Page 61 of Into the Dark, We Go

I lifted my face from my hands. We all looked at each other, stunned by the sudden discovery. It was too... easy. Too simple. But it explained nothing.

"When’s the next one?"

Nick checked his phone. "October 1st."

"Wait, wasn’t that the date on the Sheriff’s calendar?" June asked.

I nodded.

"The Sheriff again, huh?" Nick muttered, still looking at his phone.

"Walk me through how you found Duane one more time. Every detail you can recall," Mitchell said, lifting his gaze, brow furrowed.

"I…" I winced at the memory. "He was on the floor, lying on his side. There was a hole in his head. And another one, in the back, where the bullet came out. Blood. A lot of blood. And other stuff." My stomach turned. "Why?"

"What about the gun you saw next to him? You’re certain it was the same one he had before?"

"Yeah, I think so?—"

"And there was a lot of blood? The back of his head blown open?"

"Yes and yes. It was a huge hole." The nausea rose again. "Can you tell me what this is all about?"

Mitchell’s voice stayed steady, but his face tightened. "Thing is, if Duane had a .22—and the back of his head had a grapefruit-sized hole—he wasn’t shot with his own gun. A .22 doesn’t usually leave an exit wound."

"I know what I saw," I said. "Unless these guns look exactly alike."

"They don’t. The mob used .22s for a reason. They’d walk up behind you, shoot behind the ear, and the bullet would bounce around inside your skull. Clean. Fast."

"How lovely," I muttered, swallowing hard.

Nick lifted his gaze from his phone, his brows drawn tight, jaw clenched. I could see the flare of barely restrained emotion tug at his shoulders, pulling at his chest, which heaved rapidly beneath his muscle-fit shirt. He looked like he wanted to interject, to shut Mitchell down, but then he looked at me, drawn by an involuntary shudder.

You ok?He mouthed the words, setting his phone aside.

I replied with a sly thumbs up and turned to Mitchell. "How would the Sheriff not know the difference between guns?"

"Hedoesknow, that’s the thing. What you’re talking about is a very poorly thought-out killing."

The Sheriff in a small town was a big deal. He was the authority. A chill crept up my spine. Not only had I stumbled upon a dead body tonight, but I might have crossed paths with the killer himself. I felt like we’d been toyed with, then released. Like a cat playing with its prey, letting the mouse think it’s safe, before closing in for the kill.

And we were about to ignore his warning to leave town.

18

Chapter Eighteen

March, 2015

The funeral home’sviewing room was somber. Rows of gray chairs crowded the flower-choked space, my father’s portrait barely visible. At the front, on a raised platform, sat a polished wooden coffin with its lid open.

My mother insisted on a viewing, despite knowing my dad wouldn’t have liked it. Though he never said it outright, cremation seemed more his style, something quiet and private, with his ashes scattered on a remote beach or into Lake Erie. Mom had to do things her way, one final cheap shot at her husband, whom she seemed to have stopped loving a long time ago. Even now, she appeared to be avoiding him, circling around his body like the aesthetic was more important than him, even at his very last moments.

I wanted to scream. To throw the precious lilies that he was allergic to on the plush pink carpet and force her out. Out. OUT.

People kept arriving. Dad had known so many through work, AA and old friendships. He had a way of making people feel like they mattered. Mom greeted them all, but there was a distancein her demeanor, a cold, detached politeness. She barely nodded at their condolences, her smile brief and empty. She kept pacing in loops around the room, pretending to be busy and trying to minimize interactions.

Even as a child, I never understood why she and Dad had been together. In their old photos, their wedding pictures, they looked happy like any other couple just beginning their lives. When had that changed? When had they started drifting apart? When had Mom become this dull, unsmiling woman? And if things had been so bad for so long, why hadn’t they just left each other?