Page 50 of The Psychic

The first address on their list was for one Benjamin Neel. Ronnie had punched it into the GPS on her phone.

“I’ve heard about him from Clint,” said Brandy from the passenger seat as she wound a scarf around her neck.

Her hair was pulled into a thick ponytail and she was wearing a puffy jacket over a sweater and warm leggings.

Ronnie had driven to her place and picked her up.

“He’s in chemistry … maybe a chemical engineer, I guess.

Maybe? Anyway, Clint calls him Benzene. They only know each other through Hugh, I think. ”

Ronnie wondered about that. Had anyone talked to Mel’s husband? Certainly the police, though Sloan hadn’t mentioned it.

“And we’re sure Mel was involved with Neel?”

“I’m not sure about anything anymore,” Brandy admitted as she stared out the passenger window.

The wipers were swishing wet snow, almost rain, off the windshield.

Ronnie’s gaze kept sliding to the map on her phone’s app to make sure she was heading the right way.

The interior of the vehicle was warm, but tense.

She and Brandy hadn’t talked about the new rip in the fabric of their friendship.

Brandy didn’t seem to want to address it, and that was fine with Ronnie. For now.

“Benzene is sort of a loner. More of an animal guy, I guess. But he moved in on Mel behind Hugh’s back. Clint said it was brief, but he doesn’t think Benzene got over it when Mel moved on.”

“When did Clint and Mel get together?” Ronnie asked diffidently. She didn’t want to set Brandy off on another tirade about Clint’s innocence.

“After Benzene, but before Erik Wetherly. In between them.”

Wetherly was supposedly Mel’s other lover, and they were going to see him next.

It was uncomfortable, dissecting Mel’s life like this. Whatever choices she’d made were hers to make. No judgment. But it was all they had to work with today.

Brandy was staring out the side window at the passing cityscape as they headed west out of River Glen toward Laurelton.

“Hugh’s kind of wealthy. Well, he is wealthy, in my book anyway.

Mel gravitated to him because of his money, at least in the beginning.

But she flirted with Clint. And I guess Benzene and Wetherly.

” Brandy gave a sad little laugh at the memory of her friend.

“Mel was a terrible flirt. I hope to God Clint isn’t planning something crazy. ”

“You think he is?”

“Yes? No?” She shook her head. “He’s been insane since Mel died.”

Ronnie didn’t comment.

Twenty minutes later they pulled into an older, pocket neighborhood. Tucked into a cul-de-sac with similar homes on all sides, Neel’s house was a gray, shingled, daylight basement with a neat sidewalk leading to a small porch.

Clint’s truck was not in the driveway, nor anywhere Ronnie could see in the neighborhood.

“He’s not here,” Brandy muttered on a sigh of relief. “Don’t park. Let’s go to Erik Wetherly’s.”

“Too late. There’s someone coming out of the front door now.” Ronnie watched as a man about their age, maybe a little older, walked out with a large, white and gray dog on a leash, some kind of “Doodle” mix.

Ronnie edged her car to the side of the road.

Both she and Brandy observed the man come toward them on the sidewalk.

Long-faced and frowning, he wore black jogging gear, had dark clipped hair, a baseball cap on his head and was barking orders at the dog straining on the leash. “This way. Jude. Leave it!”

“That’s him,” said Brandy, nodding to herself. “I’ve seen a picture.”

“Let’s ask him if he’s seen Clint.”

Now that they were here, Brandy seemed reluctant to move, but she opened the passenger door just as Neel reached the Escape. As she stepped onto the curb, the dog immediately veered toward her, nearly bounding while Neel, commanded, “Stop. Jude! Heel!”

Regardless of Neel’s orders, the dog stretched the leash to sniff Brandy’s outstretched hand.

“It’s fine,” said Brandy, letting Jude smell her until the dog allowed her to rub its head. “Are you Benjamin Neel? Benzene?”

He stopped short, suddenly wary, as if afraid of being attacked. “Who’re you?” he demanded as Ronnie circled the Escape, stepping over slush piled near the curb and onto the sidewalk. All the while Ronnie kept her gaze trained on the dog.

“Hi, I’m Brandy. Clint Mercer’s sister,” Brandy said. “So this is Jude?” she asked, patting the dog’s head.

Alarm flared in Neel’s brown eyes. “Yes. Jude, sit!” He jerked on the leash and stepped back, his eyes leveled at the two women. “What do you want?”

“Clint’s missing and we’re worried about him,” Ronnie put in and quickly introduced herself.

“Have you seen him?” asked Brandy.

“Have I seen him?” he repeated angrily. “You bet I have! He damn near took my head off! You find him, keep him away from me. You hear? I’ll file charges! He’s out of his friggin’ mind! I mean it.” Neel motioned to the dog. “Luckily I had Jude with me.”

Jude whined and looked from Brandy to Ronnie, her legs stiff, poised.

“I’m sorry,” said Brandy, clearly meaning it. “I’m sure he didn’t mean to—”

“We’re trying to make sure he’s okay,” Ronnie cut in.

Neel laughed a bit hysterically. “He’s okay for a psycho!

I was this close”—he held up his free hand, index finger and thumb nearly touching—“this close to calling the police. He’s damned lucky I didn’t.

For God’s sake, he accused me of killing Hugh’s wife!

” He shook his head in disbelief while the dog whined, anxious for the walk.

“Melissa and I, we hooked up a few times. That’s all it was. Well, except that she took the dog.”

“What dog? You gave her a dog?” asked Ronnie, instantly on alert.

“More like she took it. A mutt. I didn’t have it all that long.

I swear that dog had a thing for her.” And then he stopped his rant and his face instantly crumpled.

“Shit.” For a moment it looked like he was about to break down altogether.

“Didn’t we all,” he added miserably, all of his earlier bravado and insistence that Mel meant nothing to him dissolving into the cold winter air.

“What kind of dog was it?” Ronnie asked, squinting against the falling snowflakes, but undeterred by his sudden display of emotion.

He blinked a few times, likely coming back from memories of Mel. “Melissa’s dead. And you’re asking about the mutt?”

“I just wonder what happened to it,” explained Ronnie. “What’s it look like?”

“Like a mutt. Medium sized, I guess. Black and brown. A stray that just hung out for a few days.”

He eyed Ronnie and scowled. “What’s your deal? I don’t know what you’re getting at but, just so you’re clear about things, it wasn’t Jude that bit Mercer. It was that damned mutt.”

Brandy gasped.

“Whoa, wait. The dog—the one you call the mutt—bit Clint?” queried Ronnie.

“That’s what I said.”

“When?” Ronnie asked. “Today?”

“No! I told you she took it.”

“When?”

Neel glowered at her and Ronnie felt the chill of snowflakes melting in her hair, water dripping down the back of her neck. “Who the hell knows?” Neel said. “The last time she was here.”

“But Clint, he was just here?” She looked at Brandy, who seemed to be struggling to take in what Benzene was saying. “Today?”

“Hell yeah! Didn’t I say so? Just about half an hour ago.

Maybe forty-five minutes. Fucker was out of his mind.

I should’ve called the police. Your psycho brother threatened me!

” Scowling, he looked from Brandy to Ronnie.

“We’re done here.” With that he yanked hard on Jude’s leash, turning the dog around and jogging back to his house.

He disappeared inside, the door slamming firmly behind him.

Brandy took a step toward the walkway, but Ronnie grabbed her arm.

“That’s all we’re gonna get from him,” she said, glancing around at the cul-de-sac to the other houses, but no one else was out, no one peering through the windows where garlands were strung and doors decorated with wreaths and strings of lights.

Merry Christmas , Ronnie thought sarcastically as she shepherded Brandy into her SUV again, then settled herself behind the wheel.

She felt buzzy and strangely wired, with weariness crouching like a beast underneath.

Her lack of sleep was a bill she was going to have to pay sooner rather than later.

She wanted to confide to Brandy about her night with Sloan, but that was clearly a no-go right now.

“It’s not true,” said Brandy in a dead voice once Ronnie had started the Escape.

What part of it? Ronnie thought, but didn’t ask.

“Clint’s not that way,” Brandy added, adjusting her ponytail, but her unhappy expression belied her words. “Why’d you ask so many questions about the dog?”

“Was Clint bitten by a dog?”

“No.” Then she grew silent and a bit of color entered her cheeks. “No.”

You were just lied to, Ronnie. She started the Escape and pulled away from the curb. As she drove around the curve of the cul-de-sac, she cast a glance at Neel’s house, and thought she saw him peering through the blinds.

“We’re going to Wetherly’s, right?” Brandy asked, her jaw tight, her hands balled into fists.

“You sure?”

“I need to find Clint,” she said sharply, glancing out the side window.

“Then, yeah.” Not that there had been any doubt. She drove steadily back toward River Glen and then headed to the city’s northern edge, to another older neighborhood where the streets were laid out in a grid. The snow had all but quit falling. Only a few lonely flakes drifted from the steely sky.

Erik Wetherly lived on Eagle Drive in a faux Bavarian three-story home, snow melting on the dark brown crisscrossed boards across the house’s tan face.

Its mullioned windows glittering in the afternoon sun, their leaded glass, beveled panes staring down at the street as if glaring at the vehicles parked on both sides.

And parked in the driveway was a dirty pickup.

“Clint’s truck,” said Brandy, voice tight, muscles tense.