sender, however, probably wouldn’t wait a month to leave a message on the landline phone at Clay’s house. Those didn’t come with the same regularity as the letters. But still, they came.
Clay used scissors to open the envelope, and he eased out the three pieces of paper. Two were pictures. One before. One after. He looked at both with the same reverence a good priest would look at a dying patient getting last rites.
Seeing the pictures was a sort of penance. They told a story, but they sure as hell didn’t change anything.
Neither did the third paper.
But he studied it anyway. Not that there was much to study. Like the other three pages in the other envelopes, this one had a single word handwritten on it.
Killer.
* * *
CLAY PULLED HIS cruiser to a stop on the side of Arlo’s Pump and Ride. He wanted to think that Arlo Betterton hadn’t had a dirty mind when he’d named the place back in the early ’70s, but since Clay had gotten complaints about Arlo’s too-prominent display of adult magazines, the name had likely been intentional.
Before Clay even made it to the front, the door opened, the bell attached to it clanging, and Arlo stepped out. “If you’re needing some gas, you’re parked in the wrong place, Chief.” Arlo was wiping his greasy hands on an equally greasy rag.
There were no other customers, no employees, either, which meant Arlo and he might be able to have a private conversation. Clay wasn’t holding out hope that it would be a productive one, but he wanted to be able to tell Garrett that he’d tried.
Clay glanced around, taking in his surroundings. Old habits. The only danger here was slipping on some motor oil and throwing out his back, but after so many years of being a cop, it was hard to turn off his cop’s eyes. Hard to turn off his brain, too, and since the contents of the pink envelope were still plenty fresh he hadn’t been able to wrestle away the demons.
Killer.
Not a pretty label.
“If you’re not needing gas then,” Arlo went on, “come inside, and I’ll get you some coffee. Made it myself just a couple minutes ago. It’ll give you something to drink when you tell me why you’re here.”
“I’ll pass on the coffee.” And not because he didn’t want to drink anything Arlo had made with those hands but because Clay’s nerves were already jangling. No need to fuel those nerves with caffeine.
“Suit yourself. I’ll pour myself one.” Arlo went to the counter. Also grease stained. Ditto for the coffeepot. Probably the coffee, as well, since there seemed to be a mini oil slick swirling on top of the cup. “So, are you here because of Vita?”
Clay tried not to look surprised and held back from saying “why the hell would I be here because of Vita?” He’d learned that some folks gave him more info when he didn’t actually question them so he just raised an eyebrow.
Arlo huffed. “Vita was in earlier, whining about feed. She accused me of feeding those chickens that’ve been pestering you out at your place. She said she saw feed on the ground. Well, it wasn’t me. I got no reason to want chickens to stay around so they can go after you.”
All that from a raised eyebrow so Clay raised his other one. Later, he’d check and see if there really was feed on the ground near his house.
“It’s true.” Arlo huffed again. “But there are some folks who might want to see you...pecked a little. But not me. I’m not bothered by cops, even when they’re just an intern one, but some folks are.”
Clay just kept his eyebrows raised and didn’t correct “intern” to “interim.”
Arlo added some profanity to his huff. “Ask Ordell Busby about the feed ’cause I’m betting it was one of his boys. They’re always up for a good prank.”
Clay knew about the Busby boys’ penchant for pranking. It was harmless stuff like TP’ing yards and trying to tip a cow. To the best of his knowledge, they’d never actually succeeded at a prank without getting caught, but it wouldn’t be hard to get away with tossing out some chicken feed.
“I’ll talk to them,” Clay said, and he didn’t budge. He just stood there, eyebrows raised and perhaps looking as if his forehead had had a run-in with some extra potent Botox.
The seconds crawled by. And crawled. But Arlo eventually huffed. “So, you’re really here about Sophie.”
Clay made a sound that could have meant anything. Or nothing. Arlo opted for the something because he started huffing, cursing and talking again.
“I heard Sophie’s down in the dumps. Heard it might be more than just down, that she might have that depression people have to take pills for. Guess you haven’t been able to cheer her up any?”
Clay had to lower his eyebrows because his facial muscles were starting to twitch, but Arlo must have taken it as a cue to continue.
“Don’t guess anything but getting her business back would chase away those blues. Well, I can’t help you there, intern Chief. I don’t know anything about where Billy Lee is right now at this moment.”
You didn’t have to be a cop to hear the slight pause Arlo made before right now at this moment, but Clay decided it was time to do more than offer up facial gestures. “Do you know where Billy Lee is, was or has been in the past month since he’s been missing?”
That brought on more cursing from Arlo. “I already told those FBI fellas I didn’t know, and now I’m telling you the same thing. Billy Lee’s not here, and I haven’t seen him.”
Clay decided to use his cop’s voice for the next question. “Have you communicated with Billy Lee in any way in the past month?”
Arlo looked him straight in the eyes. “No.”
Clay studied him, trying to decide if he was lying. Strange but he didn’t seem to be. Just in case though, Clay upped his stare a while longer, waiting to see if Arlo would break down and start blabbing. But he was literally saved by the bell. The one clanging over the door.
“Gotta go,” Arlo said. “Got a customer.”
Clay didn’t stop him, but he did make a mental note. There was something going on with Arlo. Maybe something connected to Billy Lee. And he needed to keep an eye on it.
THIS WAS A new level of Hell. Sophie was sure of it.
It was barely 8:00 a.m.; she hadn’t even finished her first cup of coffee and had paperwork to do on the sperm and the bull pump Garrett wanted her to purchase. But she wasn’t doing paperwork. Mila was on one side of her, Sophie’s mother, Belle, on the other, and they both had opened tablets to show Sophie what they’d found through their internet search.
They’d found Hell aka dating sites.
“It’s been six months since the unfortunate incident,” her mother reminded her. “It’s time to move on before winter sets
