Headlights(60)

“We developed your film,” I say.

“What?”

“Your film roll, from your camera.”

The phone buzzes on the table.

“Okay,” she says, unsure.

“There was a photo of Tony Howell on it.”

“Who?”

“The man who was duct-taped into the bed with you.”

“What? I don’t take pictures of people.”

“The photo looks like a mistake. It’s in the parking lot for the trailhead.”

She stares at me. “Maybe whoever took me from the field took the photo after.”

“Your camera was in the field when you all found it, not the parking lot. And the photo was taken before the one of the fox. A week before.”

She takes this in, her legs bouncing faster. She barks a disbelieving laugh, tears filling her eyes. “What is happening right now?”

My phone lights up.

“Where were you last night?” I ask.

“I was at my cabin.”

“No, you weren’t.”

“Yes, I was,” she says, meeting my eye. Holding it. “I was there, in the woods, watching all of you.”

My phone buzzes.

“You—”

“I heard you all coming, and I hid. I didn’t know why you were there or what you could want, but I waited to see. And you never said what you wanted out loud, so I just … stayed. When you left this morning, like I said, I went to the stream and to do my rounds, and when I came back, the knife was there. And now … I’m here.”

“The game camera.”

“I disabled it right after you left.”

“Then you walked twenty-five miles to get here?”

She nods. “Yeah, sounds right. I just…”

My phone, buzzing again.

I reach for it, allow myself to glance down, quickly.

Josie: I did it, Daniel.

I glance up at Hannah, who’s leaned back again. Swiping tears from her eye. I look down, read the text again. What— Josie: I told Jack. I had to tell him.

What?

Josie. Jack knows about the motel?

Another buzz. A message from Jack.

Jack: Daniel, where are you? We have to talk.

Hannah Lawrence sitting on my couch. Hannah Lawrence with a murder weapon.

“Maybe I shouldn’t have come here,” Hannah says. “This was a mistake.”

Josie told Jack about the Happy Inn. About my connection to it. The one I’ve been lying about. I look back up at Hannah.

My phone, buzzing. Still. In my hand.

Buzz.

Hannah’s scared. I don’t trust her. I can’t let her out of my sight until I figure out— The shadows move, restless, near the bar. Hannah stills, clocking the movement. She tenses further, and I think she’s about to make a move of some kind, I ready myself for anything.

“What’s going on?” she asks. And there’s so much fear in the question.

Buzz.

Daphne: I’m sorry.

“Um, just hold on,” I say to Hannah. I try to catch up with all the messages. Try to watch the girl on my couch who very well might be— Josie: What the fuck is happening right now? Is this real?

Hannah leans forward. “Look, I get why you don’t believe me, but please you have to—”

Buzz.

A screenshot from Josie. A forensics report. There’s a sender line at the top, from Daphne to Jack.

“Just,” I say to Hannah. “Just, don’t move. Okay, just give me a—”

I look back down at the report. It’s a hair analysis. Run on a quarter-inch strand of hair from a brown leather jacket. There’s a photo of it.

The brown leather jacket I gave last night to Daphne to borrow.

My brown leather jacket.

My eyes scan the analysis, the words that should make sense but don’t.

Because this says that there was a DNA match.

A DNA match between the hair on my jacket and …

And the hair that was wrapped around the tongues of every single killer.

The hair wrapped around the tongue of every killer in this case, for six years. The one I have been searching for.

The hair, this says …

It’s mine.

Jack: Stay where you are. I’m coming.

I drop the phone and lift my eyes to Hannah.

It was a long hair every time. I shave my head. And anyway, I never— It couldn’t have— But with what Josie told Jack, about my past …

They’ve matched the hair to me. Somehow …

Oh shit.

They’re coming here. Here, where I have Hannah Lawrence in my living room.

And the murder weapon.

I lied about my connection to the case. And my hair …

“What is it?” Hannah says.

I have to think fast, have to make a plan.

“Oh my god,” she says. “They’re doing it to you too.” She lets out a pained laugh. “Someone’s doing it to both of us. Trying to…” But she trails off, watches me. Wondering if I did it. Wondering if she can trust me at all. Looking at me the same way I’ve been looking at her. And how would she know what the messages said? How could she possibly …

Unless she’s a part of it. Unless she’s trying to set me up? Why?