Chapter 2

Sloane's POV

Garrett had been missing for a week.

The entire town of Hawkins pretended not to care while secretly celebrating. A convicted rapist junkie disappearing into thin air was good news for everyone.

Until his wife, Indie Hale, stormed into the police department screaming, claiming that on the night Garrett vanished, someone saw me "chopping meat and dumping bloody water all night" in the Hartley backyard. She swore up and down—I had killed her husband.

When the doorbell rang, I was in the kitchen simmering the twenty-second pot of Bolognese sauce.

Deputy Sheriff Nolan Cross stood outside in his crisp khaki uniform. His sideburns were much grayer than they had been on that horrible night six years ago.

"Sloane." He took off his hat, his eyes bypassing me, scanning the bubbling cast-iron pot behind me like radar. The thick scent of basil, rosemary, and rendered animal fat billowed through the cramped kitchen.

"Looks like you're putting on quite a culinary show lately," Nolan said, resting his hand on his duty belt, his tone carrying a professional scrutiny.

"Come in, Deputy," I tugged habitually at the hem of my faded flannel shirt, coughing dryly to make my voice sound as gentle as always. "Quinn is still asleep upstairs. You know... lately, it’s still too hard for her."

Nolan stepped inside, walking straight to the counter. He stared down at dozens of glass jars packed with dark red meat sauce. His eyes sharpened.

"Indie smashed up the precinct again last night." Nolan whipped around, piercing me with the eyes of a man who’d seen too much sin. "She said you and your sister couldn't possibly eat this much meat. Sloane, making mountains of chopped meat right now is a bit... ill-timed. What are you covering up?"

"Ill-timed?" I twisted my hands into my sauce-stained apron. Tears welled up perfectly in my eyes.

"Nolan, I want to host a weekend charity bake sale. I’m going to sell these sauces, meat pies, and patties, and donate every cent to the North Side Women’s Shelter. Especially to the kids who—" My voice broke right on cue, "The ones born to monsters, only to be abandoned."

I took a deep shuddering breath as if I were using the last sliver of strength in my asthmatic body: "I just want to build up some good karma for my family. For Quinn. Is that a crime now, Deputy?"

Nolan froze.

"I’m sorry, Sloane. I didn't mean it like that." He sighed deeply, avoiding my teary eyes.

"It's okay." I turned to pour him a hot cup of coffee, giving him my most sincere look. "I could never blame you. Six years ago, you were the first one to rush into the redwoods and carry Quinn to the ambulance. I owe you my life for that."

Hearing this, Nolan’s shoulders visibly sagged.

"Protocol is protocol. Indie has another claim—" His eyes grew sharp again. "She says not only were you chopping meat, but the morning after Garrett disappeared, you bought a whole cart full of garlic, black pepper, and heavy spices to mask smells. What do you need all that for, Sloane?"

"To marinate pork and get rid of the gamey smell in tough cuts." I looked him dead in the eye, speaking calmly. "Heavy spices have always been the Hartley family recipe for treating meat. As for Indie..."

I paused intentionally, letting a suppressed tremor of anger bleed into my voice.

"Did you forget? At my mother’s funeral, who brought a gang of junkies to crash it? Who pointed at my mother’s casket, screaming slurs that Quinn seduced her husband?" I took a step closer, tears of fierce determination in my eyes. "She hates us! She’s using that bastard’s disappearing act to ruin whatever dignity the Hartleys have left!"

My chest heaved. "I beg you. Investigate this fully and clear my name! Don't let that crazy bitch torture us anymore!"

Nolan was silent for a full ten seconds.

Finally, he put his hat back on and nodded heavily.

"I’ll handle it, Sloane. Take care of Quinn."

Watching his back retreat toward the door, my suspended heart finally touched the ground. I exhaled, the corner of my mouth just beginning to curl up—

The screen door was violently shoved open, smashing against the drywall.

Maren, the widow from across the street, barged in, panting heavily. Her gray hair was a mess. In her hand, she death-gripped a half-empty jar of meat sauce—the one I’d given her as a "neighborly greeting" three days ago.

"Mrs. Maren?" I immediately switched back to my gentle persona. "What's wrong?"

"What the hell did you put in this damn thing?!" Maren’s shrill voice sliced through the kitchen. She angrily opened her palm, her calloused hand shaking like a leaf. "I was eating pasta and nearly cracked my dentures!"

Nolan, who had been halfway out the door, stopped dead.

My breathing froze entirely. A layer of cold sweat immediately coated my back. My tomato-stained hand stopped in mid-air.

Sitting in the center of Maren’s trembling palm, coated in thick sauce, was—

Half a tooth.