Is Dina connected to these murders? Is she running from something?
I sigh heavily. This doesn’t help if she is… Because she isn’t damn well here.
I step forward and knock on the door. There’s no noise from inside, so I knock again, although I know it’s futile. She isn’t here. No one is here.
Dammit. This is frustrating. I’m pretty sure Dina was still here when Annabelle went missing, so maybe she saw something. Or did Dina go missing when Annabelle did?
I don’t even know anymore. Everything is so confusing.
My eyes drop to the door handle. It’d be crazy to try it, wouldn’t it? Not to mention illegal. Then again…if she isn’t here, who’s gonna know?
I smack my lips together. All right. I’m gonna try it.
I wrap my fingers around the door handle and push it down. It goes, and with a tiny bit of pressure, the door clicks open. I let the handle go like it’s burning my skin and jump back.
That isn’t good.
Why would her door be unlocked if she isn’t here?
I reach into my purse as I step inside and pull my gun out. It’s dark in here, and the air is a little stale, almost as if no windows have been opened for days. Quietly, I pull the door shut behind me and step through the store.
Of course today is the day my foot is finally healed enough to wear high heels.
Of fucking course.
Have you ever walked on tiptoes in four-inch heels? Yeah. Don’t. It’s like being en pointe except it feels like I’m being thrown into the fiery pits of tightrope-walking hell.
I give up and just make my steps more careful. The whole building seems to be completely still. It doesn’t sound like anyone is here at all…but I’m not convinced. I have the bad kind of gut feeling that makes your stomach roll, and mine is most definitely rolling.
The door to the store room is ajar, and I slowly walk through, my gun still at the ready. I’m not taking any chances after last night.
Except, you know. Walking into this store.
The store room is empty too, but a faint light is emitting from a corner. I walk toward it and see a set of stairs I didn’t see last time I was here. If there’s a light on upstairs… I glance around downstairs one last time then take each step slowly.
My heels click against the exposed-wood stairs. I pause every three or four steps, but when I hear nothing, I continue up the final few without another thought.
The upstairs is clearly an apartment—Dina’s apartment. The light I saw downstairs is a standing lamp next to a beige, suede sofa decorated with various bohemian-type throw cushions. Her apartment is kind of…hippie. There’s an odd cauldron-type thing in the corner, and the kitchen windowsill is filled with various leafy, green plants.
Smells kinda funny up here.
Photos are lined up along a side cabinet, and one in particular catches my eye. With another final glance around to make sure I’m still alone, I walk toward them. I reach out to grab the frame but stop at the last minute.
Fingerprints.
Instead, I bend down so I can see it more clearly.
The photo is of Dina and a man I recognize to be Jackson Bullock. In fact, all of them are of Dina and Jackson Bullock, and the only difference is that Jackson looks much younger in some of them than he is in the one right in the center, the most recent one, judging by what I saw of him yesterday.
It wasn’t much, to be honest, and I could be wrong. I was shaken after my chat with Alistair and barely stopped to glance at him as I passed, but he has the same short, dark hair Eddie described to me, and I don’t know. Maybe I saw more of him than I thought, or maybe I’ve got it wrong. It’s just… It looks like him. That’s all.
Why would Dina have pictures of Jackson Bullock in her apartment? Why would she have this many? Are they related? I know that Dina and her mom have been here for years—at least since Dina was in her teens, from what I can remember. Maybe there was a falling-out in the family and they reconnected when the fair came to town. I can see Dina as a traveler, and her mom always was a wild spirit before she died…
I step back, letting that process. If anyone knows anything about that, it’d be Mom or Nonna. A good deal of gossip is about the only thing those two agree on. I’ll have to call when I’m done here.
I turn toward the bedroom and hesitate. I shouldn’t really go in there. I shouldn’t even be in here—let’s be honest. But… Oooh, damn my nosy streak.
I shouldn’t do this. I shouldn’t do this. I shouldn’t do this.
Fuck it. I’m doing it.
I hold my gun in front of me once more and walk toward the bedroom. The door is ajar. It creaks when I push it open.
The sight of toes on the end of the bed sends a chill down my spine.
Oh, please, no.
Four more steps into the room confirm my worst suspicions.
A woman is lying on the bed. Her silver hair is tied into a messy knot on the top of her bed, random strands messily splaying out across the pillow. Her eyes are closed as if she’s sleeping, her lips parted. The covers that preserve her modesty are decorated with the shade of red that’s only ever associated with blood, and the blood splatters on the wall and nightstand match it perfectly.
I swallow back the bile snaking up my throat. Whatever happened to her happened brutally and cruelly. But there’s no doubt about it, no chance of any possible other outcome.
Dina White is very, very dead.
She’s been dead for twenty-four hours.
As soon as I got off the phone with Drake, I called Carlton and had him check her phone and credit card records. Turns out she bought a return plane ticket for a quick trip to California, which explains her absence. She arrived home yesterday morning, and the last time she would have been seen alive is, well, then.
It’s like Halloween has come early to Holly Woods. I’m just waiting for the grim reaper to come out in full dress and claim another dead woman.
The difference between Dina and the others is that she wasn’t killed ritualistically. Tim counted no less than ten stab wounds on her chest, but he’s pretty sure there are actually thirteen, that a couple just kind of joined together. The number doesn’t go ignored by me—partially because it’s a satanic number, but also because thirteen stab wounds means Dina knew her killer.
She wasn’t randomly targeted like the others.
Hers was a murder of passion.
That’s perhaps even scarier.
I’ve now been standing here for what feels like forever while the scene is processed. Eventually, her body is removed, and we’re left with forensics to see what information we can gather from the apartment.
The first stop is the photos. Really, there isn’t a reason for there to be photos of Jackson in this apartment. Not that I know of, at the very least. Apparently, though, I’m missing a huge chunk of knowledge, because here the heck they are.
I stop in front of the hutch, where the photos are sitting, and tap my gloved nails against the top of it. The four tiny taps as they connect with the wooden surface seem to echo through the deathly quiet apartment, and I tilt my head to the side the way a dog does when it can’t decide if you really did throw the ball or if you’re just pulling its tail.
“Who is that?” Drake asks, drawing level with me.
“Jackson,” Jason mutters, coming up on my other side. “I wondered…”
“Wondered what?” I turn to face him.
“I saw them several times—just talking. They seemed real close for a resident and a traveler.”
“They come here every year,” I point out. “Maybe they met and hit it off. Or they’re family friends?”
“Jackson is barely nineteen.” Jason picks up one of the more recent photos. “He lives with Eddie. I’ve never quite been able to work out what their relationship is, but here’s the thing—the travelers are close. It took me several weeks for them to be truly comfortable with me. Maybe Dina and Jason are family.”
I tilt my head again and look back to the pictures, pursing my lips. “Like cousins?”