Wells’s private cell phone.
His attorney answered on the third ring. “Owen?”
“Yeah, yeah, it’s me. Can’t you do something? The goddamned press is hounding me, the police are following me—I’m sure of it—and I get calls at work! This is harassment.”
“Refuse to take the phone calls.”
“I do, but there are reporters at my place right now. Two fuckin’ news vans. One reporter is talking to my landlady right now!”
“Calm down, Owen—”
“No! I’m not calming down. I can’t go any damned where without being dogged. I feel like I’m goin’ out of my fuckin’ mind!”
“Whoa—slow down. It’ll be all right.”
“How do you know that?”
“Because you didn’t do it. Right?”
“Right!”
“So just get through this. It’ll all be worth it.”
“I don’t know, man, I’m . . .” His throat clogged and he looked through the bug-spattered windshield to spy a cruiser for the county drive slowly past. “Oh, Jesus, there’s nowhere I can go.” He closed his eyes for a second, tried not to give in to the paranoia, the worries that plagued him every damn night. He wanted to remember his sisters as they were, remembering how sweet and innocent they’d been and then . . . then the unthinkable. And when he did finally go to sleep, the nightmares would come and he’d see them, all three as skeletons with rotting flesh, blond tufts of hair and jaws that opened and closed jaggedly as they forever repeated:
It’s your fault, Owen. All your fault.
Over and over again.
“I just don’t know how much of this I can take,” he said to the lawyer. “They found another body, you know. They think it could be Rose.”
“No one knows that for sure. If you need to, go to a hotel.”
“Won’t matter. They’ll camp out at the dealership.” He closed his eyes. Thought of the unending days of being pursued. Why had he ever thought he should come back here? To be closer to a mother who was now married to a pious, self-serving prick?
But she’s the only one who believes in you. The cops don’t trust you, the press has already tried, convicted, tarred and feathered you. Even this attorney on the other end of the phone call is just using you. For publicity. To parade you out to the public, to grandstand. For his own purposes.
Fleetingly he thought of Ashley. How completely he’d loved her. Trusted her. Had faith in her.
And she had dropped him to marry some rich dude she’d met in college. He’d half expected it, of course. It wasn’t as if she was all that true to him. She’d dated a ton of guys in high school, but he’d thought, no, probably fantasized that she’d see that he was a true heart and they’d end up together.
Happily ever after.
“Fuckin’ moron,” he said aloud.
“What?” Wells asked.
Oh, shit. He’d done it again. Lost track of where he was. “Sorry. Someone almost backed into me.”
“So take my advice. Take a few days off work. Hole up in a hotel. Go to Atlanta. Get lost. Clear your head.”
“That takes money.”
“I’ll advance it to you.”
“It also takes a pretty damned understanding boss.” He thought of Marv Thompson, the bulky ex special ops guy he worked for, a muscular black dude with a shaved head and thick moustache. Big and smart. Suffered no fools. Herb might understand, then again he might not, and the owner of the dealership wasn’t quite so lenient.
“Just hang tough,” Wells was saying, but Owen wasn’t listening as he saw the news van pull into the lot. Of all the dumbass luck! What were the chances? He slammed his hat lower on his head, made sure his wraparound sunglasses covered as much of his face as possible.
He would back out and ease into traffic because he was pretty damned sure the press had the make and model of his truck along with the license plate.
It would never end.
Hang tough, Wells had said. Oh, yeah, sure. That would solve the problem.
His cell phone buzzed and he checked the text:
Murderer.
You’re going to fry.
His stomach knotted. He’d already deleted his social media accounts, but somehow they’d found him, gotten his cell phone number.
He swallowed hard and shoved the gearshift into reverse.
The voice in his head that had gotten louder by the day reminded him that all the “hanging tough” in the world wouldn’t be enough.
They’re gonna find you.
They’re gonna hunt you down like a pack of wolves on a wounded stag and then, no matter what you do, they’re gonna pounce.
Face it, Duval. You’re doomed.
* * *
“I’m