“Upset about what?” I asked.

  “You need to take one of your pills and lie down. I’m gonna handle this.”

  “What are you—” Her voice hooked me, and I turned. She was staring at me, a childlike, unspoken plea for help in her face. “What’s happening?”

  Foster padded across the camper to her and took the tin of pills from her hand. He opened it, took her jaw in one hand, and pressed one of the pills between her lips. When I’d been growing up, I’d seen the neighbors give their dog her medicine the same way. He waited, and she swallowed, and he released, saying, “Go lie down.”

  Tears welled up in her eyes, but they didn’t fall. She gave an unseeing look around the camper, her eyes passing over me as though I weren’t there, and then she made her way to the bunks at the back. She slipped off her clogs and her bare feet looked small and clean as she climbed onto the lower bunk. She had to wiggle around to pull the door shut after her. I thought about Keme sleeping in there too. All three of them packed into that weird little corner room.

  Then Foster turned back toward me. I guess it says something about me that, over the last year, I’ve gotten used to the idea that somebody might want to kill me. My first thought was to check for weapons. He was standing in the kitchen, so knives seemed like a real possibility. But he didn’t open a drawer or rummage around inside a cabinet, and there wasn’t anything even close to a weapon out where I could see it.

  Now that I thought about it, there wasn’t anything out where I could see it. Everything in the camper looked like it had come with the camper. Heck, for that matter, everything except the cushions looked like it was bolted down. Where were the knickknacks? Where was all the junk that accumulated in a shared living space? I tried to think back to the glimpse I’d gotten of the bunks—had there been blankets? I didn’t think so.

  When Foster leaned against the kitchenette’s counter, my attention came back to him. “I don’t know what you think we’re going to say. He didn’t stay the night here. I’m not going to say he did. Whatever he got up to after he left here, that’s his responsibility.”

  “Why did Keme go talk to JT?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “What did he see that made him upset?”

  Foster folded his arms across his chest and shrugged.

  I tried to think about a clever way to ask the next question, and finally I said, “Where’d you get that bruise?”

  “I slipped in the shower.”

  “No, you didn’t.”

  He didn’t say anything.

  “Did Keme hit you?” I asked.

  “If he hit me, I’d kill that kid. I don’t put up with that kind of behavior.”

  It was surreal, listening to this guy who couldn’t have been any older than me talk like he was some sort of father-knows-best stereotype from the Wally Cleaver era.

  “Did Keme see you hurt September?”

  For the first time, something like shock showed on Foster’s face. “I’ve never laid a finger on her.”

  But I saw, in my mind, how he’d held her by the jaw, and how those slender, boyish fingers had forced the pill into her mouth.

  I decided to try a new angle. “Why would Keme be angry with JT?”

  “I told you I don’t know.”

  “I know. I’m asking you to think. Take a guess.”

  “Because JT’s the worst, man. His wife too.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “They’re awful. They run this place like it’s their little kingdom. They’ve got all these rules. They’re always trying to bust someone. And they’ll charge you for anything they can. Petty stuff. One time, we had some friends over, and we didn’t clean up until the next morning, you know. That jagweed fined us for littering.” He shook his head and scoffed.

  “That doesn’t sound like enough to want to murder someone.”

  “Yeah? If you’re late on your rent, man, they don’t miss a beat. Eviction notice. They slap it right on the door and take you to court. One guy, he was sick, so he couldn’t move out. When he was at the hospital, they went in and took all his stuff and put a chain on the door.”

  “That doesn’t seem legal. It’s still his RV, isn’t it?”

  “Nah, they own some of them. Rent them out like apartments. They say you can get your stuff back, but you’ve got two weeks. Don was still in the hospital, you know?” Talking about JT seemed to have made Foster forget his earlier reticence. “There’s this law they’re trying to pass, and it would make it impossible for landlords to jack up the rent. It’s going to pass, too. So, you know what JT and Channelle did?”

  “Raised the rent before the law passed.”

  “It’s crazy, man. Nobody should be allowed to do that. And it’s not like we can afford it—” Foster stopped. As a hint of red climbed his cheeks, he sent a look my way that was simultaneously sullen and challenging, like he was daring me to follow up on that admission.

  Instead, I said, “So, there are lots of people who might want something bad to happen to him.”

  “I don’t know.” But he shifted, adjusting his arms across his chest, and said, “Yeah, I guess.”

  “Anyone in particular? Anyone besides Keme who’s gotten into a disagreement with him lately?”

  “I don’t know,” Foster said again. It must have been automatic, an engrained defensive answer, rather than a genuine one, though, because he said, “This guy showed up yesterday. Pounded on the door. He and JT really got into it.” He must have seen the question in my face because he pointed at a window and said, “The office is right there. It’s a straight shot.”

  “What were they arguing about?”

  “I don’t know.” There it was again, that knee-jerk, adolescent defiance. “They weren’t yelling, but this guy got right up in JT’s face. JT shoved him.”

  This was life in an RV park, I thought. Live entertainment, twenty-four seven.

  “He was police, too,” Foster offered, unprompted.

  “I heard a deputy was out here for a domestic dispute.”

  “Oh, that. No, this guy wasn’t from Hastings Rock. Orange County. That’s what it said on his car.”

  “Did you get a good look—”

  “That deputy was out here later. September called it in. JT and Channelle were going to kill each other.” More of that red rose in his cheeks, and he said, “Shoot, that’s not what I meant.”

  “What did you mean?”

  “They were having a fight, a big one. They do it all the time. Some people don’t know how to build a solid relationship. JT was throwing all of Channelle’s stuff out of the house, and Channelle was screaming at him. When Channelle hit JT, that’s when September called.”

  I tried to construct the sequence of events. “So, the guy from Orange County came, and then later, JT and Channelle got in a fight.”

  Foster nodded.

  “What happened?”

  “Same thing that always happened. Deputy comes out. Splits them up before they can—” Foster stopped. Swallowed. “Channelle goes and stays in a motel for a few days like she’s done with him, but she always comes back.”

  “You saw her leave?”

  “Yeah, she left. That deputy always makes sure she’s actually going to the motel and not just going to loop back and start things up with JT again.”

  “And did you see anybody else after that?”

  Foster shook his head.

  “When was the fight with Keme?”

  “Before all that. I figure that’s why JT was already so worked up when that police officer came to the door.”

  If that was true, then I didn’t understand why the sheriff was so interested in talking to Keme. JT had clearly been alive after their argument. Then a possibility occurred to me.

  “Did you see Keme come back last night?”

  “Nah, he wasn’t going to come back. He was too mad.”

  “Let me guess: you don’t know what he was mad about.”

  In an instant, Foster’s face was closed again, his arms tightening across his chest. He shook his head.

  “All right,” I said. “If you think of anything, can you call Deputy Mai?” I looked around for something to write it down on, but there wasn’t anything—not even takeout napkins. “Will you remember that?”

  “I’ll remember.”

  When I stepped out of the camper, the fresh air was so sweet—full of the scent of dry autumn leaves and the water in the bay and the clean, cold chill of October—that my eyes stung. I hadn’t realized until that moment how claustrophobic the little camper had become. I moved to the end of the pad and looked back. The door was shut. The blinds were down. The aggressively taped-on sign that said COLLSON looked even sadder, somehow. And I thought—even though I tried to convince myself that it was my imagination—that someone in that little camper was staring back at me. Watching me.

  An excited shout made me whip around.

  Deputy Dahlberg was standing at the edge of a line of trees behind the park’s office. She shouted, “Salk!” Then she waved her arms and did a little jump and shouted the other deputy’s name again.

  I stared at her, taking in her visible excitement.

  She found something, I thought.

  The wind snapped a nearby Halloween banner, and I flinched.

  She found something.

  I should get in the car. I should call Bobby.

  Instead, I hurried toward Dahlberg, cutting in a straight line across a stretch of lawn, and then, where the landscaping gave way, through knee-high grass and weeds. It wasn’t the kind of place adults would come. Kids, maybe—kids were drawn to wild places. But I didn’t think a lot of kids came to the Gull’s Nest. I wondered what was on the other side of the trees. My thoughts were like a needle skipping on an old record.

  Dahlberg noticed me when I was still about thirty yards away. “What are you doing here?” she asked. And then she said, “You can’t come over here.”

  Twenty yards.

  “Dash, I’m serious. Turn around.”

  Ten.

  She started to move, putting herself in my path. She was saying something, and I recognized the tone—this wasn’t Deputy Dahlberg my friend, the one who let me in the side door at the station sometimes so I could sneak in a little present for Bobby. This was Deputy Dahlberg the deputy, and she was doing her job.

  And then I saw it.

  Among the trees, on a flat patch of pine duff, lay a pile of clothing. A pair of slides so worn the rubber was gone in places, exposing the fibrous backing. Well-loved (and well-worn) Rip Curl shorts with a familiar stitch along the side, repairing a tear from when a branch had snagged them. The T-shirt showed a cheery hamburger carrying a surf board, and the words Tasty Waves. It should have been white, but instead, it was reddish brown. Rust, I thought. My brain was still skipping. Deputy Dahlberg was saying something. I was missing things, still staring at the shirt.

  Not rust. Blood.

  Chapter 5

  The Hastings Rock sheriff’s office was located inside a concrete building with a flat roof and a bad attempt at a folksy stone veneer. Inside, it wasn’t much better—clean, yes, and well maintained, but it still felt like a public building. It had vinyl tiles and neutral paint, and the lobby was decorated with posters warning you about strangers and suspicious packages and crossing the street. What seemed to be a Muzak rendition of “Thriller” played overhead; it was probably meant to make everyone feel as calm and cozy as if they were stuffed in an elevator. From farther back came voices and then a microwave dinged. Next to me, Indira wrinkled her nose, and Fox stuck out their tongue. Millie and Louis didn’t react—they were too busy holding hands (both hands, as a matter of fact). Then I caught a whiff of something like warmed-up tuna casserole. Nobody asked me, but in my book, microwaving fish in a shared office was a bold move.

  After I’d spotted the bloodstained clothes, Salk had arrived, and he’d escorted me back to the Pilot. (Which was a polite way of saying that Deputy Salkanovich, who was Hastings Rock’s former star quarterback, a total sweetheart, and who had once told me if Bobby broke my heart, he’d wrestle him—very confusing, as you might imagine—had dragged my sorry keister away from the evidence.) I hadn’t wasted any time before calling Bobby. But it didn’t matter; I was too late. Bobby told me they’d already found Keme and taken him to the station. So, I called Indira.

  And now, here we were. The Last Picks.

  Only, not all of us. Because Keme wasn’t here. And neither was Bobby.

  Waiting looked different for each of us. Indira sat perfectly still, with a kind of preternatural calm that was actually more frightening than if she’d been screaming. Fox kept busy for a while punching holes in bottle caps and then stringing them on a shoelace, but they quickly settled into a doze. Millie cried. Like, a lot. Loudly. And Louis looked like he wanted her to let go of one of his hands so he could play on his phone.

  How did I spend my time waiting? I’m so glad you asked. I did what I’m best at: I worried. I’m a great worrier. I worried about everything. I worried until my head ached, until my stomach was completely acidified, and until my neck throbbed like someone had closed a clamp around it. (If you ask me, I did a great job.)

  “Well, well, well. If it isn’t Encyclopedia Brown.”

  I recognized Tripple’s voice before I saw him. He stood at the reception desk, flipping through a stack of papers. He glanced up at me with a smirk. “Did you save your buddy yet?”

  Next to me, Indira radiated anger. Fox snorted in their sleep. Millie burst into a fresh wail of tears. Louis had successfully freed one hand and was reading something on his phone.

  “Ignore him,” I muttered.

  “Let me guess,” Tripple said. “You and Bobby are going to play boyfriend detectives as soon as he’s off duty.”

  “No,” I said. Not because I didn’t like the idea of playing boyfriend detectives with Bobby, but because Bobby had this whole thing about honor and duty and responsibility.

  Tripple just laughed, though. “Sure, you are. You were already poking around at the RV park. Let’s hear what you learned, Deputy Dash.” His tone had that patronizing good humor I associated with distant (and usually unpleasant) elderly relatives. “Did you crack the case?”

  “I wanted to talk to Keme’s mom. He didn’t do this, and if you—” I almost said were halfway decent at your job, but since my conflict-averse meter was quickly buzzing up into the red, I just sank down in my seat and mumbled, “—knew Keme, you’d know that too.”

  “Oh yeah? Did you find some evidence? Got any proof?”

  I refused to look at him, but a flush prickled its way up my neck and into my face.

  “Don’t you have anything that requires your attention, Deputy Tripple?” Indira asked in a clipped tone.

  Tripple only laughed again. He tapped the papers on the desk to line up their edges and headed for the door that led deeper into the station.

  As soon as Tripple cleared the door, Sheriff Acosta stepped into the lobby.

  I shot out of my chair.

  Sheriff Acosta was a sturdily built woman with warm brown skin and dark hair pulled into a ponytail. She was a good sheriff. She was fair. She didn’t throw children in the slammer (never mind that Keme was, legally, an adult). In fact, as far as I knew, she didn’t even call it the slammer. She was a smart, reasonable, competent professional.

  Which is why I said, “This is wrongful arrest. This is false imprisonment. You can’t—”

  Bobby followed the sheriff into the lobby, and she turned to look at him. He didn’t do anything, but something in his pose suggested a nonverbal I warned you.

  “Hello, Dash,” the sheriff said. “Indira, Fox, Millie.” There was a slight pause. “Louis.”

  “Hiya, Sheriff,” Louis said. “We’re all so worried. What can we do to help?”

  He didn’t sound particularly worried, but it still made Millie erupt in a louder-than-usual sob.

  “Is Keme okay?” Indira asked as she got to her feet. Her voice was steady, and her face was smooth, but her hands were tightly clasped, and there was an electric charge of worry in the air around her. “May I see him?”

  “He’s all right,” the sheriff said. “You’ll be able to see him in a little while, I think.”

  “HE DIDN’T DO IT!” Millie’s shout rang out in the lobby as she got up stiffly from her chair. (For that matter, Millie’s shout probably rang out in the next town over. I thought Louis’s eyes might have rolled up inside his head.) “KEME DIDN’T DO IT! HE WAS WITH ME ALL NIGHT.” (The italics are to help you understand she got even. louder.) “AND I HAVE PROOF!” She fumbled her phone out of her pocket to display a picture of a group of people. Keme might have been in the mix, but before I could spot him, Millie swiped. “WE WERE AT A PARTY, SO HE COULDN’T HAVE DONE IT!”

  The sheriff must have been made of sterner stuff than the rest of us mortals because she looked unfazed. She listened to Millie (if listened is the correct word when you feel like someone has a megaphone pressed to your ear) without her expression changing. “That’s good to know, Millie. Thank you for telling me. I’ll need you to make a statement to Deputy Mai, and I’ll need those photos as well.”

  Millie looked like she hadn’t expected that response; her own face seemed caught between the lingering desire to carry on the fight, and numb relief.

  That was until Louis cleared his throat and said, “Well, Sheriff, he wasn’t with us the whole night.”

  “YES, HE—” Millie began.

  Louis shushed her and caught her hand to pat it. “Be quiet now, babe. I’ve got this.”

  You could have heard a pin drop in that room. (If you still had functioning eardrums.)

  I swear to God: Indira growled.

  Fox crossed themselves.

  “Keme was at the party,” Louis said—oblivious to the fact that he was one gingerbread house away from Indira roasting him in an oven. “But he was only there for an hour or so. He was gone by nine.”

  The hurt on Millie’s face was too much to look at; I averted my gaze.