Page 42 of The Boy Who Cried Bear
I stare at him, as if waiting for the part of this question that makes sense. When his jaw only sets, I say, “Because we have uses for them. Like recording a witness’s statement.”
“I was told there’s no cell signal here.”
I turn the phone toward him, showing zero bars.
“Then why have them?” he asks.
“Because they have other uses.” I look at him and repeat, “Like recording a witness’s statement.”
His expression says he isn’t buying that, and then I understand. He thinks we’re lying about the cell signal. Even if we did have it—which we absolutely do not—we couldn’t allow residents to have phones. They’re in hiding. That requires being off-grid, unable to contact anyone … or be traced by anyone.
“This was pushed under the door this morning.” I lay the bag containing the note in front of him.
“Then it wasn’t me,” he says, making no move to read it. “I’ve been in solitary confinement.”
“House arrest,” I say. “Temporarily.”
“Still wasn’t me.”
“Read it.”
He does, and then his lips twitch in a satisfied smirk. “Well, well, seems I’m not the only person with a brain in this town. Someone else realizes Dana’s story doesn’t make sense.”
“Or you told someone it doesn’t.”
“Nope.” He shoves the bag back my way. “I don’t communicate with this bunch of scared rabbits.”
My jaw tenses, and I try to hide it. “So you haven’t told anyone your suspicions?”
“I don’t need to. Her story has more holes than Swiss cheese.”
“What do you know of that story?”
“Just what I said last night. Her husband was killed by a drug cartel because he saw something he shouldn’t have. They killed him and shot her … and then let her live.” He leans forward. “The only reason people like that let you live is if you have something they want. If you saw something, they want you dead. The dead don’t talk.”
“And if I said Dana only escaped death because the police showed up?”
“Then I’d say you’ve been fed a pack of lies.” He leans back now, hands folding over his belly. “You don’t know why I’m in this town. That means you don’t know her full story either. I can only imagine what nonsense they spun for you guys. The police showing up just in the nick of time? Doesn’t happen outside of movies, and if you were a real cop, you’d know that. If the police get an urgent call, they finish their doughnut first.”
He’s playing Whac-A-Mole, slamming insults in every direction. If I’m not actually law enforcement, that dig about “real” cops will sting. If I am? Then there’s the doughnut comment, which really, would probably work better on anyone who hasn’t heard it a hundred times.
“Dana’s husband stole from the cartel,” he continues, “and she knows where the money is. That’s why they let her live. Now she’s given you a sob story and trotted out her two ‘traumatized’ kids to earn her way up here. But she’s not getting out of it that easily. Someone has come for her, and they took the boy.” He pauses for obvious drama. “Or she took him herself. Maybe even killed him.”
My jaw clenches at the obvious delight he takes in saying this. I’ll never understand the psychology of people who find a perverse pleasure in shredding victim stories. I could ask Isabel to explain, but that presumes I care to understand the psychology.
Could Dana not be an innocent bystander? Yes. Could Max’s disappearance be about this, rather than a wild man in the forest? Yes. But it’s too much of a long shot for me to do more than file it away until I have evidence making it worthy of investigation.
“Tell me I’m wrong,” he says.
When I don’t answer, his eyes widen for a split second. Then he chortles. “Oh, you do see my point.”
“Why do you think this is the solution to Max’s disappearance?”
“It’s obvious.”
“Because you know something?”
“No, because it’s obvious.” He waves a hand. “It’s also obvious that you need some help with this. Tell me what version of the story you were given, and I’ll poke holes in it for you.”
