22. Ridley

22

RIDLEY

An hour of walking the streets of Shady Cove hadn’t lessened my anger, not one single bit. Normally I was good at keeping my cool. Good at not letting people rattle me. I’d come across assholes of every variety in the last four years. Everything from harmless to murderous. None of them had rattled me the way Colt had. Not a single one.

I didn’t want to think about what that could mean.

Or what my storming out of Cowboy Coffee could’ve told the world about how bothered I was by Colt’s presence. But there was nothing I could do about that except practice my meditation breathing as I finally headed in the direction of the Shady Cove library.

“Ridley!”

The shout didn’t have Colt’s signature rasp, so I turned. Dean jogged down the block, his dark hair flying. He was clad in black again, and I could see he’d painted his fingernails a dark purple since the last time I’d seen him.

“Geez, you walk fast,” he muttered as he reached me.

That was what happened when someone tripped your fuse. But I didn’t share that tidbit with my teenage superfan. “Hey, Dean.”

“Are you on your way to an interview?” he asked hopefully.

I shook my head. “Library actually. I wanted to pull some yearbooks.”

“They don’t have the yearbooks at the public library.”

My shoulders slumped. “Great,” I mumbled.

Dean just grinned. “They have them at the high school. Only students and faculty have access. But I could get you in.”

Even with the frustrations of the past twenty-four hours, I laughed. “I admire your determination.”

That grin just widened, making his lip ring glint in the morning sunshine. “I think it’ll make me a pretty damn good podcaster when the time comes, don’t you?”

“I do. Lead on, future true-crime king.”

The walk to Shady Cove High School only took us about fifteen minutes. A fifteen minutes where Dean peppered me with every podcasting question under the sun. But they were good ones, not the basic stuff any Google search could give you the answers to, so I didn’t mind.

When we reached the parking lot, I took in the dozen or so vehicles. “The school stays open during the summer?”

Dean nodded. “Summer school for the delinquents.”

“And you’re obviously not one of them.”

He opened one of the double doors to the school and held it for me. “Naw. My parents are pretty cool, but they would not be chill with me getting anything below a B-minus.”

“Seems like a good trade for cool parents,” I said, stepping inside.

“Yeah. And I don’t mind most of my classes.”

The moment the door shut, I was taken back in time. There was a lot that felt universal when it came to high school—the school spirit posters, the notices littering a bulletin board, the artwork of various students covering the walls.

The memory hit me like a physical blow. Suddenly I wasn’t looking at the maroon lockers in front of me. I was cast back in time to a navy-blue one.

I put the finishing touch on by gluing a pom-pom to Avery’s wrapping-paper-covered locker. I’d had to special order the lacrosse-themed wrapping paper but had shared it with the rest of our friends who were decorating the team’s lockers. For Avery, I had gone over and above.

It looked like silver and light-blue glitter had thrown up on Avery’s locker. I’d done her number, seventy-eight, in the sparkly stuff and even drawn lacrosse sticks to the best of my ability. In her locker were cupcakes and brownies with more lacrosse paraphernalia as decorations.

“Ridley Sawyer Bennett, what did you do?” Amusement laced Avery’s voice from behind me, and I spun.

“You weren’t supposed to be here for another hour,” I groused.

She just grinned at me. “You know I always need to get to school early on game days.”

“Well, TA-DA!” I made a sort of Vanna White gesture at her decorated locker.

Avery moved in closer, taking in each and every detail, her eyes taking on a shiny quality. “Rids, I can’t believe you did this.”

“It’s not every day my badass twin leads her team to the state championship.”

She glanced at me as she ran a finger over one of the pom-poms. “But usually it’s just the football team that gets this sort of treatment.”

“Screw that,” I huffed. “They’re like one and five this year. If anyone deserves locker decorating, it’s you guys. There are some treats in your locker, and I have the rest of the girls covered too. I thought it would be nice ? —”

My words were cut off as Avery tackle-hugged me, squeezing me so hard I could barely breathe. “I’m so lucky you’re my sister.”

“Love you, Avs.”

“Love you, Rids.”

“Ridley?” Dean’s voice cut through the memory, bringing me back to the here and now.

“Sorry,” I croaked. “Just going back to my glory days.”

He chuckled. “Well, if you’re done reliving those, the library’s this way.”

I followed him down the hall toward two doors that were propped open. In my research on the town, I’d found that while the population within city limits was small, their school system served a much larger population. So it wasn’t surprising that the library was impressive.

From the entryway, I could see rows and rows of shelves along with corridors that I assumed led to even more books. “Whoa,” I muttered.

“Yeah, it’s pretty massive,” Dean agreed.

“Mr. Mather,” a voice greeted. “To what do I owe the pleasure of your presence during your summer break?”

I glanced at the woman, who looked to be in her midfifties. She was dressed on the formal side, wearing a linen skirt and a white blouse with a decorative necklace.

“Hey, Ms. Perkins. I’m here to check out some yearbooks.”

The librarian’s gaze cut to me. “And you are?”

I extended a hand. “Ridley Sawyer.”

Her eyes flared. “The podcaster?”

I nodded and waited. I couldn’t read her feelings about me in that initial greeting, but she didn’t make me wait long.

Her face broke out into a big smile. “I love your show. I listen every week.”

Relief swept through me. “Thank you. That means a lot.”

“Let me know how I can help. Dean knows where the yearbooks are, but you might also take a peek at the school papers from back then if you’re looking for background. They aren’t available to the public.”

That relief transformed into a bubble of excitement. “That would be great. Were you the librarian then?”

Ms. Perkins nodded, her excitement fading. “A horrible time. Emerson was such a hard worker. National Honor Society, varsity tennis even when she was a freshman, but more than that, she was incredibly kind.”

I could feel the sorrow in her words. “Would you be willing to sit down for an interview later this week?”

The librarian’s jaw went slack. “Me?”

I nodded. “It’s helpful to get to know the victim through the people who saw her day in and day out. Get a feel for Shady Cove at that time.”

“I don’t know,” Ms. Perkins began.

“Run it by Emerson if you’d like. She’s been supportive of the coverage so far.” I just hoped that continued.

“I’ll think about it.”

“Thanks. Here’s my card so you can get in touch and let me know.” I fished a business card out of my pocket and handed it to her.

Ms. Perkins just stared down at it for a long moment. “I hope you find the bastard.”

“Me too,” I whispered, leaving Ms. Perkins to her memories.

“They’re over here,” Dean said, leading me to a shelving unit in the corner.

“Thanks. I think we want the years Emerson was enrolled and then maybe two on either side.” I crouched, scanning the years on the spines. Bingo. I grabbed the yearbook from exactly ten years ago.

That buzz of possibility was back. I didn’t want to wait to get to a table or my van. I opened it right there, flipping through the pages. There was the usual fare, class pictures and individual portraits, team shots and clubs. Emerson’s face shone up at me what felt like every few pages, she was so involved. Sophomore class government, tennis team, student council, school paper.

Then I reached the events section. The two-page spread on Community Service Day had Emerson grinning at the camera while wearing one of those horrid neon vests and holding a trash bag. There was so much life in her expression, so much openness and trust.

I flipped the page and found another too-common staple of a high school yearbook. In Loving Memory of Jason Kipp . There were a few candids and a shot of him playing baseball.

“What happened to him?” I asked, that journalistic urge never too far.

“It was super sad. He got high at an overlook outside of town and fell off the cliff,” Dean said quietly.

My stomach twisted. The poor kid and his family. None of us made the best choices as teenagers, but some paid way too high a price.

I flipped the page again and was greeted by Emerson’s smiling face again as she held up a trophy. The caption read, Sinclair Leads Team to District Finals . As I studied the shot, I picked out the two girls Grady had mentioned. Everyone else was smiling but they were looking at Emerson with envy, the curve of their mouths forced.

I made note of their names, Tara Gibson and Anna Swanson. “Do either of these two still live in Shady Cove?” I asked, pointing to the brunette and the blond.

Dean frowned at the picture, then pointed to Tara. “She does. I don’t think the other one does. At least I don’t recognize her.”

It was worth me trying to hunt down both. It wasn’t that I thought they were involved in Emerson’s attack, but if there was jealousy fueling both of them, they likely paid more attention to her than others.

Scanning the rest of the shots, Emerson really did take center stage. There was one of her, expression serious as she served. Another of her getting instructed by a coach I didn’t recognize. Or it might’ve been another student. “Do you know who this is?”

Dean shook his head and sent me a sheepish smile. “Sorry. Not much of an assistant, am I?”

I chuckled. “You got me the yearbooks, didn’t you?”

“Damn straight I did.”

I flipped the book closed, glancing at the stack Dean had assembled for me. There were six in total, just like I’d instructed. “You really are an excellent student.”

He grinned, a slightly cocky yet adorable bent to it this time. “Gotta learn from the master if I’m going to start my own podcast in the fall.”

I lifted a brow as I pushed to my feet. “Your own, huh?”

Dean nodded, his dark locks slipping over his eyes with the action. “Gonna call it Mayhem and Murder .”

I chuckled. “It certainly has a ring to it.”

“I thought so.” He looked at the stack in my arms. “I think Ms. Perkins will let me check these out. Lemme ask.”

“Thanks,” I said as he hurried over to the librarian’s office. Dean was coming through in all sorts of ways.

I was getting twitchy to get back to my campsite so I could really dive into the yearbooks. I wanted to make a list of everyone Emerson was in photos with. And a list of those she was in clubs or on teams with. I’d love to get a list of everyone who had classes with her, but getting that sort of information would be a stretch. Maybe if I befriended one of her classmates, they’d be able to remember.

“All good,” Dean called as he headed out of the librarian’s office.

“Thank you. How long do I have?” I asked.

“Two weeks.”

That would be no problem. I’d be done in a matter of days.

Dean sent me a sidelong look. “So what’s next?”

“Now, I head home and dive into research.”

His shoulders slumped. “Sounds boring.”

I laughed as we headed out into the sunshine and back toward Cowboy Coffee and my waiting bike. “I hate to break it to you, but there’s a lot about this gig that’s boring.”

“Why is that always the way?”

“It’s all worth it when you get a breakthrough. There’s no high like that.”

“Shit,” Dean muttered. “I want that.”

I glanced over at him. “You have a case you want to cover for your first podcast episode?”

“There’s a few I’ve been circling. Not sure which one would be best,” he admitted.

I nodded. “Choosing is hard. And it can paralyze you. At some point you just have to jump.”

Dean toyed with his lip ring as he mulled that over. “That makes sense.” But he didn’t sound completely convinced.

“I’ll tell you what: you record that first episode this summer, and I’ll take a listen whenever you’re done. Give you notes.”

Dean’s eyes widened. “Seriously?”

“Yup. But you gotta jump.”

He grinned, looking more like an excited little boy than an emo teen. “That’s sick. Thanks, Ridley.” And then he took off at a jog in the opposite direction.

I couldn’t help but laugh. Sometimes a little purpose was all we needed.

When I reached my bike, I loaded the yearbooks and my bag into the basket and headed back toward my campsite. The ride felt longer than it actually was because I was so anxious to get to work. But I made a plan as I navigated the dirt road. I’d make myself lunch and work outside at the picnic table. The weather was perfect, warm but not too hot.

Finally, my van came into view. I was getting used to this spot, with the incredible views and other sites not too close. It really was perfect.

Slowing my bike, I hopped off and turned the electric component off. But as I went to pull the items out of my basket, a silver container on my picnic table caught my attention. My skin prickled as I scanned my surroundings. No sign of a single soul. Crossing to the table, I saw a piece of paper taped to it. Scrawled in half-legible letters, it read, Open me .

I took a step back warily, eyeing the massive container and wondering if someone could fit a dead body inside. Taking a deep breath, I unlatched the container and flipped up the top. But there wasn’t anything quite so morbid as my imagination suggested inside the bear-proof container. Instead, I saw a large wicker basket.

Reaching in, I tried to lift it. It took some doing because the sucker was heavy, but I managed to hoist it out and set it on the picnic table. When I set it down, I surveyed it as if the basket could be a bomb.

It was huge and fancy, not likely the sort of thing a bomber would waste money on. I caught sight of a tag tied to one of the handles with a piece of ribbon.

Chaos,

I’m so sorry for being an even bigger ass. It seems I can’t help myself. But I’ll work on it.

—Law Man

The use of the nicknames had me simultaneously scowling and warming. Damn him. I didn’t need to be softening toward the douche.

I flipped up one side of the picnic basket. Another note lay inside.

Mira at The Hitching Post said you were into the healthy, organic stuff. Sounds awful but here you go.

I couldn’t help but laugh at that and began pulling items out. There were some ice packs around the outside, keeping things cool, but even with those, I knew he’d gone overboard. There was an array of prepared foods, everything from grain salads to veggie medleys to stir-frys. There were four different kinds of cheese, high-end whole-grain crackers, and a variety of dried meats. There was even some local honey and jam and a loaf of fresh bread.

And when I’d gotten every food item out of the basket, I felt something else at the bottom. At first I thought it was another ice pack, but as I tugged it free, I realized that wasn’t the case.

The file was protected by a Ziploc bag, and there was a note inside.

Don’t make me regret giving this to you.

My heart beat faster, and I opened the bag and pulled out the file. Flipping it open, I saw Emerson’s name at the top. I recognized the pages I’d been given previously, only this time there were no blacked-out sections. It was a completely unredacted copy of the case file.

That hum of excitement and possibility was back, but stronger than anything I’d felt before. I laid the file on the table and quickly began gathering up the food. I’d get everything stored and then get to work because I had new ground to cover.

It didn’t take me long to get settled at the picnic table with one of the grain salads and a small cheese plate. Tater lounged in the sun on the top of the table as I ate and read. The interview transcripts were the most interesting. I didn’t disagree with Grady that Coach Kerr had a bit of a creep vibe. Even though his alibi had checked out, I was going to look harder at him. Nothing so far had suggested partners committing these crimes, but I couldn’t know for sure.

But when I reached the end of the pages, I sighed. I felt the weight of frustration Colt must have. There wasn’t a clear-cut answer. And no one pinged my radar in the way a true suspect usually did.

Tater let out a meow, bringing me back to the present. I looked up and shivered. I’d been so caught up in the file that I hadn’t realized how much time had passed. At some point the solar lantern decorating my picnic table had turned on because the sun had completely disappeared.

“Sorry, Princess Tater, I know it’s past your dinnertime.”

She squawked back at me as if to say, Damn straight .

I pulled the last of my papers together and closed the file. Gathering up my food remnants, I crossed to the van and slid open the door. The trash inside was almost full, so I pulled the liner and tugged it closed.

“Want to make a trash run with me?” I asked Tater.

She meowed in response and bounded after me.

The campsite had a few bear-proof receptacles for trash and recycling about a hundred yards from my site. It was a hell of a lot better than having to take my trash into town.

Tater and I made the trek quickly even in the dark. The full moon gave us enough light to illuminate our path. When we reached the cans, I quickly unlocked one and placed the bag inside, moving to relock it.

Tater let out an angry meow, and I turned, but it was too late. Someone grabbed me by my hair and jerked me back. Shock hit my system, panic quick on its heels as a hand closed around my throat, cutting off my air supply.

I thrashed and kicked, trying to get at my attacker, but nothing seemed to land. They just squeezed my throat harder as they leveled a brutal blow to my ribs. Spots danced in front of my vision as darkness closed in.

A deep voice cut through my gurgled attempts to scream. “Go home, or I won’t let you off this easy next time.”