Page 51 of What She Saw

He shoved his way through the crowd, past wet, sweaty bodies that smelled of pot, booze, and desperation. When he made it to the side of the stage, he caught the band manager’s attention. “I need to talk to Rafe Colton. Is he up there?”

“He got back a few minutes ago. He’s on the east side of the stage.”

Taggart ducked under the security chain, then walked around the stage and up a back staircase. The music slammed his head as he stepped over cords and black travel cases.

He spotted Colton standing off to the right, rocking his body. He didn’t bother to strike up a conversation but grabbed Colton by the arm and pulled him toward the exit. Colton’s grin vanished, but he followed Taggart off the stage and to a quieter spot.

“Hey, man, are you okay? What’s going on?” Colton asked.

“You need to order this band to slow its roll. The crowd is getting too amped up,” Taggart said.

“But the guys are in the flow. They’re hitting their stride, and the people are loving it.”

“Tell the band to wind it down.”

“Why? This crazy music is why we’re all here.”

“The people out there are strung tight. It won’t take much to make them snap.”

“Man, I’ve done events like this before.” He grinned and laid his hand on Taggart’s shoulder. “They are amped, but trust me, it’s going to be fine.”

Taggart glanced at Colton’s hand, streaked with red scratches. “Tell the band to wind it down or I’m cutting the electricity to the entire area.”

Colton lowered his hand. “And what will happen if you do that? That mob will get angry.”

“It’s bedlam either way. I don’t care if it’s now or an hour from now. Ramp it down.”

Colton shook his head. “I’ll lose money if we stop now. Christ, can you imagine the complaints and lawsuits. I’ll breach my contract with the town.”

Taggart faced the stage and searched for the cables connected to a generator. He wasn’t sure which to pull, but he’d yank them all until the music stopped.

Hands landed on his shoulders, and his fingers balled into a fist as he turned toward Colton’s contrite expression. He was ready to beat the piss out of the man. He’d lose his job, but right now he didn’t care.

Colton held up his hands. “I’ll talk to the band.”

The veins in Taggart’s neck bulged. He clenched his fists. “Do it now.”

Colton climbed up on the stage and spoke to the manager. Immediately, the two began arguing as Colton pointed toward Taggart. It didn’t take sound to hear the string of curses. But the manager held up his hand. When the band reached the end of the song, he moved onstage and spoke to the lead singer and guitarist.

No one in the band looked happy, and Taggart knew he’d catch hell for this. The guitarist strummed his chords slower and softer, andthe drummer soon joined him. Boos and shouts rose from the crowd as fists pumped, but the lead singer grabbed the mic and told an off-color joke to the crowd. Hints of laughter rumbled over the masses. The energy held steady.

The band members looked at each other but kept playing. Taggart climbed up on the stage, watching the crowd. The slower music had the opposite effect. It triggered waves of restless energy.

The singer, sensing the negative shift, picked up the tempo of his song. His band joined him, and the energy rose. The new version of the song teetered between heavy metal and the attempted ballad. Taggart hoped they’d found a shaky balance. He needed five more hours, and then the sun would rise and this nightmare would end.

At the edge of the crowd, the flickers of the first flames caught in a pile of trash. The red haze rose. By the time Taggart was off the stage and pushing toward the fire, it had jumped to the undergrowth.

Chapter Seventeen

Sloane

Sunday, August 17, 2025, 1:00 a.m.

When I reached the cabin, my body was drained of the energy that had been snapping through me for days. I stepped through the front door, switched on the lamp, which spit out enough light to be annoying. I dropped my pack in a chair, made my way to the kitchen, and filled a mason jar with water.

Tomorrow I’d track down the family of Debra Jackson, known as “Victim #3” by the media.

I lowered into Taggart’s recliner, pulled the handle on the side, and raised the footrest. The chair groaned as I leaned back and closed my eyes.