The Killer You Know

by Kimberly Van Meter

  And maybe it was his guilt but Silas felt his father’s condemnation in every shuttered expression, every word not said.

  Silas and his father had never recovered.

  Sawyer’s voice cut through his memories.

  Sawyer had found him crying alone at his favorite hideout, a tree deep in the woods behind their house.

  Maybe Silas had planned to run away.

  Maybe he just wanted someone to notice that he was gone, that he was dying inside but didn’t dare share that pain because it was too damn selfish and even he knew it.

  Sawyer didn’t rip into him as Silas expected.

  Instead, he climbed into the tree to perch beside him, their feet dangling.

  “You got a plan?” he asked.

  Sniffling, Silas shook his head.

  “You always gotta have a plan, Silas.”

  It was sound advice.

  “Do you hate me, too?” he choked out, miserable.

  “Why would I hate you?”

  He could barely get the words out. “Because it’s my f-fault Spencer is g-gone.”

  “Don’t be stupid, Silas. It’s not your fault. It’s—” he exhaled a deep breath “—it’s just dumb bad luck. Spencer was at the wrong place at the right time. That’s it. You had nothing to do with it.”

  “I should’ve stayed with h-him.”

  “True. But you didn’t. How many times have me or Shaine shined you like you shined Spence? It’s a brother thing. It’s not your fault, do you hear me?”

  Silas squeezed his eyes shut, his heart caving in but he jerked a short nod.

  “C’mon, you’re going to freeze out here.” Sawyer jumped down and Silas followed.

  Then Sawyer pulled him into his arms for a rough but tight embrace—something Sawyer had never done.

  “I won’t lose another brother,” Sawyer said roughly against Silas’s damp crown. “So stop being an idiot and come home. It’s not safe anymore.”

  And that was the damn truth.

  Nothing felt safe anymore.

  Especially not the sleepy little town where nothing bad had ever happened.

  Until now.

  Silas roused himself from that long-ago moment, shaking off the pull of those awful memories, and wiped at his nose.

  It didn’t matter that everyone else thought Rhia’s case was unrelated to Spencer’s.

  Silas knew in his gut they were connected.

  And nothing was going to stop him from finding out how.

  * * *

  Quinn knew she couldn’t approach Britain on school grounds, so to kill time before school let out, she tried doing a little more research into Sara Westfall, which meant talking to her editor.

  Popping into the office, she spent about a half hour tying in a rough outline of the story she was planning to release about Rhia’s pregnancy, leaving some gaps that hopefully Britain would be able to fill in, and then found her editor, Mick.

  “I told you I would deliver,” she said, leaning against the doorjamb with a triumphant smile. “I have a juicy lead that no one else has.”

  Mick eyed her with interest. “Yeah? Such as?”

  “And spoil the surprise?”

  Mick gestured impatiently. “Out with it.”

  “Fine. Rhia was six weeks pregnant.”

  “That’s interesting,” Mick agreed, steepling his fingers for a moment. “Who’s the father?”

  “Don’t know yet. But I’m working on it.”

  “Murdered Teen Girl Pregnant.” Mick nodded. “I like it. Catchy.”

  “Maybe the father is our killer.”

  Mick shrugged. “Possibly. What else you got?”

  “Well, I have some leads to chase down but I’ll have something filed by tonight. I’ll email you the story but it might be late so watch for it.”

  “How’d you get this information?”

  Quinn scoffed. “As if I would reveal my sources. Trust me when I say it’s legit.”

  “It better be. I don’t need a lawsuit slapped on our ass because you were sloppy with your sources.”

  “That’s offensive,” Quinn grumbled but took the point. “I will be thorough.”

  “Good.”

  But now that she’d shared a tasty tidbit for him to gnaw on, she needed to ask about Sara.

  “Do you remember a reporter named Sara Westfall? She wrote the story on the Kelly boy’s murder.”

  Mick shifted his gaze. “Vaguely. Why?”

  “I heard she had a personal blog. I’m trying to find a copy of it.”

  “It wasn’t written here,” he said gruffly, as though putting an end to the conversation, but Quinn wasn’t ready to let it go.

  “Yes, I’m aware of that. I also heard that she died about six months after the story broke about Spencer’s murder.”

  “Ever since that FBI agent started poking around you’re seeing conspiracies everywhere. Look, it was tragic but Sara had her own demons. I’m not one to speak ill of the dead, but let’s just say Sara liked her nightcaps and leave it at that.”

  “She was drunk driving? If that’s the case, there was a report made.”

  “Hold on there., Where are you going with this?”

  “I’m not sure. I just feel there’s something to the fact that Sara had a blog where she posted her theories on Spencer’s death and then she died about six months later. Seems suspect.”

  Mick heaved an agitated breath. “Stick to what you know. Sara is long gone. The story for today is about Rhia Daniels. Spend your energy there, not chasing after ghosts.”

  Was Mick deliberately shutting her down for a reason or was his reporter’s nose so dulled from being behind a desk for so long that he couldn’t tell a fresh scent when it was waved beneath him?

  Either way Mick wasn’t in the mood to continue sharing.

  And no one else had been around when Sara worked for the paper.

  Except... Ruth, the ages-old woman in billing. Quinn called her the Crypt Keeper—in her mind, not to her face, of course—because the woman was practically a fossil, and a little bit scary.

  She also hung out in the oldest part of the building, which by its very nature gave Quinn the creeps.

  Drawing a deep breath, Quinn grabbed a pocket notebook and headed to the billing department.

  A small-town newspaper only needed a skeleton crew to handle the billing, and Ruth was a one-woman army. She knew too much to replace and the company was content to just let her do her thing until she croaked at her desk.

  Harsh truth, but accurate.

  Forcing an engaging smile, she entered Ruth’s domain and found her behind her desk, her glasses perched on her nose like an old, disapproving matriarch from the 1800s.

  “Hi, Ruth, how are you?” she asked.

  “What do you want?” Ruth cut to the chase, annoyed at being interrupted.

  Quinn swallowed and dropped the fake smile. “I need to ask you something.” Ruth waited in dour silence and Quinn told herself to get over her irrational fear of the old woman. “You are the only person aside from Mick who was around when Sara Westfall was a reporter here. I wondered if you knew her and if you did, I wondered if you might share what you knew about her.”

  “I didn’t know her.”

  Quinn’s hopes fell and she seamed her lips against the disappointment. “Okay, sorry to have bothered you,” she said and turned to leave, but Ruth’s voice at her back turned her around.

  “Some reporter you are. Are you always this soft and weak?”

  Quinn straightened. “Excuse me?”

  “You heard me just fine. You want to know what I know about Sara, you have to ask the right questions.”

  Irritated at being judged, Quinn retorted,
“You already told me you didn’t know her.”

  “I signed her paychecks.”

  “You sign everyone’s paychecks,” Quinn said, confused and annoyed by the woman’s coy act. “So what?”

  “Maybe I also signed advances on her checks and by the time she died, she owed the company about three months’ wages.”

  “Are you kidding me?” Quinn breathed, not quite sure what to do with the information. It was certainly juicy but was it relevant? “Why did she need advances on her checks?”

  Ruth shrugged as if that wasn’t her concern.

  “Was she an alcoholic? Mick said she liked to drink and implied that she’d died in a drunk-driving accident.”

  An indelicate snort followed and Quinn drew back.

  “Are you saying Mick lied to me?”

  “A lie is simply someone else’s interpretation of an event.”

  There was a reason Ruth was stuck in this section of the building—she was probably a bit batty.

  Or maybe the woman was smarter than she appeared.

  “Why would he twist the facts?” Quinn asked.

  “Maybe he doesn’t want people poking around in his business. Questions he doesn’t want to answer.”

  Oh, this was getting seven levels of weird. “Was Mick...involved with Sara?”

  “How should I know? I only sign the checks and send out the bills.”

  The woman was impossible but her information had created a queasy feeling in Quinn’s gut.

  Why would Mick lie about Sara? If he was involved with her, why would he want to smear her reputation by implying that she was an alcoholic?

  Sara died in a car accident. There would have to be a paper trail somewhere.

  Should she share this information with Silas? Quinn wrestled with the fear that it was simply extraneous information and not a true lead at all.

  She didn’t want to waste time on wild goose chases.

  But what if this obscure bit of information was the key to unlocking a bigger puzzle?

  “Thanks for your help,” she said, hustling out of there, feeling as if something was chasing her.

  Once free of that section, she breathed a little easier, laughing even at how ridiculous she was being.

  There was no boogey-monster waiting in the closet.

  The real monsters hid in plain sight behind smiles meant to lower your guard.

  She would decide after she talked to Britain if she was going to share the information about Sara.

  Maybe by that time, she’d be able to figure out whether or not it was a lead worth chasing.

  Chapter 13

  Leo enjoyed the security of being the only photographer in town people trusted with their family pictures, senior portraits and bar mitzvahs but the best perk, by far, was being able to spearhead the Photography Club at the high school.

  Young talent always fired him up, reminded him of why he got into this business in the first place—the thrill of discovery, the creation of art in its most raw form, which was why he decided to substitute-teach, as well.

  The money was a nice supplement and being around kids kept him young.

  “Is it good?” Joshua asked, his expression filled with doubt. “I mean, I was worried the light was too hot.”

  “I think it’s great. Sometimes what makes a photo extraordinary are its flaws. Your character comes through the lens. I like it,” he announced, giving it his seal of approval.

  Joshua, such a good kid. Too bad his parents were numbskulls.

  Leo went to pat the kid on the head when a girl interrupted them.

  “You have Rhia’s photography still?”

  “I have her unfinished work,” Leo answered with a frown. “And you are?”

  Joshua, sensing the tension, slipped out of the shop.

  “Britain Almasey. Rhia was my best friend. I want to see what she was working on before she died.”

  Leo graced the girl with an indulgent smile, forgiving her rudeness. “Ah, I see. Unfortunately, the unfinished photos belong to me per the guidelines of the club.”

  “Why would you keep them?”

  “She was very talented. I was proud of her work. I’d like something to remember her by.”

  Britain narrowed her gaze, her mouth tightening as if she wanted to say something but was too afraid.

  “I understand your grief, I do,” he assured her. “But I can’t give you those photos. Besides, half of them are still negatives.”

  “Negatives? As in, like, real film? Why don’t you use digital?”

  “There’s no soul in digital,” he answered with an indulgent smile. He might be the last of the great dinosaurs still using film but digital would never replace the integrity of celluloid.

  “You should give them to the police.”

  “I hardly think the police are interested in wildflower shots,” Leo chuckled.

  “She was working on other things.”

  Leo sobered, the smile dying. “Other things?”

  “That’s why you ought to give them to the police. Maybe her killer left behind a clue.”

  “Maybe. I hadn’t thought of it that way,” Leo said. “I’ll get in touch with the sheriff and see if he thinks the same. If so, I’ll happily hand them over to the authorities.”

  He got the impression she didn’t believe him. “Have I offended you in some way?” Leo asked. “We seem to be at odds but I can’t for the life of me figure out why.”

  “Just see that you turn in those photos,” she said before leaving abruptly.

  Leo sat in concerned silence for a long moment. Was there something in her films that he’d missed?

  Was it true that Rhia had left something behind that might help close the case?

  Of course not, a voice scoffed. Britain was a child and reacting as such.

  Leo paused a minute to allow his thoughts to drift to Rhia. So much talent. Too bad her talent was wasted.

  The girl had been too interested in things she should’ve left alone.

  A sigh rattled out of Leo and he returned to the negatives from the club.

  He pulled Joshua’s newly processed black-and-whites.

  Potential.

  Perhaps with a guiding hand, a mentor...

  Leo discarded the thought as quickly as it occurred.

  He didn’t need to touch a stove twice to know that it was hot.

  * * *

  Quinn waited for cheer practice to let out and caught up with Britain as she was walking to her car.

  “Britain Almasey?” Quinn called after her, causing Britain to turn.

  “Yeah? Who’s asking?”

  Quinn flashed her credentials, wishing they said something more impressive than the local rag but that was all she had to work with. “Can I talk to you for a minute?”

  “About what?” Britain regarded her warily.

  “You were good friends with Rhia Daniels, right?”

  “Yeah.”

  Quinn glanced around, noting the curious looks they were getting. “Mind if we go somewhere and chat?”

  “Like where?”

  “How about Gilbert Park? It’s just around the corner.”

  “I’m supposed to be home by five.” Britain retreated, unlocking her car, ready to leave.

  Quinn blurted out. “It’s about Rhia. She was pregnant.”

  Britain stopped and cast a sharp look at Quinn. “How do you know?”

  “Did you?”

  Britain held Quinn’s gaze for a long moment, caught between being loyal and needing to share. Finally, she said, “I’ll be at Gilbert Park in five minutes. I don’t want to talk about it here.”

  Quinn agreed quickly and sprinted to her own car. Her hands
were trembling as she fought to catch her breath.

  Britain knew something. And she wanted to share.

  It must be something bad; the kid seemed burdened by whatever knowledge she was holding on to.

  The park came into view and Quinn chose an inconspicuous spot away from the road to wait.

  Britain showed up a few minutes later, pulling alongside Quinn’s car but before Quinn could exit, Britain told her to stay there.

  “I’m not staying long,” Britain said, talking through her window to Quinn. “How did you know Rhia was pregnant?”

  “The coroner report. Do you know who the father was?”

  Britain shook her head. “Rhia wouldn’t tell me. She was so freaked out.”

  “Was she planning to keep the baby?”

  “I don’t know. I mean, she was barely pregnant. I told her if she was lucky, she would lose it. I know that sounds harsh but I mean, c’mon, she was sixteen years old and definitely not ready to be a mom.”

  Quinn didn’t judge. “I don’t know that anyone is ready to be a mother at that age,” Quinn murmured. “So I’m guessing the father wasn’t someone at school?”

  “Why do you say that?”

  Quinn backtracked quickly. “I just assumed because her parents said she didn’t have a boyfriend.”

  “Well, not to their knowledge, of course. Her parents were so strict. I mean, like, Amish-strict. Rhia wasn’t allowed to date, curfew was at 9 and she had to go to church every Sunday with Bible study on Tuesdays. I would’ve died if my parents had been so medieval-times-old-fashioned.”

  “Mrs. Daniels said Rhia was close to her faith. Do you think that was true?”

  Britain considered Quinn’s question then answered with a baffled, “Yeah, I guess so. She didn’t seem to mind spending so much time with the pastor. Don’t get me wrong, he was kinda cute in an old guy sort of way but, you know, he’s like married to God or something.”

  “I think you’re thinking of nuns,” Quinn said, biting back a short laugh. “So...did Rhia have a boyfriend at school?”

  Britain nodded. “Brock Teichert. He’s like, a total D-bag but he’s the most popular guy in school so, of course, Rhia had to have him. I think he was going to break up with her, though. That was the word around the lockers anyway.”