When no one disagreed, Alex pressed on. “Who else seems exceptional? Who else is out there standing in front of crowds or making headlines or winning competitions?”
“Shit,” Ollie said quietly. His expression turned grave. “Do you remember the day when there was hardly anyone at school but us?”
He was still staring ahead, but Makani knew the question was for her. “You mean, Wednesday? Two days ago? The day we were attacked?”
This realization seemed to stun him. During periods of trauma, time could be funny like that. He tried to shake it off. “Right. But do you remember that bad joke I made? Stanton told us over the announcements that Rosemarie Holt had won a barrel race, and then I said that she should watch out.”
Makani touched her lips in fear at the memory: Clapping with the other students. So grateful for any small piece of good news.
Darby shifted uneasily. “Rosemarie’s been winning those events for a long time.”
“Years,” Ollie said.
“Oh God.” Alex looked like she might throw up. “What do we do?”
Chris answered after the first ring. Ollie repeated their theory but was quickly cut off. His brow furrowed as he listened. “Yeah, we’re fine,” he said. “Yeah, okay—”
Ollie stared at his phone. “He hung up.”
“What is it?” Makani asked. What is it now?
“They received a call from another trucker who picked up David. The guy just saw him on the news and recognized him. This new driver said he must have picked up David not long after the first driver dropped him off, and Chris said he knew the exact location. It was just stupid, random luck that neither driver knew who he was.”
Makani’s heart plunged. What were the chances?
“This guy claims to have dropped off David on the other side of Osborne. The police are headed there now. They think he’s been snaking his way back to town through the fields. They think he might be headed to the stadium for a blitz attack.”
Alex grabbed Makani’s seat and shook it roughly. “I knew it!”
Makani fixed a hand over Alex’s to stop her. “That doesn’t sound like his MO”
“Are you kidding? What would shake up this town more than an attack during the first game of the playoffs?”
“What did Chris say about Rosemarie?” Darby asked.
Ollie frowned. “I think when Zachary wasn’t a target, we lost any small sway we might have had.”
“But someone needs to warn her!” Darby said.
Ollie was already scrolling through his contacts. He caught Makani’s look and explained, “Neighbor. Her family lives on the other side of the corn maze.”
Of course. Everyone was connected to everyone in Osborne. Makani tamped down her ill-timed jealousy as the call went straight to voicemail.
“Hey, it’s Ollie Larsson. Call me as soon as you get this. It’s an emergency. Everyone’s okay, just . . . call me back.”
Makani stared at him, her eyes wide and frightened. “What now?”
His voice hardened. “Seat belts, everyone.” And then he turned the key in the ignition and pushed the pedal to the floor.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
Moonlight gave a high-pitched whinny and pawed the fresh shavings.
“Shh.” Rosemarie Holt stroked the brush in calming sweeps down the horse’s sorrel neck. “They’re just a bunch of dumb rubberneckers. Nothing to be afraid of.”
Lights strobed and music howled. Screams of rowdy laughter erupted from the cornstalks, carrying to the stable at the edge of the Holts’ property. Normally, it was a minor annoyance to live beside the tourist attraction. Tonight, however, the land was teeming with drunken rednecks, frat guys, and sorority girls all out for a good scare. It was as if David Thurston Ware were a campfire urban legend and not an actual murderer-at-large.
In the next stall, Cash stomped his feet with nervous agitation. The maze had never had lights or music at night before. “I don’t love it, either, buddy,” she grumbled, feeling a fresh flush of anger at Emmet for leaving her with the chores.
When they were children, they’d each been given an American Quarter Horse. Emmet had chosen one with a black coat, so he’d named him after the Man in Black. This turned out to be prophetic as it reflected the way he treated Cash—like an accessory to look cooler. Rosemarie and their parents did most of the caretaking.
Rosemarie had always wanted a horse. When she was little, she’d never been interested in a book or movie unless it contained at least one. Moonlight had been named after her favorite fictional horse. Even though hers wasn’t golden (she was a light brownish-red), nor did she have a white mane or tail (hers were flaxen), Rosemarie believed that she was just as loyal a friend as Alanna’s Moonlight had been to the Lioness herself. Over the years, admittedly, Rosemarie had outgrown the name. But she still remembered why it had mattered. What it had meant to her.
“All right, girl.” She touched the horse’s rump as she walked around, so she’d know Rosemarie was there, and then tossed the brush into a plastic bucket of grooming tools. “Almost done. I’ll get your hay.”
Rosemarie took down the cross ties and picked up the bucket. She closed the sliding door behind her and left the bucket to grab the pitchfork, which was inside one of the empty stalls.
The stable smelled wonderfully familiar: wood shavings, sweet feed, and old leather, though it also held a pungent underpinning of ammonia. The urine scent was always stronger after mucking out the stalls, but it would fade within the hour. Her waterproof boots tread quietly over the rubber floor pavers.
Rosemarie and Moonlight were a good team. They started barrel racing when she was eight and competing when she was nine. The Sloane County Championship Rodeo used a traditional, three-barrel cloverleaf pattern. The event was timed, and if the racer knocked over a barrel, there was a five-second penalty. Some rodeos had hat fines, too, where they’d charge the racer twenty-five dollars if her hat fell off.
Moonlight rarely bumped a barrel. And Rosemarie never lost her hat.
Rosemarie wasn’t without injury, though. A year ago, she’d broken her right arm when she slipped off while riding bareback. And only two months ago, her strap had broken when she was hanging upside down at a full-blown gallop while trick riding. It was the strangest thing. The strap wasn’t even that old. She’d almost broken her neck.
The accident shook her up, but it didn’t stop her. She was competitive, headstrong, and faster than the other racers. She was ready to go national.
As she strode into the dark stall, an earsplitting scream from next door startled her. Rosemarie waited.
Yep. Laughter.