Chapter Seven

CHAPTER SEVEN

Beam, sweating in his suit, spread his map on the hood of the Cutlass again, making marks with a ballpoint pen. The young, blond, uniformed cop crossed to the other side of Atticus Line, scanning the other shoulder. Eddie stood with his hands in his jeans pockets, staring down the empty road, lost in thought. I kept picturing Rhonda Jean in that oversize coat, holding it closed over the blood covering her body. I left the road and started walking into the trees.

“Mrs. Carter,” I heard Quentin call behind me. Then I heard footsteps jogging through the grass, and Officer Syed was walking next to me.

“Best not to piss him off,” he said in a low voice, though we were too far away for Quentin to hear.

“I don’t know if this is the right place,” I said, frustrated. “There are no landmarks on this stupid road, no lights. It was dark. There’s no sign Rhonda Jean was even here. How does a girl get stabbed and start walking and not leave any trace behind?”

“There isn’t much traffic on this road,” Syed said. “To be honest, most people avoid it.”

“No kidding. Why?”

He shrugged. He must be hot in that uniform, but except for a small trickle of sweat on one temple, he showed no sign of it. “Rumors.”

I stopped walking. We were in the trees now, the heat breathing the smell of pine on us, mosquitoes flitting in the shadows. The others were out of sight and earshot, Quentin trusting that Syed would bring me back. “Not rumors,” I said, facing Syed. “Other murders. Am I right?”

He scratched the back of his neck, looking behind him before answering. “We get hitchhikers on this road.”

“Right. And why does this part of Michigan get so many hitchhikers?”

“Up that way, past the turnoff to town, is Hunter Beach,” Syed said, pointing down the road in the direction we’d gone last night. “It’s over an hour down the road, but it’s there.”

“What’s Hunter Beach?”

He mopped the sweat beading on his forehead beneath his cap. “It’s a place where the kids go. It’s kind of a known spot, where they can camp on the beach, stay as long as they like. There’s an old house that’s used as a hostel, places to pitch tents. It draws hitchhikers and backpackers, that sort of crowd.”

“You let them camp on the beach?” I asked.

“It’s private property. The man who owns it doesn’t live there, and he lets anyone use it. He’s owned it since the sixties, and he owns a good section of the beach, so no one can really complain. We’ve talked to him a dozen times over the years, but he always says that he believes the kids should be free to use the beach however they want. You can see why they like to go there.”

I started walking again, looking for something—I didn’t know what. “So Rhonda Jean was trying to get to Hunter Beach.”

“Probably. She wasn’t a local girl. Her ID was from Baltimore.”

“How old was she?”

“Eighteen.”

I pressed my fingertips to my eye sockets behind my sunglasses. Eighteen. “How many others have died around here? That’s why we’re suspects, right?”

Officer Syed seemed to remember where we were, who we were. “Mrs. Carter, I’m supposed to ask you the questions, not the other way around.”

“Sure,” I said. I slapped a mosquito from my arm and changed direction to come out of the trees and onto the road.

“Mrs. Carter,” Officer Syed said as he followed me, “I have to be honest. Even though this is a murder, you seem to be pretty casual about it.”

I could see the two detectives on Atticus Line, as well as the blond policeman. Eddie was talking to Detective Beam, pointing in one direction, then the other. As I watched, Quentin lowered to a crouch on the shoulder of the road, looking at something on the ground.

“I’m the opposite of casual,” I told Officer Syed. “Very much the opposite. What should I do, according to you? Scream and cry?”

“Maybe.” He didn’t seem very convinced.

“I don’t have time for that.” The heat hit me as I walked onto the baking road. A few far-off birds called, but other than that, Atticus Line was silent. “I haven’t seen a single car since we came here.”

“I told you, there isn’t much traffic. Mrs. Carter—”

“Do you think she came all the way from Baltimore just to go to Hunter Beach?” I stared down the road in the pulsing heat, thinking about Rhonda Jean in her oversize coat, the freckles on the bridge of her nose.

“Who knows?” Officer Syed sounded exasperated. “Hunter Beach has been around for decades. It’s one of the places these kids today, these backpackers, would know about.”

Eddie and Detective Beam were having an animated discussion. Beam held the map, folded into a half-manageable shape, and Eddie was pointing as he talked. Beam shook his head.

Detective Quentin stood a few feet away from them, not taking part in the discussion. He was standing still, seemingly unbothered by the heat beating down on him. His gaze was fixed on me.

Officer Syed followed my gaze. “We should go join them, or I’ll be in trouble,” he said.

“Sure,” I said. It’s so hot out, I thought. Why was Rhonda Jean wearing that jacket? And why didn’t she have any luggage?

And suddenly, I was cold. The summer heat evaporated and a chill blasted through me, so real and so heavy I let out a surprised breath. It felt like a bubble of icy air had ripped straight through my body, freezing my throat. As the July sun beat mercilessly above me, I shivered hard.

Officer Syed didn’t seem to notice. He was walking away, wiping his forehead again.

The cold dissipated, and then I was dizzy. My stomach roiled and my head ached as if I had the flu. I blinked and bent, putting my hands on my knees and trying not to throw up as the feeling passed.

Sweat popped on my skin, coating my face and making my sunglasses slide down my nose. I could feel Detective Quentin still looking at me. Maybe they were all looking at me now.

Before I straightened, my gaze caught on something next to my feet. A corner of faded pink visible from under the dirt and dead leaves on the side of the road. Getting myself together, I leaned down and tugged at it.

It was a cloth flower. It was old and weathered, the cheap silk faded and dirty. The plastic stem was snapped, as if the flower had been part of a bouquet at some point. The rest of the bouquet was long gone.

Attached to the flower was a small card with faded writing on it, the letters inked in calligraphy. Through the dirt, I could still read the words.

In memory of Katharine O’Connor. March 2, 1993.