Sharp_Objects

belong.” He glanced pointedly at me.
    “We’ve got some pretty big woods around here, pretty dense,” I suggested.
    “This isn’t some stranger, and I would guess you know it.”
    “I would have thought you’d prefer it to be a stranger.”
    Vickery sighed, lit a cigarette, put his hand around the sign post protectively. “Hell, of course I would,” he said. “But I’m not too dumb myself. Ain’t worked no homicide before, but I ain’t a goddam idiot.”
    I wished then that I hadn’t sucked down so much vodka. My thoughts were vaporizing, I couldn’t hold on to what he was saying, couldn’t ask the right questions.
    “You think someone from Wind Gap is doing this?”
    “No comment.”
    “Off record, why would someone from Wind Gap kill kids?”
    “Got called out one time because Ann had killed a neighbor’s pet bird with a stick. She’d sharpened it herself with one of her daddy’s hunting knifes. Natalie, hell, her family moved here two years ago because she stabbed one of her classmates in the eye with a pair of scissors back in Philadelphia. Her daddy quit his job at some big business, just so they could start over. In the state where his granddad grew up. In a small town. Like a small town don’t come with its own set of problems.”
    “Not the least of which is everyone knows who the bad seeds are.”
    “Damn straight.”
    “So you think this could be someone who didn’t like the children? These girls specifically? Maybe they had done something to him? And this was revenge?”
    Vickery pulled at the end of his nose, scratched his mustache. He looked back at the hammer on the ground, and I could tell he was debating whether to pick it up and dismiss me or keep talking. Just then a black sedan whooshed up next to us, the passenger-side window zipping down before the car even stopped. The driver’s face, blocked by sunglasses, peered out to look at us.
    “Hey, Bill. Thought we were supposed to meet at your office right about now.”
    “Had some work to do.”
    It was Kansas City. He looked at me, lowering his glasses in a practiced way. He had a flip of light brown hair that kept dropping over his left eye. Blue. He smiled at me, teeth like perfect Chiclets.
    “Hi there.” He glanced at Vickery, who pointedly bent down to pick up the hammer, then back at me.
    “Hi,” I said. I pulled my sleeves down over my hands, balled the ends up in my palms, leaned on one leg.
    “Well, Bill, want a ride? Or are you a walking man—I could pick us up some coffee and meet you there.”
    “Don’t drink coffee. Something you should’ve noticed by now. I’ll be there in fifteen minutes.”
    “See if you can make it ten, huh? We’re already running late.” Kansas City looked at me one more time. “Sure you don’t want a lift, Bill?”
    Vickery said nothing, just shook his head.
    “Who’s your friend, Bill? I thought I’d met all the pertinent Wind Gappers already. Or is it…Wind Gapians?” He grinned. I stood silent as a schoolgirl, hoping Vickery would introduce me.
    Bang! Vickery was choosing not to hear. In Chicago I would have jabbed my hand out, announced myself with a smile, and enjoyed the reaction. Here I stared at Vickery and stayed mute.
    “All right then, see you at the station.”
    The window zipped back up, the car pulled away.
    “Is that the detective from Kansas City?” I asked.
    In answer, Vickery lit another cigarette, walked off. Across the street, the old man had just reached his top step.

Chapter Four

    S omeone had spray-painted blue curlicues on the legs of the water tower at Jacob J. Garrett Memorial Park, and it was left looking oddly dainty, as if it were wearing crochet booties. The park itself—the last place Natalie Keene was seen alive—was vacant. The dirt from the baseball field hovered a few feet above the ground. I could taste it in the back of my throat like tea left brewing too long. The grasses grew tall at the edge of the woods. I was surprised no one had ordered them cut, eradicated like the stones that snagged Ann Nash.
    When I was in high school, Garrett Park was the place everyone met on weekends to drink beer or smoke pot or get jerked off three feet into the woods. It was where I was first kissed, at age thirteen, by a football player with a pack of chaw tucked down in his gums. The rush of the tobacco hit me more than the kiss; behind his car I vomited wine cooler with tiny, glowing slices of fruit.
    “James Capisi was here.”
    I