Page 49 of What She Saw

“Good to know.”

I slid behind the wheel. As I drove off, it wasn’t quite 11:00 p.m. It felt too early to go home. I wasn’t into the bar crowds these days, but I wasn’t ready to self-isolate at the cabin. I’d not yet seen the inside of the Nelson farmhouse. And I wanted to.

Chapter Fifteen

Sloane

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

I retraced my journey back to the farmhouse. I was careful not to take the turnoff toward the Nelson property, just in case Grant was tailing me. I drove an additional two miles down the road, and when I was sure no one was behind me, I made a U-turn. As I approached the farm entrance, I cut my headlights. Moonlight dripped on the driveway as I drove toward the house.

I parked off to the side under the drooping branches of an overgrown oak tree. I reached in my glove box past the gun for a small lockpicking kit I always carried.

Out of the car, I didn’t approach the front door but walked through thick brush and tall grass ringing the house. Sliding on the gloves, I brushed my hips past grass and shrubs as I walked. Thorns grabbed at the leather of my gloves.

Up the back stairs, I tugged on a metal screened door and braced it with my backside. I pulled out my lockpick. The lock was old and rusted, and it took less than thirty seconds to open it. I tucked the picks back in the case. I’d learned long ago to put my equipment back in place, so I didn’t lose track of anything. Once, an owner had startledme. I’d dropped my pick. I’d been forced to leave it behind as I dashed out the back door as the woman shouted at me.

Colton had not chosen this farm site randomly. He’d built a relationship with the owner, Harriet Nelson, over several years. She’d say later how charming he was, how much he reminded her of her grandson, and how creative his ideas were. I wasn’t sure if that grandson was Grant or someone else. Grant always struck me as the straight-and-narrow kind of guy. He was the type who worked two jobs to put himself through college and helped his mother on weekends.

When Colton had asked about using Mrs. Nelson’s farmland, she’d agreed. He’d promised to leave the land as he found it, and if she thought he was like Grant, she assumed he would. But Colton had left her with devastation and notoriety that followed her for years.

The kitchen was frozen in time. The yellow plaid wallpaper, a small square Frigidaire, a propane stove, and a cracked tan linoleum floor dated to the ’60s. The counters had once been wiped clean but now were covered in a thick coat of dust. I opened several cabinets. They were empty except for mouse droppings.

On the refrigerator was a cherry-shaped magnet holding up a faded picture. The edges curled in slightly. The image featured five smiling boys. All were in their early to mid teens. Their bodies were tanned, and their toned arms wrapped around one another, forming a chain. This was what a normal kid in an ordinary childhood looked like.

The shot had been taken in the field outside. And if I wasn’t mistaken, Grant was the tallest boy in the center. He must have been about fourteen or fifteen. I removed the picture, sticky and brittle, and glanced at the back. The faded date read “May 1994.” Grant had been at the farm shortly before the festival. I snapped an image of the picture and replaced it.

I moved into the living room. The two couches, coffee table, and lamps were covered in plastic. A mirror on a wall caught my reflection, and I realized how out of place I looked.

Up the small staircase, I stepped into the bedroom that faced the concert site. Mrs. Nelson had left her farm during the festival and goneto visit her sister. From this window, she would’ve had a clear view of a large toolshed as well as the entire venue. I tried to imagine the crowds crushing toward the stage as they danced, shouted, and sang.

Colton had insisted he had never returned to this house during the event. But the house or toolshed would have been good places to stash a body for a short time. There were also wells and ravines nearby, all perfect hiding spots for a dead body. Taggart and his volunteers had searched every inch of this farmland. No one found anything.

But I’d always believed the best answers were the simplest.

I moved to the bed and smoothed my hand over the white sheet covering the patchwork quilt. I sat. Springs groaned and squeaked.

My phone rang, cutting through the silence. I glanced at the display: Grant McKenna. I rose, angling my body away from the window.

“Grant,” I said.

“Making sure you made it home safe.”

“Why?”

“Those back roads can be dangerous.”

“I’m fine. Is that the reason you called?”

“You have a reputation for unconventional methods. Wondering what you’re up to.”

“Nothing exciting.”

“I doubt that.”

“Thanks for the checkup.” I hung up the phone and moved to the windows, peeking between the curtains. I could see my Jeep tucked in the shadows, but there was no sign of Grant.

A surge of excitement rushed my system. The possibility of discovery always made treks like these interesting. Instead of hurrying outside to my Jeep, I lingered by the window, waiting, watching.