Page 33 of The Death Row Club
“Fuck me,” Greer mutters, leaning against the bumper of the car. She looks like she’s going to be sick, but her apparent lack of enthusiasm does nothing to deter the woman in front of her.
“If you tell the world what he’s done, they’ll have no choice but to listen. He’s a murderer, and you need to bring him to justice—realjustice.”
A murderer. She’s convinced her father is like ours, and she’s traveled all this way because she wants Greer’s help getting him arrested. How the hell did she figure out where we’d be this weekend? And did she really walk all the way here from the mainland?
“Shedoesn’t need to do anything,” Connor says. “You, however, need to turn over your phone, so we can make sure you didn’t record anything. And then you need to leave.”
“Connor—” Imogen starts.
“I’m with Connor.” Ros pushes her way forward. “Some of us workhard to keep our private lives private. What’s stopping her from going to the press and telling them about us?”
“Nothing,” Zach says. “Unless you’re going to take her out into the woods and axe her.”
We all turn to stare at the axe lodged in the stump. Firelight casts everyone’s faces into shadows, hollowing out their cheeks and sharpening their features. An unwanted thought sweeps through my mind:You don’t really know any of these people.
“Not funny,” Kemy says, breaking the tension.
“What? We’re not allowed to joke about it because of who our parents are?”
“No, we’re not allowed to joke about it because of whoherparent is.”
“All right.” Greer pulls the key out of the ignition, plunging the clearing into darkness. It takes a few moments for my eyes to adjust to the dim glow of the bonfire. “She can stay the night.”
Connor. “You can’t be serious.”
“We can take her cell phone, make her sign a nondisclosure agreement, restrict her to the spare room upstairs.”
“There’s a spare room upstairs, and I’m stuck in the basement?” Ros mutters.
Zach chuckles, then steps forward. “I can drive her into town tomorrow morning if you’ll let me use the car.”
Greer slams the driver’s-side door. “Not a chance.”
“Oh, c’mon, we’ll all have sobered up by then—”
“No.”
Connor holds out his palm. “Phone.”
Steffani reluctantly surrenders it. He removes something from his pocket, a paper clip, maybe, and sticks it into the side. The SIM card pops out, and without thinking twice, he tosses it into the fire.
“Connor!” Imogen yells.
“She can buy a new one.” He turns back to Steffani. “I’ll take you upstairs to your room. If anyone finds you wandering around the property, you’ll be asked to leave.”
His tone makes it clear that not much asking will be involved. He leads her up the porch stairs, and before they disappear into the lodge, she casts one final look at Greer. Apparently she believes getting an audience with the creator ofTo Catch a Killerwill be her one-way ticket to getting her father convicted. And why shouldn’t she? Greer did such a good job putting my dad away, it makes sense Steffani would expect the same results.
I grab another bottle of wine, not the Moscato, and offer it to Greer.
She smiles, but it’s strained.
“I should probably go inside, listen to whatever she has to say.”
A light flickers on in an upstairs window. Two shadows shuffle around behind the drawn curtains. Probably Connor reading Steffani the riot act before deleting everything from her phone.
“Just one more? For the road?”
She shakes her head. “You should enjoy yourself, though. Night’s still young.”
