Page 27 of What She Saw

The growing line behind him didn’t seem to rattle or rush her. “It’s fine.” A few raindrops hit the top of the tent. She glanced up toward the sky. “Weatherman said fifty percent chance of rain.”

Droplets splashed his hat and starched shirt.

The guitar player’s fingers must have been moving at a thousand miles an hour as the singer hit a high, sharp note. The crowd cheered, and he could feel the energy ratchet up several notches.

Two more gals stepped up to Patty’s table. Both were young, dressed in those damn jean cutoffs. They swayed until they noticed him, then stiffened as if they were focusing on not looking buzzed. They each ordered burgers. Good. Food in their belly would at least soak up some of the booze.

Taggart tossed a ten-dollar bill on the table and ordered one burger. She handed it to him and reached in the cash register for change.

“Keep it,” he said.

“Thanks, Sheriff.”

“Food supplies going to hold out?” Hungry concertgoers always ginned up trouble.

“We might. I radioed Buddy and told him to bring more, but he’s so worried about overordering. I’ll sell until I’m out.”

“Call if you need backup.”

Her genuine grin softened all the night’s frustrations. “Will do.”

As he took his first bite of the burger, the raindrops plopped slow and unsteady. He moved to the edge of the crowd by the main gate and took another bite. He demolished the burger in three mouthfuls. He’d learned as a young marine to eat chow quick if it was hot.

The sky was quiet, no signs of thunder or lightning. Fat droplets hit the dry dirt.

The band didn’t break stride and rolled right into “Any Way You Want It.” The audience remained jazzed, as if they’d never heard this song before. Shouts of excitement rolled over the crowds.

He moved to his car and pulled a poncho from the trunk. He slipped it on, hoping the rain wouldn’t come.

By 11:00 p.m., the rain picked up speed. At first, the cooler air was a relief. But as the water pounded and soaked his poncho, his irritation doubled. Damp fabric chafed skin and chilled skin to the bone.

But no one here realized that yet. It was still fun and games. Cool rain. Plenty of food to be had. Booze. Maybe a dry tent or two for now.

But none of it was going to last. Cars filled the limited parking at the edges of the field, and the overflow snaked halfway down the mountain’s main and service roads. Getting out of here now was damn near impossible. These folks were trapped.

Chapter Ten

Sloane

Saturday, August 16, 2025, 11:00 a.m.

As I drove past the real estate office, I saw Bailey unlocking her front door. I’d not been candid with her when I’d checked in because I wasn’t ready to dive into my questions. I knew she’d gotten drunk and landed in the first aid trailer. She’d sobered up enough to sneak out of the tent by 10:00 p.m., and she’d been spotted with Debra Jackson around midnight. Debra had vanished soon after.

In May 1994, Bailey Briggs had been a popular high school senior. She’d liked to party. And when the remorseless girl got into trouble, her father made the consequences go away. For what it was worth, her parents confirmed Bailey arrived home at 4:00 in the morning.

I parked across the street from Briggs Realty and crossed. Bailey had begun working at the agency after she’d dropped out of college. And when her father took his own life three years later, she’d taken it over. To everyone’s surprise, she’d made the business work.

Bailey had gotten to know Rafe Colton when her father was negotiating the festival dates with him. She’d admitted she thought Colton was hot and charming.

I opened the agency’s front door. Bells jingled above my head. Bailey had not turned on the lights, and she was nowhere in sight. Easy to assume the place wasn’t open yet.

I walked up to her desk and picked up the brass nameplate that read “Bailey Briggs Jones.” When she’d dropped out of college, she’d married her college sweetheart, Danny Jones. Her lack of a wedding band suggested they’d divorced.

Divorce was a tough place to land at any stage of life. My mother never married, and I didn’t plan on taking that path, either. Marriage and dependence on anyone were not in the cards for me. You can’t miss what you never had.

Setting the nameplate down, I spotted several pens that read “Briggs Realty.” I grabbed two and slipped them in my backpack. They were advertising, right? And I always needed a pen.

The files on her desk were property records. I straightened the edges until they were a neat stack. Judging by the height of the pile, whatever slump Dawson had suffered in the 1990s and early 2000s was in the past. Rentals appeared to be booming, as was new construction. Bailey was riding high.