My shoulders slumped. This was a subject I was tired of debating. “I can’t help where my job takes me.”
He sat up with his stubbly jaw set and the muscles in his cheeks clenching. “I don’t know how to emphasize this any other way. Do not go to Highland Heights. If I have to fucking go talk to Barney, I will.”
I closed my eyes and shook my head.
This wasn’t some pissing contest. It was my life and my decisions. Besides, Bernard didn’t even know I’d been in Highland Heights the week before. I didn’t want to get his hopes up. Not that I’d learned anything definitive. When I couldn’t run back down Second Avenue, because of the men and the SUV, I’d gone around the block, looping around the old school. From an empty lot I had a view of the back of the old school building. In an area covered on both sides by the building, there was a greenhouse. It wasn’t big; nonetheless there were about a half-dozen women in it, moving around. If I were to take everything at face value, I’d say that the greenhouse allowed The Light to grow the produce for its Preserve the Light preserves. Then I’d say that in that old school building, the women were making preserves. If I logically took it one more step, I’d say The Light’s cars crossed the border daily to deliver jellies and jams.
What I’d spent the majority of last week deciding was if everything was truly that logical. Was I paranoid by nature, or was my gut telling me that it was a cover for something else?
Since my greenhouse discovery over a week before, I’d furthered my research. That didn’t mean I’d advanced my knowledge on The Light. Information on the church was limited at best, yet I couldn’t shake the feeling that things weren’t as they appeared.
Maybe everything made too much sense?
Dylan stood, bringing me back to the present, and ran his hand through his dark-blond hair. “Tell me that you haven’t been back to Highland Heights, not since I took you there. Come on, Stella. Please tell me that you’re not that dumb.”
The fine hairs on the back of my neck stood as I inhaled, sat, and pulled the sheet around my breasts. “Seriously, you’re calling me dumb?”
“You know I don’t think you’re dumb, but if you go back there . . .”
“This conversation went from fun to shit faster than I ever imagined.”
His chest expanded and contracted as his volume rose. “And the shit’s going to hit the fan if I learn you’ve gone back there. Your safety isn’t debatable.”
What had Bernard said about shit hitting the fan? He said that when the shit hit the fan, it wasn’t time to turn away. It meant the source of the manure was close and something was growing. Though it might stink, whatever it was, it was going to be big. He’d said that it was time to put on my shitkickers and plow through, to believe in myself . . .
Believe in myself.
I took a deep breath. “If this doesn’t pertain to Mindy, we can’t discuss it, remember?”
“A while back, you asked about DPD and HHPD working together. I’m not giving you particulars, but HHPD has been monitoring their residents. For the last . . . I don’t know how many years . . . they’ve been working on this big initiative. They’re watching populations, trying to get to know people and help. The thing is that women have been disappearing.”
My eyes opened wide. “Shit! Do they have statistics? What . . . ?”
“Stop it. Stop asking. Fuck! I shouldn’t.” He exhaled. “I’m not talking everyone, not women like Mindy, not professional, educated women. I’m talking about runaways, drug addicts, and prostitutes. Not all of them,” he added, and took a deep breath, and paced the width of his room. “You really can’t call it disappearing when it’s a runaway. It’s difficult because they’re a transient population.” He took another breath. “Some of them end up in the morgue, where you’ve been called. It’s the others—they evaporate into thin air. Of course, it doesn’t have to indicate foul play. One of the most viable theories is what’s happening”—he pointed—“out the window.”
I glanced at his bedroom window and into the darkness beyond the panes of glass. Now that we were officially in autumn, the early part of October, the days were getting shorter. It would get worse when the time changed. With standard time we’d fall back an hour. “I’m not seeing anything,” I said, “except for your reflection, if you stand there.”
He sighed. “It’s Michigan. The leaves are changing and it’s getting cold. You’ve lived around here long enough to know that winters can be brutal.”
“Yes?”
“If you were homeless or a runaway, would you want to live here through the winter?”
“Hmm,” I acknowledged, “I’ve never thought of it that way.”
“Say that HHPD was in contact with a few of these women or even one of them, and the next time they stop to check on her, she’s missing. Who’s to say she didn’t hitch a ride to a better climate?”