At the foot of the stairs, I trip over some iron shackles attached to a dark wood beam, a couple of axes, ropes, a gallon of fake blood. Props for the justice reenactments they do during Settlers Week. That’s when they break out the bonnets and covered wagons. Everybody running around town talking like hillbillies, which is dumb considering how most of the settlers came straight from Ireland.
I guess it was pretty fun when I was a kid—watching your neighbors get their hands chopped off for stealing another man’s livestock, or their foot cut off for running out on a fight. They even did a mock hanging one year. Poor Mr. Timmons, runs the Tastee Freeze, they rigged him up in a harness, pulled the lever, and Mr. Timmons swayed on the rope, his feet kicking beneath him dramatically. It was all fun and games until he got a big hard-on. They made all us kids cover our eyes, but I’ll never forget it. It’s burned into my memory. Haven’t been to the Tastee Freeze since.
I open every door I can find. Most of the rooms are full of extra plates, folding tables, linens. There’s a whole room just for Christmas decorations. Nothing looks out of place, unless you count the way Mary and Joseph are stacked up on top of each other in the sixty-nine position. But there’s a strange smell—similar to what I experienced at the breeding barn, like rotting meat and herbs. When I reach the end of the hall, the smell intensifies. My heart picks up speed; that same sick feeling washes over me, but I can’t figure out where it’s coming from. Running my hands over the paneled wall, I remember they just had the annual steak dinner. Maybe they aged the meat down here. Or maybe it’s all in my head. I’ve heard of people smelling weird stuff right before they’re about to have a stroke or an aneurism.
I shake it off and step into the cell, walking the perimeter, knocking on the floors with the heel of my boot, listening for a loose plank, but there’s nothing here. Just like Sheriff said.
“What’re you doing, Tate?” I whisper as I sink down on the cot wedged against the iron bars. The creak of the ancient springs sends icy chills across my skin. “This is crazy, even for you.”
Just when I’m thinking of cutting my losses, I hear a car door slam shut. Jumping up on the cot, I peer through the small barred window.
Greg Tilford’s out front talking to Ian Neely. Greg came back from Afghanistan even more of an asshole than he was before. Wound tighter than a cuckoo clock. After Neely donated the new computer system to the town, Tilford magically became a deputy. He was the first officer on the scene when my dad died. Threw up everywhere. I don’t know if it’s because I saw him lose it, or the fact that he’s Ian Neely’s cousin, but he’s had it out for me ever since.
Looks like the two of them are arguing about something. I can make a run for it out the back, through the hedge, into the woods, but my truck’s parked right out front. I’m such a dumbass. Of course they have some kind of high-tech alarm system here. What did I think would happen? I’d just break into the Preservation Society and no one would figure it out? In a town this small you can’t take a shit without everyone knowing your business.
Mr. Neely’s walking up the brick pathway toward the front door.
Panicking, I scramble up the stairs and rush toward the back of the house.
“Clay?” Mr. Neely calls out as he shuts the door behind him.
I stop in my tracks. I’m breathing so hard. I feel like a trapped animal.
“In my office,” he says calmly as he disappears into one of the main rooms off the foyer, turning on a lamp. No doubt Neely just wants to give me an “I told you so” lecture before Deputy Tilford hauls my ass off to jail.
As I trudge down the hall to his office, I feel ashamed. Not because I got caught, but because I was wrong. Sheriff tried to warn me, but I wouldn’t listen.
I step into the main office, a richly appointed room with taxidermy and football memorabilia glaring down at me from every direction.
He sits behind the desk, motioning for me to take a seat in one of the big uncomfortable leather chairs opposite his desk. I remember sitting in this exact spot right after my dad died. I can’t believe it’s only been a year. It feels like a lifetime.
“I’m curious.” He twists the state championship ring around his finger, making the ruby flash in the light of his desk lamp. “Why’d you break in?”
I keep my mouth shut. I’ve seen enough TV shows to know I’m not supposed to say anything until I have a lawyer. Where the hell am I going to find a lawyer?
“The reason I ask is because you’ve had the key to the kingdom all along.”
“The key?” I want to knock that smug look off his face. “Look, if you’re going to have me arrested, just do it. Save me the sanctimonious speech.”
His face softens as he holds out his hand. “Your car keys … it’s your dad’s old set, right?”
Tentatively, I dig the keys out of my pocket and place them in his hand.
“The brass one.” He singles it out and slides the set back to me. “That’s the key to the front door.”
I feel like even more of an idiot, if that’s possible. I grip my fingers around the key, hoping the sharp grooves cutting into my skin will take me out of this misery, but it only seems to make things worse … more real.