Chapter 5: The Barbecue Trap
The key was a cold, hard sliver against her palm, nestled under the damp condensation of her lemonade glass. Jill stood on the sunbaked patio, the cicadas screaming in the boxwoods as if sounding an alarm. She could still feel the brief, urgent press of Daryl’s fingers against hers, a moment snatched when Shane’s back was turned, grilling tongs in hand.Storage unit 7B.Go-bag.Tonight.
It was happening.Faster than she’d imagined. The parachute wasn’t just buried anymore; it was being handed to her, a key to a locker within a locker. Her heart hammered a frantic rhythm against her ribs, a stark counterpoint to the lazy, country music Shane had pumping from the outdoor speaker.
The backyard was a stage, and she was the lead actress in a play she hadn’t auditioned for.The grass was cut with military precision. The patio furniture, cheap white plastic, was arranged just so. Shane had even bought a new cover for the propane tank, as if presenting a normal, happy home mattered more than the reality of it. The air swam with the smell of searing cheap steak and Shane’s cheap cigar, a cloying, masculine cloud.
“Another round, sweetheart?” Shane called over, his voice all lazy charm. He stood by the grill, a domestic king in a tight black t-shirt and jeans, sweat glistening on his temples.His eyes, though.They were never still. They tracked between the sizzling meat, Daryl in the rickety lawn chair, and her, always her.
“I’m okay,” she said, forcing a small smile, raising her half-full glass.“Daryl? Top you up?” Shane gestured with the beer bottle in his hand.
Daryl sat with an easy slouch, one ankle propped on the opposite knee. He wore faded cargo shorts and a plain blue polo that stretched across his shoulders. He looked exactly like what he was supposed to be: a guy from a local garage, enjoying a free Saturday barbecue.Only his eyes gave him away. They missed nothing. They’d catalogued the fresh, yellowing bruise on her collarbone the moment she’d walked out in her sundress. They’d noted the way she flinched at a sudden laugh from Shane. They were the eyes of a strategist, not a mechanic.“I’m good, Deputy. This one’s still cold.” Daryl held up his bottle. “Y’all keep a better fridge than I do.”
Shane chuckled, a low, satisfied sound. “Gotta keep the wife happy, right Jill?” He winked at her, a grotesque pantomime of affection.She nodded, the movement stiff. “Happy wife, happy life.” The phrase tasted like ash.
The past hour had been a slow, agonizing dance. They’d made bland small talk about the unrelenting heat, the prospects for the high school football team, the upcoming county fair where Daryl’s garage had a booth for oil changes. Daryl had played his part perfectly, his Georgia drawl laid on a little thicker, telling a story about a customer who’d tried to fix his transmission with duct tape and prayers. Shane had laughed, a real one, buying the performance.But the undercurrent was a riptide.
Shane kept steering the conversation back to Daryl’s past.“So, Atlanta, huh? Big change. What made you pick our little slice of nowhere?”
Daryl took a slow pull of his beer.“Cost of living, mostly.Could actually afford a property with a real workshop. Atlanta, you’re paying for the zip code, not the square footage. Plus,” he gestured vaguely with the bottle, “the pace suits me. Nobody honkin’ if you’re three seconds late off a green light.”
“Must’ve had a decent setup there, though,” Shane pressed, flipping a steak.“To just pick up and move. No family tugging you back?”
“Parents are gone.No siblings. Makes it simpler.” Daryl’s tone was final, a door gently closed.“You know how it is. Sometimes a clean break is what you need.”
Jill felt the weight of those words.A clean break.Was that what this was?For her?
“Simpler is good,” Shane agreed, but his gaze was sharp.“Less baggage. Course, around here, folks tend to know everybody’s business anyway. You’ll get used to it.Or they’ll get used to you.”
It was a threat, velvet-wrapped.
The food was a tense, quiet affair. Jill picked at her potato salad, the mayonnaise base threatening to revolt in her stomach. Shane held court, talking about departmental politics, a new directive from the county commissioner, all while watching Daryl for a reaction. Daryl chewed his steak, nodded in the right places, offered nothing.
“You hunt, Daryl?” Shane asked suddenly, leaning back and lighting another cigar.“Some.Back in the day.Not so much lately. Time, you know?”
“A man needs to keep his skills sharp.” Shane blew a smoke ring. “We got a cabin up near Folkston.Good land.Hogs, deer. You should come out with me next weekend.Do some shooting.Get a feel for the area.” He smiled, all teeth. “Man-to-man.No women to fuss over the mess.”
Jill’s blood went cold. A weekend in the woods.Alone with Shane.It was a test, an isolation play. Or something worse.Daryl didn’t hesitate. He met Shane’s gaze, a slow, easy smile spreading across his face.It didn’t reach his eyes.“Yeah. I’d like that.Sounds good.”
The acceptance seemed to please Shane. He nodded, a king granting a favor.“Good. We’ll firm it up midweek.” He pushed his plate back and stood.“Need another beer.Jill, you sure you don’t want something stronger? That lemonade looks pathetic.”
“I’m fine, really.”
“Suit yourself.” He clapped a heavy hand on Daryl’s shoulder as he passed. “Keep our guest company.”
The moment Shane slid open the glass door and disappeared into the dim house, the atmosphere on the patio shifted. The air, thick with heat and tension, seemed to crackle. Jill could hear Shane rummaging in the kitchen, the clink of bottles.
Daryl’s posture didn’t change, but his voice dropped to a low, urgent murmur. “You okay?”
She gave a tiny, almost imperceptible nod.Her eyes were locked on the door.“The key. Unit 7B.It’s off Route 16, the Stor-N-Lock. Combination is the same as the other one.Tonight. Can you make it?”
“He’s home,” she breathed, the words barely audible.“He’ll sleep.The whiskey, the beer. He’ll crash hard.You go after midnight.” Daryl’s eyes were intense, drilling into hers. “Your bag from the hamper. Put it in the trunk of your car now, under the spare tire cover.Do it when you clear these plates.It’s ready to go.”
Her mind raced. The hamper.He knew where she’d moved it.He was watching everything. “What’s in 7B?”
“Everything you need. Passport, cash, paperwork under your new name.A prepaid card.A phone.A map.It’s the final step. From there, you drive. You don’t come back.”
The finality of it was a physical blow.“The signal… you said not to…”
“This is different. This is pre-extraction.You get the bag from 7B, you come home, you wait. If anything goes wrong, if he wakes, you signal.I will come. But the cleaner we make this, the better. You walking out your front door with a suitcase isn’t an option.”
The door slid open.Shane emerged, three fresh bottles dangling from his fingers. Daryl’s expression smoothed back into casual ease.He took the beer Shane offered.
“Everything all right out here?” Shane’s eyes flicked between them, a predator checking his territory.
“Just admiring your azaleas,” Daryl said, taking a sip. “Told Jill she’s got a greener thumb than I do.”
Shane looked at the sad, sun-scorched shrubs lining the fence and smirked. “Yeah, she’s something else.” He dropped into his chair, the plastic groaning under his weight. The conversation limped on for another torturous half-hour, a slow bleed of daylight and patience.Finally, Daryl stood, stretching. “Deputy, Jill, this has been real nice.But I gotta open the shop early tomorrow for a tow. Appreciate the hospitality.”
“Anytime,” Shane said, not getting up. He radiated a smug satisfaction, as if the interrogation had been a success. “We’ll talk about that hunt.”
“Looking forward to it.” Daryl’s smile was a perfect, professional curve. He gave a little nod to Jill.“Ma’am. Thanks for the lemonade.”
“Of course,” she whispered.
She watched him walk across the too-perfect grass, around the side of the house, and out of sight.The key felt like it was burning a hole in her clenched fist.
The cleanup was a silent, furious affair. Shane sat at the table, drinking another beer, watching her scrape plates into the trash.“Friendly guy,” he mused.
“Seems it,” she said, her back to him.“Too friendly, maybe. Asking about my shifts.” Shane took a long drink.“Asked when you worked, too.Casually. But he asked.”
Ice flooded her veins.She kept scrubbing a already-clean plate. “Probably just making conversation.”
“Probably.” Shane stood up, the chair legs scraping loudly on the concrete. He came up behind her, too close.She could feel the heat and the menace radiating off him. His hands closed around her upper arms, not painfully, but with absolute possession.His lips brushed her ear. “You’d tell me if he ever said anything out of line, right? If he ever… looked at you wrong?”
Her breath hitched. “Of course.”
“Good girl.” He released her, giving her arm a patronizing pat.“Because he’s not what he seems. And I’m gonna find out what he is. Next weekend should be… enlightening.” He walked away, leaving her trembling at the sink.The night descended like a shroud. Shane drank until his words slurred, until his eyes glazed over. He flicked through TV channels, a dark presence sprawled on the couch. Jill moved through the house like a ghost, every creak of the floorboard a gunshot in her ears. When she passed the laundry room, she didn’t pause, but her eyes went to the hamper. The backpack was inside, a secret heart beating in the belly of the house.At ten, Shane stumbled upstairs, muttering. She heard the heavy thud of him falling into bed.She waited at the base of the stairs, listening. Soon, the deep, ragged sound of his snoring rattled through the floorboards.This was it.
Her hands were slick with sweat.She crept into the laundry room, pulling the backpack from under the towels. It was heavier now with the added weight of her resolve. She carried it to the kitchen, pausing at every shadow, every hum of the refrigerator.The backyard was a pool of ink through the glass door.
She couldn’t go out the back.The sound of the sliding door might wake him. She had to use the front.Holding her breath, she turned the deadbolt on the front door. The click was deafening.She froze, ears straining.The snoring continued, unbroken. She opened the door just wide enough to slip through, then gently, so gently, closed it behind her.The night air was cooler, a relief after the stifling house. It carried the smell of damp earth and distant honeysuckle. She hurried across the dew-wet grass to the carport, her sneakers making soft, sucking sounds.Her sedan sat waiting, a familiar shape in the dark.
She popped the trunk.The light was blinding. She fumbled for the latch for the spare tire cover, her fingers clumsy with fear.It came up. The well was empty save for the tire.She shoved the backpack deep into the cavity, rearranging the thin cover over it. It wasn’t perfect, but it would have to do. She closed the trunk, the sound a hollow thump in the silent night.Phase two.Now, Unit 7B.
She got into the driver’s seat.The leather was cold.The key shook as she inserted it into the ignition. She paused.What if he hears the engine?He was dead asleep, drunk asleep. She had to believe that.She turned the key. The engine coughed, then rumbled to life.It sounded like a jet engine in the quiet. She threw it into reverse and coasted backward down the driveway, not touching the gas, letting the incline do the work. Only when she was on the blacktop of the road did she press the accelerator.
The world outside her headlights was a tunnel of darkness and overhanging trees. Route 16 was a lonely stretch two miles south of town. She drove past shuttered farm stands and closed-down gas stations, her high beams carving a path through the void. Every pair of oncoming headlights sent a jolt of terror through her.Was it Shane?Was it Fowler?But the road stayed empty.
The Stor-N-Lock sign appeared, a faded blue rectangle illuminated by a single, buzzing sodium light. The place was a maze of identical orange garage doors.She slowed, crawling past the units. 1A, 2A… 6B… there.7B.
She parked, killed the lights, but left the engine running. The silence, broken only by the idle purr of her car, was profound.She got out, the little key icy in her hand.
The padlock on the rolling door was stiff.She wrestled with it, panic rising. What if it’s the wrong key?What if this is a trap?With a gritty click, it released. She tugged the handle. The door rolled up with a thunderous, rattling crash that echoed across the empty lot.She flinched, waiting for sirens, for shouts.Nothing.
Inside, the unit was small, maybe five by five, and almost empty. In the center, under the bare bulb she’d switched on, sat a single, sleek black duffel bag. Not the one from Shane’s unit.This was new, nylon, unmarked.
She dragged it out, her muscles straining against the weight.It was heavier than hers.She unzipped the top.
Neatly packed inside were clothes—jeans, t-shirts, a jacket—all in her size. A toiletry bag.A sealed envelope thick with cash.A brand-new, charged smartphone. A Georgia driver’s license with a picture of her, but the name read Katherine May Greene. The birthdate was the same.Her chest tightened. There were other documents: a social security card, a birth certificate for Katherine, even a library card and a few junk mail envelopes to sell the identity. A detailed map of the southeastern US with a route highlighted in yellow from Macon to Atlanta, and then branching north. A set of car keys with a fob for a Toyota, and a note: Grey lot, Macon Terminal.Silver Corolla.Clean.
It was a life.A complete, fabricated, ready-to-wear life.
At the very bottom, wrapped in a soft cloth, was a small, black pistol.She stared at it. The metal gleamed dully under the light.She had never held a gun.The thought repulsed her, terrified her. But the message was clear: Daryl was arming her. He was giving her the ultimate tool of self-preservation, the final negation of Shane’s control.
She zipped the bag shut, her fingers trembling. She shoved it into the passenger seat of her car, rolled the storage door down, and snapped the lock back into place.The entire operation had taken less than three minutes.
The drive home was a blur of heightened nerves.Every shadow was a lurking threat. As she turned onto her street, she scanned for strange vehicles, for any sign of life.The houses were dark, sleeping. Shane’s SUV was still in the carport, a silent, hulking beast.
She parked exactly where she had been. She sat for a moment, listening to the engine tick as it cooled.She had the new duffel.She couldn’t bring it inside. The trunk was already occupied.The crawlspace.It was the only place. She grabbed the heavy bag, hefted it, and half-dragged it across the wet grass to the north side of the house.The loose vent grate came free more easily this time, a practiced move. She shoved the black duffel deep into the darkness. Two lives, buried in the dirt.
She replaced the grate, wiped her muddy hands on her jeans, and slipped back into the house through the front door.The snoring was still there, a rhythmic sawing from upstairs. She leaned against the locked door, her entire body shaking with adrenaline and disbelief.She had done it. She had the means.A car, money, a new name, a gun. The exit was no longer a concept; it was a set of keys, a stack of bills, a map.
She crept upstairs, past the bedroom where her husband slept, and into the bathroom. She locked the door and stared at her reflection in the medicine cabinet mirror. Her face was pale, her eyes wide and fever-bright.The woman looking back was both the same frightened girl and someone entirely new.Katherine May Greene.
A soft vibration in her pocket made her jump. She pulled out the burner phone—the one from the percolator.A new message from Daryl.Status?
She typed, her fingers clumsy on the tiny keys.Bag retrieved.Hidden.Car ready.
The response was immediate.Good.Now wait.Do not engage.Let him plan his hunt. You are Katherine now.Start to think like her.When the time comes, you will know. I am here.What about Kelsey?she typed, the girl’s smudged eyes haunting her.
A long pause.Then: Not your concern.Focus on your path. That’s the only way.The coldness of it stung.But he was right. She couldn’t save everyone.She could barely save herself. She was a nurse, but this was triage, and her own pulse was the weakest.
She powered off the phone, hid it back in its metal womb, and left the bathroom.The hallway was dark. Shane’s snores were a tractor engine idling in the night.She didn’t go into the bedroom. She went to the spare room, the one they never used, and lay down on the bare, musty mattress.
She stared at the ceiling, seeing not the popcorn texture but the highlighted route on a map, leading away. She was Katherine now.Katherine was waiting.Katherine was ready to run.
And Shane, across the hall, dreaming of his hunting trip, had no idea the prey was already preparing to vanish into a different wilderness altogether.
The mattress springs creaked under her weight, a lonely sound in the empty room. Jill lay perfectly still, listening to the house settle around Shane’s ragged breath. Each exhale was a timer counting down. Katherine. The name felt foreign, a costume she hadn’t tried on yet. She closed her eyes and imagined walking through a grocery store, handing that license to a cashier. “Thank you, Ms. Greene.” The fantasy was thin, brittle, punctured by the raw-knuckled reality in the room across the hall.
Sleep was impossible. Her mind raced over the details like fingers over worry beads. The cash was real. The gun was real. The map was a tangible line out of this suffocating county. But between her and that line stood Shane, and his instinct for control was a bloodhound’s nose. He’d smelled a threat in Daryl. It was only a matter of time before he started digging up his own yard, searching for the leak.
A floorboard groaned in the hallway.
Jill’s breath seized in her chest. Her eyes flew open, fixed on the thin strip of light under the door. The snoring had stopped. Heavy, shuffling footsteps moved past the spare room, toward the stairs. A stumble, a muted curse. The refrigerator door opened and closed downstairs. She released a shaky breath. Just water. Just the aftermath of whiskey. But the interruption severed her fragile thread of meditation. She was Jill again, trapped in the dark.
The dawn arrived not with light but with a slow, grey leaching of the darkness. She heard Shane rise, his movements slower than usual, weighted with hangover and preoccupation. She waited until she heard the shower roar to life before she slipped back into the master bedroom. The bed was a chaotic landscape of twisted sheets. The air stank of sweat and alcohol. She moved quickly, mechanically, stripping the bed, spraying linen spray, rebuilding the facade of normalcy.
She was at the stove, scrambling eggs she knew he wouldn’t eat, when he entered the kitchen. He was in his uniform pants and a white t-shirt, his hair damp. He studied her for a long moment, his eyes puffy but sharp.
“You’re up early,” he said, his voice gravel.
“Couldn’t sleep,” she replied, truthfully. She kept her focus on the pan. “Coffee’s ready.”
He grunted, pouring a cup. He leaned against the counter, sipping, watching her. The silence was a physical pressure. “I been thinking about our neighbor.”
Her spatula stilled for a half-second. “Oh?”
“Yeah. Friendly guy. Helpful.” Shane took another slow sip. “Too helpful, maybe. People aren’t that nice without a reason.”
“Some people are just kind,” she offered weakly, the eggs beginning to stick.
“No.” The word was final. “They’re not. He’s after something. Either he’s a freak who wants what’s mine, or he’s something else.” He set his cup down with a deliberate click. “I’m going to run his plates today. Do a proper dig. See what the system spits out on Mr. Daryl Dawson.”
Ice water trickled down her spine. The system. His system. If Daryl’s cover had even a hairline fracture, Shane would find it. And if he found it, the connection would snap instantly to her. The friendly neighbor, the concerned mechanic, the man who’d fixed her car for free. It would paint a picture of conspiracy in Shane’s paranoid mind.
“You think he’s dangerous?” she asked, sliding the eggs onto a plate.
“I think he’s an unknown. And in my line of work, unknowns get sorted.” He pushed off the counter, ignoring the food. “I’ll be at the station. Don’t… don’t answer the door for anyone.”
After he left, the house didn’t feel like a refuge. It felt like a crime scene waiting to be discovered. His threat echoed. I’m going to run his plates. Every minute that ticked by was a minute closer to Shane unravelling everything. The plan for a clean, silent escape was crumbling under the weight of his suspicion.
She had to warn Daryl.
But the phones were for emergencies, for signals. This felt like an emergency, but was it the kind that warranted contact? He’s watching. Be ready. He was preparing for scrutiny, surely. He was a professional. But Shane with the resources of the sheriff’s office, however corrupt, was a different beast than Shane the jealous husband.
Indecision paralyzed her. She cleaned the kitchen twice. She stood at the living room window, staring at Daryl’s quiet house. His pickup was gone; the shop opened at eight. The normalcy of it was agonizing.
Finally, desperation overrode protocol. She retrieved the phone from the percolator. Her message was blunt. He’s running your plates today. Doing a deep dig.
The response took ten minutes. Each second was a lifetime. Expected. Cover is layered. But appreciate the heads up. Change of plan. Can you get out of the house?
Her pulse jumped. He’s at work. I have hours.
Public place. Library. 11 AM. Use the rear computer terminal in the corner. I’ll make contact. Do not acknowledge me if you see me.
The Elgin County Library was a single-story brick building on the sleepy town square. Jill pushed through the glass doors at five minutes to eleven, the air conditioning a shock against her skin. The familiar smell of old paper and lemon-scented polish wrapped around her. It was a smell from a simpler time, from school projects before her father died, before Shane. She forced her breathing to calm.
She nodded at Mrs. Dalrymple, the ancient librarian, who peered over her cat-eye glasses and gave a faint smile. Jill moved past the stacks of romance novels and the large-print section, heading toward the back where four aging computer terminals sat on a laminated wood desk. The last one, tucked beside a window overlooking a cramped alley, was free.
She sat down, the plastic chair squeaking. She logged in with her library card, the act mundane, calming. She opened a browser and stared blankly at the search engine. Her hands were cold. She resisted the urge to look around.
A man sat down at the terminal next to her, one seat between them. He wore a baseball cap pulled low and wire-rimmed glasses she’d never seen before. It was Daryl. He didn’t look at her. He typed, the clicks of his keyboard loud in the quiet room.
Her own screen flickered. A chat window popped up in the bottom right corner, an internal library system message. The username was “Patron_ASK.”
Patron_ASK: Status?
She swallowed, her fingers clumsy on the keys.
Jill_TW: He’s suspicious. Not of me, of you. He’s digging. The hunting trip is a test.
Patron_ASK: Understood. Timeline has moved. His dig will hit a firewall, but it will provoke him. He’ll act sooner. Can you be ready to move tonight?
Tonight. The word stole the air from her lungs. She thought of the bags in the crawlspace, the key to the Corolla. She thought of Shane’s empty beer bottles, his sharp, searching eyes.
Jill_TW: I have everything. Where?
Patron_ASK: Do not go to Macon. It’s compromised if he’s this active. New route. Take your car to the Wal-Mart parking lot in Brunswick. 90 miles east. Park near the garden center at 1 AM. A blue Ford van with a ladder rack will flash its lights twice. Get in. They will take you to a safe house.
It was a harder cut. No car of her own. No map. Trusting strangers in a van.
Jill_TW: Who are they?
Patron_ASK: Friends. They’re clean. This is the cleaner exit. The hunting trip is Friday. You cannot be here Friday.
Friday. Three days away. She had thought she had time to brace herself, to let Katherine solidify.
Jill_TW: What about you? He’ll know you helped me.
On the screen next to her, Daryl typed, his expression neutral, as if researching auto parts.
Patron_ASK: My problem. Don’t worry about me. Your only job is to be at that spot at 1 AM. Signal only if you cannot leave the house. If you signal, I will create a diversion. It will be messier. This is the clean way.
A diversion. She didn’t want to think about what that meant.
Jill_TW: Okay.
Patron_ASK: Destroy this chat log. Log out. Leave in five minutes. Go about your day. You are Jill Walsh until you are not.
The chat window vanished. She cleared the browser history, her movements automatic. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Daryl stand, adjust his cap, and walk away without a backward glance. He disappeared between the shelves of reference books.
She sat for a full five minutes, staring at the library’s homepage. Her future had just been rewritten in a few lines of text on a public computer. Brunswick.1 AM. A blue van. She committed it to memory, then rose on legs that felt insubstantial.
The rest of the day was an exercise in surreal normality. She went to the Piggly Wiggly and bought groceries, nodding at other wives in the aisle. She bought the cereal Shane liked, the coffee he preferred. She was building evidence of a future that would not exist. The mundane chore felt like an out-of-body experience.
She was putting the milk away when Shane’s SUV crunched into the driveway hours early again. Her heart catapulted into her throat. It wasn’t even three o’clock.
He came in through the back door, his face a storm cloud. He threw his keys on the table, the sound a violent slap. He didn’t speak. He went to the fridge, grabbed a beer, twisted the top off, and drank half of it down in one long pull.
“Well?” he finally said, turning to her. His eyes were dark with frustrated anger.
“Well what?” she asked, wiping her hands on a dish towel.
“Your friend. Dawson.” He practically spat the name. “His plates are registered to a holding company that dissolves into a fucking maze. Social security number traces back to a kid who died in a car crash in Tennessee in 1992. His mechanic’s certification is a grade-A forgery.”
Jill kept her face still, a mask of confused concern. “What does that mean?”
“It means he’s a ghost!” Shane slammed the beer bottle on the counter. “It means he’s not who he says he is. It means he’s here for a reason.” He started pacing the narrow kitchen floor. “Fowler’s upstairs are pissed. The missing product, now this… this infestation next door. They think it’s connected.”
“You think Daryl robbed your storage unit?” She let her voice climb slightly in pitch, playing incredulous.
“I don’t know what the hell to think!” He stopped pacing, pinning her with his gaze. “But he’s going to tell me. This weekend. In the woods.” A cruel, cold smile touched his lips. “It’s amazing what a man will confess when he’s isolated. When he’s got a .308 pointed at his gut and no one for miles to hear him scream.”
The graphic threat hung in the air. He wasn’t just planning a hunt; he was planning an interrogation. A execution. Daryl knew it. You cannot be here Friday.
“That sounds… dangerous,” she managed.
“For him.” Shane finished his beer. “For us, it’s housekeeping.” He looked at her, really looked at her, as if seeing her for the first time that day. “You’re quiet.”
“I’m worried. You’re talking about… shooting our neighbor.”
“I’m talking about protecting what’s mine.” He stepped close, cupping her chin in his hand. His grip was firm, not yet painful, but promising it. “You’re mine. This house is mine. My business is mine. He’s a threat to all of it. And I remove threats. You understand that, don’t you Jill?”
She nodded, her skin crawling where he touched her. “I understand.”
He searched her eyes, looking for dissent, for deception. She gave him only fear, the old, familiar currency. It seemed to satisfy him. He released her.“Good. Now act like it. We’re going to Fowler’s for a cookout tonight. Be ready at seven. Wear the blue dress.”
It was a command, a reinforcement of control on a day he felt it slipping. A public display. She was to be his smiling accessory at the home of the man who had threatened her, while they all discussed the ghost next door and the missing contraband. The sheer, grotesque normalcy of the order was almost worse than the violence.
“Okay,” she said.
She went upstairs and took the blue floral dress from the closet. It was modest, knee-length, something a preacher’s wife might wear. Shane had bought it for her. She laid it on the bed, a costume for the final act.
As she showered, the water scalding her skin, she weighed her dissolving options. Go to Fowler’s, play the part, come home, and then try to slip out before 1 AM? It was tight, so tight. Shane would be drinking, but he’d also be keyed up, volatile. He might stay late, he might pass out as soon as they got home. There were too many variables.
The signal. She could use the signal. Daryl would create a diversion. But what would that be? A fire? A fake call? It would bring chaos, and chaos was unpredictable. It could draw other deputies here. It could end with Shane more enraged, more dangerous, or with Daryl exposed and in a shootout.
No. The van was the plan. The clean way. She had to make it work.
Fowler’s house was a sprawling brick ranch on a large, manicured lot outside town. Cars were parked haphazardly on the grass. The smell of charcoal and cigar smoke hit them as they walked up the drive. Country music boomed from outdoor speakers. Men in polo shirts and jeans clustered around a massive grill, holding beers. Their wives sat in a separate cluster on a patio set, their laughter sounding sharp and artificial.
Jill felt every eye on her as Shane guided her through the crowd with a hand on the small of her back. The gesture looked possessive, not protective. Fowler detached himself from the men at the grill, a broad grin on his face that didn’t touch his cold eyes.
“Walsh! And the lovely Jill. Glad y’all could make it.” He clapped Shane on the shoulder, a comradely gesture that seemed loaded. “Get y’all a drink. Jill, the girls are over there. Shane, let’s talk.”
Shane was pulled into the masculine orbit. Jill was gently, firmly, steered toward the women. She knew them all, vaguely. Deputies’ wives, a county clerk, the woman who ran the salon. Their conversation died as she approached, then restarted with forced vigor.
“Jill! Love that dress,” said Cheryl Fowler, a brittle blonde with a smile like polished glass. “How are you, sweetheart?”
“I’m well, thank you,” Jill said, accepting a glass of sweet tea she didn’t want.
“We were just talking about the vandalism out at the old Miller place,” another woman said. “Such a shame.”
Jill nodded, sipping her tea, letting their chatter wash over her. She was a satellite, orbiting their reality but not part of it. From her position, she could see the men. Shane had his back to her, but Fowler was facing her direction. He was talking animatedly, but his eyes kept flicking to her, assessing, measuring.
Then Fowler leaned in, said something low to Shane, and gestured with his beer bottle toward the shadowy tree line at the back of the property. Shane nodded. The two men began to walk, away from the music and the light, into the darkness.
A cold knot tightened in Jill’s stomach. This wasn’t just a cookout. It was a meeting.
She excused herself, pleading a need for the bathroom. Inside Fowler’s house, it was quieter, though the thump of bass still vibrated through the floors. She didn’t go to the bathroom. She moved down a hallway, past a home office with the door ajar. At the end of the hall was a sunroom. Its windows were open, screened, overlooking the very back of the yard where the trees began.
She could hear their voices, low and carrying on the still night air.
“…can’t wait ’til the weekend,” Fowler was saying. “This is a live wire. My guy is breathing down my neck. He wants his product or his money. This Dawson character is a hole in the fence. You plug it, then we find the bag.”
“I’ll plug it,” Shane’s voice, flat and sure. “But the bag’s gone. Whoever has it is long gone. Dawson might know, but he didn’t take it. His hands are too clean for a B&E. He’s something else.”
“What’s your read?”
A pause. She could imagine Shane shrugging. “Statie? Maybe Feds, but that’s a stretch for a county like this. Private? Maybe working for a rival. Doesn’t matter. In the woods, he’ll tell me who he’s talking to. Then he’ll have an accident. A hunting accident.”
“Make it clean.”
“Always do.”
Jill’s hand was pressed against her mouth, stifling her breathing. They were so calm, discussing murder over beers. An accident. Daryl knew. He had to know. This confirmed it all.
Fowler’s voice dropped further. “And your home front? She solid?”
“Jill?” Shane’s tone was dismissive. “She’s scared of her own shadow. She does what she’s told. She’s no part of this.”
“Just make sure. Women get ideas. They talk to their hairdressers, their ministers. They see things.”
“She sees what I let her see.” Shane’s voice took on a hard edge. “That’s my business, Roy.”
“Alright, alright. Just saying. After you handle Dawson, we need to focus on the loss. Money needs to move. Accounts need squaring. It’s gonna get messy for a minute.”
The conversation shifted to talk of money laundering, of a trucking company in Valdosta, of percentages. Jill had heard enough. More than enough. She backed away from the sunroom.