Page 55 of Girl, Forgotten (Andrea Oliver 2)

He wanted to check out the hippie-dippie farm.

This couldn’t be idle curiosity. Bible was obviously investigating the death threats, no matter that he’d clearly said that was not their job. Maybe Andrea’s alternate investigation into Emily Vaughn’s murder would line up with his. She shoved her feet into her sneakers. Clipped her hair back behind her head. Her sunglasses were bent from being dropped into her bag. Andrea used her teeth to straighten the arm before sliding them on.

Outside, the sun was just as unrelenting as before, but now she had the heat to deal with. Andrea looked left, then right. The judge’s house was roughly a mile away. Downtown was a five- or ten-minute walk in the opposite direction. The diner would be open. They would have pancakes. Hot coffee. Chairs that she could sit in. Tables she could lean her head on to fall asleep.

“Partner!” As promised, Bible was on the other side of the road. He was bouncing on his toes like Marshal Tigger. He clapped his hands together, shouting, “Let’s go, Oliver!”

Andrea’s feet dragged across the asphalt as she tried to get herself going. Bible happily disappeared down a packed dirt trail. There was no spring in her step as she followed. He was several yards ahead by the time her body remembered the mechanics of running. Every joint resisted the exercise. Still, she kept her hands loose, her elbows tucked to her sides.

Ahead, Bible took a sharp turn deeper into the forest. Andrea guessed they were on an old logging road. She tried to get her bearings. The path led away from the motel, almost perpendicular to the sea. The sun was directly on top of her head. Meanwhile, every tendon in her body screamed the same question—

Why the hell wasn’t she in bed?

Andrea tried to drown out the noise as she propelled herself forward. She silently said a different name for every step.

Clayton Morrow. Jack Stilton. Bernard Fontaine. Eric Blakely. Dean Wexler.

One was in prison. One was a cop. One looked like an asshole. One had a sister who worked in a diner. One had left his teaching job without managing to make it onto the school’s Where Are They Now? webpage.

Clayton Morrow. Bernard Fontaine. Eric Blakely. Dean Wexler. Jack Stilton.

Andrea could feel her muscles finally picking up the memory of exercise. Eventually, thankfully, the pain started to burn off. The endorphins finally flowed. She was able to raise her head without wincing.

Bible was ten feet in front of her. Andrea’s eyes started to focus, to gather the details. He was wearing a dark blue USMS T-shirt and black running shorts. His sneakers were worn at the heel. The muscles in his legs had the sharp definition that came from working out at the gym. She could’ve spent the next hour wondering why Bible had asked her to tag along on what was clearly a reconnaissance mission when what she should’ve done back at the motel was call Mike. He could’ve filled her in all the gnus about Leonard Catfish Bible.

“You good?” Bible glanced at her over his shoulder. The guy wasn’t even sweating.

“I’m good,” Andrea huffed back.

Out of habit, her tongue felt for the ridge in her cheek that came from clenching her teeth. Her stomach was surprisingly fine. Bible was holding himself back, keeping the run light for her sake. She realized he was waiting for her to catch up with him. When the trail widened, she picked up his pace.

They ran in unison, their feet hitting the ground at the same time, though his stride was about a foot wider than hers. Andrea was trying to think of a way to offer him an opening when he beat her to the punch.

“Gotta confession,” he said.

Andrea listened to her breath heaving out of her lungs.

“Might be something going on at the farm we need to take a look at.”

Andrea looked up at him. Exercise had turned the scars on his face bright pink.

“Heard from the lady who owns the diner that there was a body found in the field.” Bible glanced down at her. “Looks like a suicide.”

Andrea nearly stumbled. That was a fucking coincidence. “Why did you hear it at the diner? Didn’t the chief call you?”

“Well that’s the nutty part, ain’t it?” He leapt over a root sticking out of the ground. “Not a peep from ol’ Cheese, even though I specifically asked him to let me know if any suicides hit his radar. That field is smack in the middle of his jurisdiction. He give you a buzz?”

Andrea shook her head, though she hadn’t checked her work phone. The Android was back in her motel room. Out of habit, she’d tucked her iPhone into her pocket on the way out the door.

“The victim is female,” Bible said. “On the younger side. Doesn’t fit our profile, but it sticks in my craw that Cheese didn’t flag it for us. Makes me wonder what else the crafty fella is hiding.”

Andrea thought Cheese might be hiding a hell of a lot. “What do you know about the farm?”

“Other than it’s hippie-dippie?”

Andrea shot him a look. They could only play pretend for so long.

“Started in the mid-eighties,” he said. “Organic back before anybody cared. They grow fava beans. Bake ’em, season ’em and package ’em as snacks. They’re called Dean’s Magic Beans. You ever heard of ’em?”