between any of the three.
He had no evidence. All he had was a tremendous headache.
And a lot of anxiety. Cameron may have been back in Small-Town USA, but he was no longer the person he’d been when he left. A lot had happened since then, and now he had years of solid police work under his belt. Whatever was going on in Faith, Cameron knew he had the skill and know-how to get to the bottom of it. It was time to kick this thing into high gear.
He just needed more time and a few more leads.
And while he couldn’t talk to Ben, he could try the next best thing: go back to where the boy had lived and see if he could dig up something, anything, that might provide an answer. Just as he’d told Frank, the shortest distance between two points is a straight line. He knew that line moved through the Foley house. What he didn’t know yet was where it started, or, ultimately, where it ended.
It was time to find out.
The place sat just off the Old Route 15—which in Faith was a flat, narrow blacktop flanked by farmland on either side. Modest but adequate, it was an old two-story farmhouse with wood siding, a shake roof, and a sufficient amount of land surrounding it.
Everything seemed different to Cameron now as he parked in front of the house. It was daytime and minus all the people who had earlier converged on the scene. Peace seemed to be settling in. It almost felt as if nothing had ever happened.
Except, that is, for the few telltale signs still standing as a reminder. The yellow tape had been torn down, but not all of it: a few loose strips hung from shrubs and fences, flapping in the wind like tiny bird’s wings. In addition to that, the place had begun taking on a vacant, abandoned quality. Every window was shut tightly, every shade pulled down. Envelopes spilled out the front of the mailbox, stuffed to its limit with unclaimed mail, and in the yard, weeds were starting to sprout.
As he stepped out of his car, Cameron spotted the next-door neighbor near her driveway raking weeds. She gazed over at him with narrowed eyes, then quickly dropped her head and continued working.
For someone in law enforcement, that kind of obvious avoidance is a clear invitation.
With each step Cameron took toward her, the faster and more furious she seemed to rake, almost as if doing so would keep him away.
“ Morning,” said Cameron. “Need to ask you a few questions about the Foleys.”
The woman spared him a glance and went back to her raking, poking violently at the ground as if it had done her wrong. Then, in a singsong voice, she said, “Already talked to a deputy the night of the murders. Got nothing else to add.”
“ I need to talk to you again,” he insisted.
Silence.
Cameron sized her up: mid-to-late-fifties, bright red hair—a shade you find in the discount aisles, not growing naturally on heads—and skin seared by the sun, the color of a raw steak; it stretched across her face, a texture not unlike Saran Wrap.
“ Ma’am?” Cameron persisted, pulling out his badge.
She stopped raking, let out a dramatic, bothered sigh, and inspected the badge as if questioning its authenticity. Unimpressed, she grunted, then turned back to her work.
He cleared his throat, loudly.
“ I keep myself to myself,” she said with a hiss, as if scolding him, still raking, still avoiding. “Said I don’t know anything.”
“ Did you know the Foleys, ma’am?”
“’ Course I knew ‘em. They were my neighbors,” she said, stabbing at the ground, not looking up.
“ How well did you know them?” he asked.
“ Not very well.”
“ But you knew them, maybe had some conversations with Mrs. Foley?”
She stopped raking, rested the palm of her hand on the top of the handle, and gave him the benefit of a full stare. Over-enunciating each word to show her displeasure, she replied, “Like … I … said … I … keep … myself … to … myself.”
Short of firing a shot his way, the woman was about as uncooperative as
He had no evidence. All he had was a tremendous headache.
And a lot of anxiety. Cameron may have been back in Small-Town USA, but he was no longer the person he’d been when he left. A lot had happened since then, and now he had years of solid police work under his belt. Whatever was going on in Faith, Cameron knew he had the skill and know-how to get to the bottom of it. It was time to kick this thing into high gear.
He just needed more time and a few more leads.
And while he couldn’t talk to Ben, he could try the next best thing: go back to where the boy had lived and see if he could dig up something, anything, that might provide an answer. Just as he’d told Frank, the shortest distance between two points is a straight line. He knew that line moved through the Foley house. What he didn’t know yet was where it started, or, ultimately, where it ended.
It was time to find out.
The place sat just off the Old Route 15—which in Faith was a flat, narrow blacktop flanked by farmland on either side. Modest but adequate, it was an old two-story farmhouse with wood siding, a shake roof, and a sufficient amount of land surrounding it.
Everything seemed different to Cameron now as he parked in front of the house. It was daytime and minus all the people who had earlier converged on the scene. Peace seemed to be settling in. It almost felt as if nothing had ever happened.
Except, that is, for the few telltale signs still standing as a reminder. The yellow tape had been torn down, but not all of it: a few loose strips hung from shrubs and fences, flapping in the wind like tiny bird’s wings. In addition to that, the place had begun taking on a vacant, abandoned quality. Every window was shut tightly, every shade pulled down. Envelopes spilled out the front of the mailbox, stuffed to its limit with unclaimed mail, and in the yard, weeds were starting to sprout.
As he stepped out of his car, Cameron spotted the next-door neighbor near her driveway raking weeds. She gazed over at him with narrowed eyes, then quickly dropped her head and continued working.
For someone in law enforcement, that kind of obvious avoidance is a clear invitation.
With each step Cameron took toward her, the faster and more furious she seemed to rake, almost as if doing so would keep him away.
“ Morning,” said Cameron. “Need to ask you a few questions about the Foleys.”
The woman spared him a glance and went back to her raking, poking violently at the ground as if it had done her wrong. Then, in a singsong voice, she said, “Already talked to a deputy the night of the murders. Got nothing else to add.”
“ I need to talk to you again,” he insisted.
Silence.
Cameron sized her up: mid-to-late-fifties, bright red hair—a shade you find in the discount aisles, not growing naturally on heads—and skin seared by the sun, the color of a raw steak; it stretched across her face, a texture not unlike Saran Wrap.
“ Ma’am?” Cameron persisted, pulling out his badge.
She stopped raking, let out a dramatic, bothered sigh, and inspected the badge as if questioning its authenticity. Unimpressed, she grunted, then turned back to her work.
He cleared his throat, loudly.
“ I keep myself to myself,” she said with a hiss, as if scolding him, still raking, still avoiding. “Said I don’t know anything.”
“ Did you know the Foleys, ma’am?”
“’ Course I knew ‘em. They were my neighbors,” she said, stabbing at the ground, not looking up.
“ How well did you know them?” he asked.
“ Not very well.”
“ But you knew them, maybe had some conversations with Mrs. Foley?”
She stopped raking, rested the palm of her hand on the top of the handle, and gave him the benefit of a full stare. Over-enunciating each word to show her displeasure, she replied, “Like … I … said … I … keep … myself … to … myself.”
Short of firing a shot his way, the woman was about as uncooperative as
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