Read The Hunting Grounds :: Chapter 6

Camilla was waiting outside the McCurdys' carriage house when the sheriff's truck rolled to a stop at the curb.

It was an older black pickup, clean but dusted along the wheel wells from mountain roads. It wasn't flashy and there was nothing official about it, except for the small county seal fixed discreetly to the door and the radio mounted inside. It suited him, she thought. Practical. Unassuming. Built to disappear in plain sight.

Mal leaned across the bench seat and pushed the passenger door open.

"Morning, Hart."

Camilla stepped off the curb, needing to hop slightly to slide into the passenger seat. "Sheriff."

His mouth twitched. "Feels formal after our drink together."

"Feels appropriate after finding out you neglected to mention the badge."

"You wound me." He rested one arm over the steering wheel, watching her settle in. "I thought we had a nice, honest conversation."

Camilla settled into the seat and pulled the door shut. The interior smelled faintly of leather, pine, and coffee. A paper cup sat in the holder between them, half-empty. The radio crackled once, then fell silent.

"Honest?" she asked. "You told me your name was James."

"It is."

"You left out the rest."

"You didn't ask."

She looked over at him. "Do people usually have to ask if they're speaking to the sheriff?"

"Only the interesting ones."

He pulled away from the curb before she could respond.

Bitterroot slid past the windows in neat little pieces. Painted porches. Flower boxes. An old man sweeping the same patch of sidewalk in front of the hardware store. A woman walking a dog that looked too ancient to survive the summer. Ordinary lives arranged carefully beneath a mountainous sky.

Camilla watched them all.

Mal noticed, of course.

"You always look at places like you're trying to find something wrong?"

She didn't turn toward him. "Only when they're pretending to be innocent."

A low chuckle rumbled from his chest. "That's one way to describe a town."

"Isn't it accurate?"

"For some towns." He glanced at her, then back to the road. "Maybe for all of them, if you dig deep enough."

Camilla smiled faintly. "That sounds like experience."

"That sounds like common sense."

They passed the town square, where the memorial still stood in quiet accusation. Flowers leaned in soft, wilting heaps against framed photos and prayer candles. Ribbons stirred in the morning breeze.

Camilla's gaze lingered.

Mal slowed at the stop sign. "You visit it yet?"

"The memorial?"

"Mm-hm."

"No."

"Why not?"

She felt the question settle between them, heavier than it had any right to be. On the surface, it was harmless. A sheriff asking about community grief. Beneath it, something watched.

"I didn't know them," she said.

"That stop you from writing about them?"

"No."

His fingers tapped once against the steering wheel. "Then why?"

Camilla looked at him at last. "Memorials are for the living. I'm more interested in the dead."

The truck rolled forward.

Mal's smile appeared slowly, like something surfacing from dark water. "That's a hell of a thing to say out loud."

"You asked."

"I did."

They drove another block in silence.

Then Mal said, "For most people, death makes them uncomfortable."

"Does it make you uncomfortable?"

His eyes stayed on the road. "Depends on the death."

Camilla studied his profile. The straight line of his nose. The scar through his eyebrow. The calm set of his mouth.

"And these ones?" she asked.

His jaw shifted.

"These make me angry."

It was a good answer. Clean. Expected. Worn smooth enough to show to grieving mothers and anxious townspeople.

The truck crossed Main and continued west. The storefronts thinned. Flower boxes gave way to cracked sidewalks and chain-link fences. The houses leaned closer to the road here, paint peeling beneath the summer sun. Weeds grew tall around mailboxes. A rusted bicycle lay abandoned in a ditch.

"The west side," Mal said. "Since I assume Ellie gave you the local ghost tour."

"She mentioned it."

"She mention she told me not to send you wandering out here alone?"

Camilla tilted her head. "Did she?"

"She worries."

"She seems good at it."

"She's good at caring about people." His voice softened, but only slightly. "Sometimes that gets her in trouble."

Camilla looked out the window again. "Is that what happened to Marleen?"

The truck slowed as Mal turned down a narrow street bordered by scrubby lots and sagging porches.

"Marleen cared about people too," he said.

"That's not an answer."

"No," he agreed. "It isn't."

A few more houses passed before he spoke again.

"Clay Harper knew her. That much is true. He was working around the community garden. Fixed fencing. Hauled soil. Built some raised beds when the church group wanted to spruce the place up." Mal's mouth tightened faintly. "He has a way of attaching himself to women who feel sorry for him."

"Is that what Marleen did?"

"That's what people say."

"And what do you say?"

He pulled the truck to the side of the road near a leaning water tower.

"I say Clay likes damaged things." Mal turned the engine off. "And he likes seeing if he can make them worse."

Camilla looked through the windshield.

Clay Harper's house sat at the end of a short gravel drive, low and narrow beneath a rusted tin roof. The porch sagged visibly on one side, crowded with broken chairs, stacked buckets, old tools, and a washing machine with no door. A blue tarp covered something large in the side yard, held down with cinder blocks.

The whole place seemed to be waiting for tetanus to become sentient.

"Charming," Camilla said.

Mal opened his door. "Try not to say that to his face."

"No promises."

They walked up the gravel drive together. Camilla noticed the way Mal moved here. Not like he had at the market. Not open, not warm. His body had gone quiet in a different way. Controlled, yes, but ready.

Interesting.

Before they reached the porch, the front door opened.

Clay Harper stood in the doorway.

He was thinner than Camilla expected. Early thirties, maybe, with lank hair tied at the nape of his neck and a gray shirt hanging loose from sharp shoulders. His face was narrow, his eyes deep-set and pale. Not colorless, exactly, but washed out, like river stones beneath cloudy water.

His gaze flicked from Mal to Camilla and stayed there.

"Sheriff."

"Clay."

Clay's mouth twitched. "Didn't know we were doing house calls now." His eyes swept over Camilla's face and slowly lowered to her shoes taking in her full form.

"Just checking in."

"Looks like you brought company."

Camilla smiled politely. "Name's Camilla."

Clay did not offer his hand.

"You a cop?"

"Writer."

His eyes moved over her again, even slower this time. Not appreciative. Suspicious.

"Writers don't usually need sheriffs to hold their hands."

Mal stepped onto the porch, boots creaking against old boards. "We're asking a few follow-up questions about Marleen."

At the name, something shifted in Clay's face.

Not grief.

Not guilt.

Fear, maybe.

There and gone so quickly Camilla almost missed it.

Almost.

Clay scratched at the side of his jaw. "Already talked to you about her."

"And now you're going to talk to me again."

The words were mild. The effect was not. Clay stepped back enough to let them inside. The house smelled like dust, motor oil, and old cigarettes. Curtains blocked most of the light, turning the living room dim and yellow. A box fan rattled in one window. The furniture looked secondhand and hard-used. On the coffee table sat a chipped mug, a stack of hardware receipts, and an ashtray crowded with cigarette butts.

Camilla took everything in without appearing to.

Clay dropped into a recliner with split vinyl arms and stared at them both. Mal remained standing. "Ask."

Camilla sat on the edge of the couch before Mal could suggest otherwise. The dank smell of cigarette smoke leeched from the stained fabric and filled the stuffy air around her.

"You knew Marleen through the community garden?" she asked.

Clay looked at Mal. "She asking now?"

"She is."

Clay's gaze returned to Camilla. "Yeah. I knew her."

"How well?"

"Well enough."

Camilla smiled faintly. "That can mean a lot of things."

"Means well enough."

Mal leaned one shoulder against the wall near the door, arms folded. Watching. Letting her work.

Camilla wondered if that was generosity or strategy.

"What did Marleen want from you?" she asked.

Clay's mouth tightened. "Who says she wanted anything?"

"Women like Marleen don't usually spend time with men like you unless they need something."

The room went still. Mal's eyes flicked to her. Clay's did too. For a moment, nobody spoke. Then Clay laughed once, humorless and dry.

"You always talk like that?"

"When people waste my time."

His pale eyes narrowed. For the first time, something like interest sparked behind them.

"She wanted help," he said.

"With what?"

Clay rubbed both hands down his face. "She was scared."

Mal shifted slightly. Barely a movement.

Camilla noticed.

"Of you?" she asked.

Clay looked genuinely offended. "No."

"Then who?"

His gaze darted toward the curtained window. "I don't know."

"That's convenient."

"I don't." His voice sharpened. "She didn't say his name."

His.

Camilla felt Mal watching her watch Clay.

"She told you it was a man?"

Clay swallowed. The box fan clicked in the window.

"She didn't have to."

Camilla leaned forward. "Why not?"

Clay looked at Mal again. "You gonna let her ask all the questions?"

Mal's expression remained unreadable. "I'm interested in the answer."

Clay's jaw worked. He looked suddenly younger. Meaner, too, but underneath it, frightened.

"She came by one night," he said at last. "Late. Too late. Said she needed a place to sit for a while. She was shaking. Kept looking over her shoulder like someone followed her."

"When was this?"

"Week before she went missing. Maybe five days. I don't know."

"You didn't report that?"

"I told him." Clay jerked his chin toward Mal. "He knows."

Camilla turned her head slightly.

Mal's face had not changed.

"I know what he told me," he said.

Clay scoffed. "Right."

Camilla looked back at Clay. "What else?"

Clay's fingers picked at a crack in the recliner arm. "She had something with her."

"What?"

"I don't know. A picture, maybe. Or a card. Kept taking it out of her pocket and putting it back. Wouldn't let me see it."

"A photograph?"

"Maybe."

"Polaroid?"

Clay's eyes snapped to hers. There it was, the smallest fracture. Camilla's pulse gave one hard kick.

"What makes you say that?" Clay asked.

She let the silence stretch half a second too long. "Lucky guess."

Mal was very still by the door.

Clay stood abruptly and crossed to a cluttered side table. He opened a drawer, rummaged through old batteries and screws, then pulled something free.

A small strip of red ribbon.

Faded. Dirty. Torn at one end.

He held it out between two fingers.

"She dropped this."

Camilla didn't take it immediately. "And you kept it?"

Clay's lip curled. "Thought maybe it mattered."

"Why?"

"Because she came back for it."

The air changed. Mal unfolded his arms.

Camilla accepted the ribbon carefully, avoiding Clay's fingers. "Marleen came back here?"

"No." Clay shook his head. "Not here. To the garden. I saw her looking around the shed like she lost something. She was crying. I asked if she needed help, and she told me to leave her alone."

"When?"

"The day before she disappeared."

Camilla turned the ribbon over in her hand. It was ordinary enough. Satin, maybe. The kind used to tie flowers. Or gifts. Or hair. But there was something stiff near the torn end. Dried mud, perhaps.

Or blood.

"Why didn't you give this to the sheriff?" she asked.

Clay's expression hardened. "Because I'm not stupid."

Mal's voice was quiet. "Careful."

Clay looked at him then, and the fear returned. Bigger this time. Harder to hide.

"No," Clay said. "I don't think I will be."

The room seemed to shrink around them.

Camilla looked between the two men.

There was history here. Not just suspicion. Not just dislike.

Clay's hands curled into fists at his sides. "You came here so she could look at me like I'm some kind of animal. Fine. Let her. Everybody already does."

"Nobody said that," Mal said.

Clay laughed again, but it cracked at the edges. "You don't have to."

Camilla slipped the ribbon into her notebook. "What was Marleen afraid of?"

Clay's eyes swung back to her, and for one second, the hostility dropped away.

"I think she was afraid of being chosen."

A chill moved through Camilla, soft as breath along the back of her neck.

"Chosen?" she repeated.

Clay looked toward the window again. "That's what she said. Not to me. To herself. She was sitting right there." He pointed to the couch beside Camilla. "Rocking back and forth, whispering that she didn't want to be chosen. That she didn't mean to be noticed."

Mal's voice came from near the door. "You didn't mention that before."

Clay's mouth twisted. "Maybe I forgot."

"You don't forget something like that."

"No?" Clay stared at him. "Guess you'd know."

The silence that followed was immediate and sharp. Camilla's attention moved to Mal. For the first time since they'd arrived, something dark passed across his face. Not anger. A warning, and Clay saw it too.

He took one step back.

Mal pushed off the wall. "We're done here."

Camilla stood slowly. "I have one more question."

Mal looked at her.

So did Clay.

She ignored Mal and kept her focus on the man in front of her. "Did Marleen ever mention Lake Ralton?"

Clay's face went blank.

Too blank.

"No."

"Think carefully."

"I said no."

But his left hand twitched at his side.

Camilla smiled gently. "Thank you for your time."

Clay watched her like he hated her.

Or feared what she had just found.

Mal opened the door and stepped aside to let her out first. The sunlight outside felt too bright after the dim house. Camilla descended the porch steps, aware of both men behind her.

At the bottom of the steps, Clay spoke again.

"She wasn't bad."

Camilla turned.

Clay stood in the doorway, one hand gripping the frame.

"Whatever people are saying," he said, voice low. "She wasn't bad. She got scared, and then she got stupid. That's not the same thing."

Camilla looked at him for a long moment.

"No," she said. "It isn't."

Mal came down the steps behind her. "Call me if you remember anything else."

Clay looked at him and smiled without humor.

"Sure, Sheriff."

The door shut.

Camilla and Mal walked back to the truck in silence. She could feel the ribbon tucked inside her notebook like a small, bright wound.