?”
“He’s barely touched the one he has.” Hailey too was suspicious of Rory. The message in her gaze waswatch this guy.
I offered a smile that probably matched his for both brightness and insincerity. “Thanks, no. I’m going to step outside and get some air.”
Rory assessed and corrected. His expression was rueful. “Right. Maybe I’ll run into you again this weekend?”
“Sure,” I said easily. “Maybe.”
Hailey raised her mug to me in a farewell salute before turning to Rory. “So, what do you do when you’re not listening to true-crime podcasts, Rory?”
I didn’t hear Rory’s reply. I suspected it wasn’t going to be the truth.
It took some doing to work my way through the loud and increasingly boisterous mob. This meet-and-great felt a lot more like a wake than a vigil. I can’t say it wasn’t what I expected because I’d had no idea what to expect. More people recognized me now than when I’d arrived two hours earlier, and I was stopped several times on my way to the front entrance.
That wasn’t a problem. I like hearing from my listeners, my fans. But this wasn’t like CrimeCon or the True Crime Podcast Festival. I’d been vlogging and podcasting about Deirdre O’Donnell for over three years, but this was the first time I’d felt the desire—feltcompelled—to attend the crash-site vigil.
Sure, I was on guard. I was viewing every person I met with a degree of caution, even wariness.
Because if I was right, one of the people in this noisy, crowded pub—maybe even someone I’d already spoken to this evening—had emailed me the coordinates to what was supposed to be Deirdre’s grave.
Which meant, there was a good chance Deirdre’s murderer was in this room.
Chapter Two
That first blast of fresh air felt like getting shoved into a freezer.
The cold night air stung my face and eyes, and I inhaled reflexively, dragging in oxygen that felt infused with needles. It was…refreshing. To say the least. Like getting smacked between the eyes with a snowball. Or an iceberg.
Two guys, smoking at the far end of the covered porch, laughed at my instinctive recoil. The taller, a skinny twentysomething with a pale, pointy face beneath a black toque, called, “Welcome to New Hampshire.”
“Thanks. It’s a long way from California, that’s for sure.” I zipped up my jacket, stamped my boots on the wooden planks, trying to get my circulation going. “Wow. This is…brisk.”
The other guy, shorter, stouter, and sporting an unfortunate mustache-beard-sideburns combo, peered through the jaundice-hued gloom. “California?”
They exchanged glances.
“Skylar fromUgly Town?”
“Guilty.”
We shook hands—which, since we all wore gloves, was more like patty-cake patty-cake—and the taller one said, “Blake Kay.Disappearing Deirdre. This is Tony Mezzasalma.”
“Oh hey. Nice to meet you.” I knew them. Orofthem. These were the two doofuses who’d produced a documentary on Deirdre which basically consisted of visiting a string of strip joints in Montreal for…reasons? They were adherents to the theory that Deirdre had run away to Canada for motives as sordid as they were unlikely.
“Oh man, this should be good.” In the yellow porchlight, Tony’s smile resembled that of a friendly zombie. “People are taking bets whether you’d show.”
