What my mind kept coming back to, like a tongue probing the place where a tooth used to be, was David’s murder. As hesitant as Elliot had been to shoot me, I couldn’t see him killing David in cold blood—even if he’d been willing to search his house for any blackmail David had been holding over Father Mathew, who would be the next most likely candidate. For a moment I questioned why, if Father Mathew had killed David, he hadn’t done it sooner. Instead of going to the lengths he did, why not nip it in the proverbial bud? But just as quickly, I realized it was calculated risk. Skimming from the church’s donations was less dicey than killing a prominent businessman with a family. Even when he was pushed to the extreme and forced to kill Mary to keep the secret, he’d hedged his bets. Mary lived alone and had horses, which could be dangerous at times.
But really the suspect who made the most sense was the Visitor. My first ideation of David’s death was probably the most accurate—a loan shark’s collection agent makes a nighttime visit, things get out of hand, and bam, Occam’s razor and all that. But there was one thing that kept throwing that scenario off. One glaring detail that gave me pause and wouldn’t let my mind rest. I set it aside for later, knowing I’d revisit it soon enough.
In the pantry I took out the note from where I’d replaced it in the rice （the police had searched my house, but thankfully no one had thought to dig through my dry goods） and read it one last time before lighting it on fire in the kitchen. It burned quickly, and I rinsed the ashes down the sink. Then I went to bed, and in the morning Dad told me Rachel had called and asked if I could meet her for a picnic.
The pull-off was deserted just like the last time we’d met at the hiking trail in the mountains. I thought maybe she’d gotten a ride from an Uber or Lyft as I made my way up the path, my assumptions proving out when I rounded a bend and spotted her sitting on a large boulder just off the trail.
I tried not to run but still broke out into a little jog when I saw her. She climbed down, and I attempted interpreting her expression as I got closer, but then she was in my arms, her hair brushing my face, and I was lost and found all at once.
We stayed that way for a time, and when we released one another, I let her be the guide as to what came next. She didn’t lean in for a kiss, only stood back a little and looked at me. I tried to find words （it’s kinda my thing）， but there were none, so I just waited.
She took my hand and led me to the rock, which was pleasantly warm from the sun cresting over the nearest mountain. There was birdsong and the chitter of insects waking up for the day. And my heart, aching and beating furiously over all of it.
“Are you okay?” I asked finally.
She nodded. “As well as I can be.”
“How are the boys?”
“They’re . . . not great. Joey’s been quiet ever since we left home, hasn’t said more than a few words in a row. Asher has been crying almost nonstop since we got back and found . . . found out. My mother’s watching them this morning. I said I had to get away, clear my head. Didn’t think it would be a great idea to be seen together.”
“No, probably not.” I picked at some flakes of rock. “I thought you were—I was really worried.”
“I know. I heard what you did.” She reached up and touched the cuts and bruises on my face. Most were healing well, but the sensation of her fingers set them all alight again. “Thank you.”
Right then, I wanted to tell her everything. Wanted to blurt out I’d been in her house, found out about HerringBone, everything. But I couldn’t. Not yet at least.
She asked about how my dad was doing after the gas incident. I told her he was recovering fine and that the doctors didn’t think there was any permanent brain damage. She laughed when I said he’d asked how the hell they’d tell the difference at this point.
God, I’d missed her laugh.
“You think Father Mathew tried to gas you?” she asked.
I shrugged. “He hasn’t confessed, but why add on another fifty years to his sentence? I don’t think Elliot was capable of it. Not given how hesitant he was to shoot me.”
I could see the look in Elliot’s eyes again, had seen it most nights before dropping off to sleep, and wondered how many foot-pounds of pressure had been left on the trigger before he’d lowered the gun. Everyone has their breaking point, and I didn’t know how close Elliot had come to reaching his. Maybe it was better not to know.
Almost echoing my thoughts, Rachel said, “You never know what people are capable of, do you? What’s really hiding underneath. David was always . . . intense. But he became so much worse once the business started going downhill. He . . .”