Page 17 of Never Flinch

The twins wave to him, little hands opening and closing. Pretty cute. There’s no man in Melanie Travers’s doublewide, but the missus and her little bundles of joy seem to be doing all right. Trig guesses she has a good job of some kind in the city, plus what some men call hellimony. Trig would never call it that; he’s a man who believes you must pay for your mistakes. His father raised him that way.

Melanie’s got a Lexus, not brand-new but of fairly recent vintage, so yeah—she’s doing all right. Trig is glad for her. Also glad that he didn’t meet her yesterday on the Buckeye Trail. If he had, she’d be dead now. Her children orphans. He follows her in his Toyota out to MLK, follows her as she turns right toward the city. Two miles later she turns left into Wee Folks Daycare.

Trig continues on, leaving the countryside behind. On the radio, the morning DJ is saying last week’s warm weather was just a tease, a cold front is moving in and the next few days are going to be chilly. “Bundle up, Buckeyes!” he says, and then plays “A Hazy Shade of Winter,” by Simon & Garfunkel.

Trig’s stomach is rumbling. Apparently the cornflakes weren’t enough. He thinks,The murderer of a defenseless woman is hungry. A woman who just happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time. A woman who might have children, maybe even twins with matching coats. The man who did that is hungry. He’s mildly amazed. He stepped over the line, and guess what? The other side of the line is no different. The idea is both terrible and comforting.

He pulls into a Wawa on the outskirts of the city proper and buys a breakfast burrito. Also a newspaper. The stories above the fold are about politics and wars. Below the fold is the headline UPRIVER WOMAN SLAIN ON BUCKEYE TRAIL. Her next of kin must have been notified, because her name is given: Annette McElroy, 38 years old.

Trig reads the story while eating his burrito, which is warm and fresh and tasty. There’s nothing in it to worry him. No mention of the paper with Letitia Overton’s name on it found in the dead woman’s hand. The police will be withholding that piece of information.

I’m wise to your tricks, Trig thinks. He heads for downtown, where he’ll put in an appearance at the office and then leave early. Now thathe’s begun, he wants to continue. No need to hurry, haste makes waste, but he’s done plenty of scouting and knows where he can find another innocent, perhaps even two.

The cold weather will help.

2

Holly meets Izzy for lunch, but not in Dingley Park; it’s too chilly for that. They eat in a little café called Tessie’s, where they get a corner booth and can watch the pedestrians go by. In Love Plaza across the street, a busker in a motorcycle jacket is playing a guitar.You won’t do much business today, Holly thinks.

Sitting across from her, Izzy says, “Look at you, eating inside just like a big girl. You’re coming out of your Covid shell. That’s good.”

“I’m fully vaccinated,” Holly says, looking at the menu. “Covid, flu, RSV, shingles. Life has to go on.”

“Indeed it does,” Izzy says. “I got the Covid and the flu vaccines together, and they laid me out for two days.”

“Better than being laid out in a funeral parlor,” Holly says. “What do you suppose an Aussie Melt is?”

“I believe it’s lamb with pepper jack cheese and some kind of sauce.”

“That sounds quite tasty. I think I’ll—”

“Bill Wilson wasn’t just a random nut after all. He got one.”

Holly lowers her menu. “Are you talking about the McElroy woman?” She also reads the morning paper. She gets it on her iPad.

“Yes. I’m not a hundred per cent sure, but in the high nineties.”

The waitress comes. Izzy goes for the Reuben, Holly the Aussie Melt. They both order hot drinks, tea for the cop and coffee for the private investigator. Holly has tried to quit coffee, the caffeine sometimes makes her heart jump, but she tells herself that quitting cigarettes is enough for now.

When the waitress is gone, Holly says, “Tell me.”

“It stays between us, right?”

“Of course.”

“We held back some evidence. There was a piece of paper in Annette McElroy’s hand. Printed on it in block letters was a name—Letitia Overton. Does that mean anything to you?”

Holly shakes her head, but files the name away for later consideration.

“Me either. Tom Atta and I have talked to Cary Tolliver, the scumbucket who framed Alan Duffrey.”

“You think he really did that?”

“I do. We also talked to Duffrey’s colleagues at First Lake City, the bank where he worked. Every one of them said they never believed that pedophilia stuff in the first place… but what do you think they said when Duffrey was arrested and put on trial?”

Holly likes to believe the best of people, anddoesbelieve there’s good in just about everyone, but her time at Finders Keepers has also taught her that just about everyone has a shitty streak. “Most of them probably said, ‘There was always something weird about him’ and ‘I’m not a bit surprised.’?”

“You bet they did.”