“It’s not eavesdropping when you’re yelling.” The girl put down the magazine. “A person randomly disappearing into the woods sounds like a ghost, though.”
“It wasn’t a ghost.” Ashley straightened her posture and fixed the girl with a cool glare. “Ghosts aren’t real.”
“Okay.”
“If it was a ghost, that would mean Tristan’s…”
Dead, she thought.
“Dead?” The girl asked. “Maybe. I think my dads did an episode with a lady who saw ghosts of people who were alive, though.”
“Ashley,” Becky said quietly, “ghosts aren’t real. She’s just trying to promote their show. If you wait for Paris to come in, we can do an official report.”
Ashley kept staring at the girl. This was the daughter Alejo had been discussing with her mother at the grocery store. “Is that why you’re here? Just waiting for people to come in so you can make them watch your show?”
The girl scoffed. Her black hair was gathered up in a sleek, short ponytail, eyes murky with the half-lidded stare of a person who hadn’t slept well.
“No,” the girl said. “The show sucks.”
“Then why are you here?”
“Same reason as you. I’m here to see the sheriff.” The girl inspected her nails. “And I’m first in line.”
“What do you need him for?”
“I’m here to report a hate crime.” She flashed a tight-lipped smile. “You wouldn’t know anything about that, right?”
Ashley pursed her lips. She’d only heard a bit of John and Paul’s conversation the night before, but she was sure they were the guilty party. Outside the front window, the sky was gray as marble. The rest of Snakebite was probably waking up. She would have to explain what she’d seen to Bug and Fran. To her mother.
They wouldn’t believe her, either.
“Can we talk outside for a second?” Ashley asked.
The girl eyed her suspiciously. “I’m good. Don’t wanna lose my spot in line. I’ve already waited two hours for someone to take my statement.”
Ashley turned to Becky, who pointedly avoided eye contact. “You can’t just write down what happened and let her leave?”
“She said she wanted to talk to Paris,” Becky said.
The girl shook her head. “No, I said I wanted to report a crime. I’m totally happy to let you help me.”
Becky offered a thin smile. “Of course. Logan Woodley, right?”
“Ortiz-Woodley,” the girl clarified. “It’s hyphenated.”
Logan Ortiz-Woodley. Ashley chewed on the name while Becky took Logan’s information down. Ortiz was a Snakebite name—relatives of Gracia Carrillo, she thought—but Logan wasn’t a Snakebite kid. She was an outsider. She didn’t know the woods or the lake or the rolling hills. She wasn’t burdened with the years of history this town was built on. When Becky promised that Paris would be in touch soon, Ashley wondered if Logan knew the boy who’d done it was the sheriff’s son. She wondered if Logan knew that this report would amount to a “stern talking-to” for John and nothing else. She wondered if Logan understood how things worked in Snakebite at all.
Logan, apparently satisfied, turned to Ashley and arched a brow. “That was shockingly easy. You have my attention.”
Ashley motioned to the door.
They stepped out into the pale morning. The wind was sweet with the scent of lake water, cool and gentle as linen. Ashley inhaled the summer air and felt a little clearer. A little more present. The foggy haze of the night before slowly began to burn away.