Briar
“I’m sorry about the house,” Royce offered.
It was likely a total loss, although they didn’t know for sure, seeing as they’d driven away from the fire, not toward it.
“Me too.”
Briar hadn’t missed the house much since she’d left. But being back had made her want to poke around, to try and remember some of the positive things about growing up as Tor Nilson’s daughter, and now it was too late.
They’d snuck out the back of Topher Carlson’s house once the fire truck lumbered past, its siren sounding and the red and white lights flashing as it drove by. It had taken Rexville’s volunteer fire station a full fifteen minutes to respond—one of the perils of fire in a small community.
Royce had found some spare keys stashed in a kitchen drawer and then, to Briar’s surprise, liberated an ancient VW van from Topher’s garage. While he got it started, Briar climbed carefully into the passenger seat, which was mostly covered with a tattered Grateful Dead blanket.
“Sorry, this is Topher’s project car. A 1973 camper van,” Royce explained as he eased the van into first gear and turned left out of the driveway, away from the smoldering ruins of Tor’s house.
“It’s… a relic.” She glanced around inside, taking in the torn seat cushions and general air of abandonment.
Royce snorted. “Yeah. Topher bought it from a guy who was cleaning out his grandfather’s barn. At least he got the electric working.” The headlights dimmed before brightening again. “Mostly.”
“Possibly the worst getaway car ever.”
“Experienced with getaway cars, are you?”
“Not personally, but if I had to choose one, it wouldn’t be a van twice as old as I am.”
She supposed it would be odd to a stranger listening in that they were joking about getaway cars instead of actively worrying about the fire or the shooter. It wasn’t though. Joking in situations like this was stress relief for her, a way of acknowledging she was still alive. She imagined Royce felt the same.
The heavy rain the last few days had been a good thing, Briar supposed. The house had burned but no nearby structures caught fire. The shooter, however, was likely long gone. She doubted they would stick around with emergency responders on-site.
“I just don’t understand. Whoever it was knew we—someone was in the house. They must’ve seen the coroner come and go. And they waited until we came outside to shoot at us and then set the house on fire? Why?”
Royce shifted again. The engine was working hard, but twenty-five miles an hour seemed to be its limit. It was a good thing no one was chasing them because Briar could run faster than this van.
“Maybe they weren’t expecting us?”
“I mean,” she continued, “if they had something to do with the DB, that ship sailed already.”
“Maybe they didn’t see the coroner’s car. It’s not as if it’s marked. Maybe the shooter didn’t arrive until after Frank left. Or maybe they came in from the other side. Dodge is the paved road, but there’s also that access road that runs along the river.”
Briar quietly mulled the possibilities over. She’d forgotten about the access road. Years ago it had been unpaved and had potholes the size of smart cars.
“Why shoot at us? Why shoot out your car? I can’t make sense of it.”
“You’re right, it doesn’t make sense. We need more information.”
She didn’t have answers, so instead, she stared out the front window, watching as Rexville drew closer. The Tainted Crown was open, its off-kilter neon crown tilted toward the building. The parking lot was full of cars and the front door opened as she watched, a few guests exiting as Royce slowed the van, easing around a huge puddle that had formed on the road, and turned into the auto shop parking area.
“I should pay for another night at the Utopia,” Briar said, glancing across the street at the motel. Today, it seemed cuter than she remembered, well-maintained and possessing a jaunty air it had lacked when she’d been a teen. “I have the feeling I’ll be in town longer than a couple of days.”
Setting the parking brake, Royce didn’t immediately respond. Briar turned her head to look at him and saw a peculiar expression in his silver-blue eyes.
“Hear me out.”
Briar was immediately suspicious. It was her nature, and rarely did anything good come of a man uttering those words.
“I think it would be safer if you stayed at my place. If this guy is after you, staying at the Utopia would be asking for trouble. For you and for Daisy Stone, the owner. The last thing Rexville needs is a shooter taking out the only place to stay in town.”
Huffing out a sigh of irritation, Briar slumped against the seat, her arms across her chest. He was probably right. Dammit.