The Dark Road spit me out into Stone’s Throw, and instantly the irrational terror that had gripped me evaporated. It could not survive in the face of such charming surroundings. Queen Anne houses with gables and turrets and front porches with rocking chairs. Fairy-tale cottages tucked into hillsides, guarded by frilly trees. Traditional Nordic houses painted primary colors, their lines so simple they were like a child’s drawing of a house made literal. By now, most of the stores and cafés had locked up and turned their signs to CLOSED. Still, the old-fashioned, wrought-iron lampposts were lit, and twinkle lights hung from the trees. The place was like a holiday greeting card come to life. No wonder Kron had chosen to film his most famous movies in Stone’s Throw. The production value was through the roof. It was impossible to frame a bad shot.
I drove around the village, getting the lay of the land, experiencing that same urgent sense of déjà vu I’d had on the Dark Road, like I’d dreamed this place before ever setting foot here. That wasn’t the case, of course; it was familiar to me because I’d seen The Girl and the Wolf and A Stranger Comes to Town.
It had been over ten years since I’d watched The Girl and the Wolf. It had been released shortly after Miranda went missing, and at that time I couldn’t stand to watch anything. No movies. No TV. All of it reminded me of the life I’d left behind, and I wanted to separate myself completely from my former existence. But after finally seeing The Girl and the Wolf, I had to admit I was relieved I hadn’t been involved in the project. The film featured two seemingly perfect teenagers—Jack and Joelle (played by Annika Kron in her first and only role)—who form a destructive friendship when they discover a mutual fondness for anonymously tormenting their friends and enemies in a variety of sick and twisted ways.
The idea that Jonas Kron had not only cast his niece as the lead, but also improvised the story—which required a great deal of nudity and, it was rumored, actual sex—was appalling. It was no wonder he’d never been able to top The Girl and the Wolf’s shock value. I had always wondered how the story might have been different if I’d starred in it instead of Annika. Would I have inspired Kron to go in an entirely different direction? I supposed I would never know.
The main thoroughfare in the village was not a straight line but a vast circle, a sort of expanded roundabout with buildings in the center. The trees that lined the sidewalks held colorful bouquets of gold and red and orange fall leaves, still clinging to the branches for dear life. There was not a single chain store, no Starbucks or Coffee Bean, no Subway or Pinkberry or Urban Outfitters. The shops and cafés had cutesy, clever names like Humble Pie and To Pie For and Tarts and Tins.
But no matter how quaint the town appeared to me in real life, I could not shake the sense of malicious familiarity from Kron’s films. I wondered if the decline in tourism had as much to do with how Kron depicted Stone’s Throw as it did with the Dark Road.
I pulled to a stop in front of the October Palace, right at the center of the circle. The theater was magnificent, baroque, the marquee reading:
STONE’S THROW PIE AND FILM FESTIVAL
IT’S BACK!
I parked and got out to film B-roll footage of the village, though it would most likely be underexposed, too dark and grainy to use. The wind had died down, and the evening was bracingly crisp, smelling of fall, a kind of musty smokiness glazed with butter and sugar from the pie shops.
I cut and let my camera hang on its strap around my neck as I wandered around the deserted village. I walked to the October Palace’s entrance and tried the doors. Locked. I cupped my hands to the glass and peered in. There was flickering light coming from behind the theater doors, just visible from the entrance. This was the kind of theater with only one screen. I’d always preferred this type of theater to the megaplexes that overwhelmed people with choices, mostly movies no one wanted to see. Theaters like the October Palace had no choice but to be picky, as they could only show one film at a time.
And there was definitely a film playing at that moment, though the theater was closed. Probably someone preparing for the festival. I knocked lightly, but no one appeared, so I gave up and returned to my car. Only then did I glance up at the hillside overlooking the town and notice a large, dark shape huddled in the trees, a congealed blood clot of a house. This had to be Kron’s part-time residence, the Red House. I’d seen a picture of the Red House that morning while I was researching the Dark Road, a sprawling monstrosity in the style of the Queen Anne houses that were so popular in Stone’s Throw, only Kron’s was entirely red. The roof was red. The trim was red. The turrets and gables were red. The whole thing appeared to have been dipped in blood.
The Red House clashed unapologetically with the town’s sickly sweet aesthetic, and I guessed Kron himself did, too. Did the people of Stone’s Throw welcome him, or merely tolerate the eccentric director because he kept the town alive? Small towns in America were supposed to be havens of safe normality, and Kron lived on the other end of the spectrum.
I checked the time on my phone. It was almost seven p.m. I was starving, but food could wait. I had one more stop to make before I checked in to the Eden Tree.
Stone’s Throw was too small to justify its own police department; it had only a sheriff’s department and a few deputies. The sheriff who’d presided over the first three disappearances had to step down after he succumbed to Alzheimer’s. Sheriff Brian Lot was currently serving his first term, which meant he’d been acting sheriff during only the most recent disappearance. That would have to be enough.
* * *
“Is Sheriff Lot available?” I asked the gray-haired woman working the front desk at the sheriff’s station.
“We’re about to lock up for the night,” the woman said, smiling curiously at me. “Do you have an appointment?”
“I left messages on his voicemail, but didn’t hear back.”
Her smile remained fixed in place, but her eyes cooled as she asked, “Are you a reporter?”
“No.” She waited for me to offer more information, which I did not.
Finally she picked up the phone. “Sheriff? A woman here to see you. A blonde,” she added, eyeing me with unfathomable suspicion. She listened a moment before hanging up and opening the divider that separated me from her side of the desk. “This way.”
Sheriff Lot’s door swung open before I had a chance to knock. I had expected someone older, maybe with a flabby paunch and a non-ironic mustache. But the sheriff was in his mid- to late thirties, with no signature facial hair, though he could have used some to cover the acne scars on his cheeks and neck. Somehow they didn’t detract from his attractiveness. Coarse hair the color of shoe polish. Intense black eyes. Broad shoulders and arms thick with muscle. He was the kind of man who could have sex standing and not make his woman feel like she was going to make him throw his back out.
He held out his hand. “You must be Liv Hendricks. I got your messages. Sorry I didn’t have a chance to get back to you.”
“It’s no problem,” I said, shaking his offered hand. He squeezed hard enough to make me wince.
“Come in,” he said. “We have a lot to talk about. Something to drink? It’s after seven, so technically I’m off duty.”
“I’m sorry to keep you,” I said, taking a seat.
He rummaged in a mini fridge under his desk and came up with a beer bottle that had no label. He cracked it open and set it in front of me. “Brewed it myself,” he said.
My hand moved involuntarily toward the bottle. I wanted to keep my mind clear, but I didn’t want to offend him by refusing his beer right before I asked him if I could take a look at his case files. One drink wouldn’t do me in, I told myself. But I couldn’t remember the last time I’d had just one drink of anything that had an alcohol percentage, even kombucha.
I took a delicate sip, and the sheriff’s upper lip curled.
“Why can’t women appreciate beer? It’s all white wine and Skinnygirl cosmos.”
“I’m not here to do a tasting,” I said, setting the bottle aside.
“I’m well aware of that. I know exactly who you are and what you’re up to.”
He took a long swallow of beer, then set the bottle aside and linked his hands behind his head, pulling his uniform taut against his chest. I found him annoyingly sexy. He had a sort of raw, unadorned masculinity that I didn’t encounter much in LA. Guys in Los Angeles tended to be more like Elliot and Wheeler, neurotic and creative and soft around the edges. Sheriff Lot was a man’s man, the sort who’d roll his eyes and leave the room if a woman mentioned her period.
“What is it I’m up to?” I asked, raising an eyebrow.
“You’re here to do my job for me. Or to try.”
“That’s not exactly—”
“Do you know how much I make per year?” he cut in. “Thirty-two thousand. How much are you making off this little charade of yours?”
“That’s not really your business,” I said.
“No,” he said. “But the Dark Road is, and you want a piece of my business. Did you think you could waltz into my office and I’d tell you everything I know about the disappearances? That I’d hand over my files to you and invite you into the investigation?”
I decided to take one more drink of beer, a bigger sip this time (20 calories). This was not going well. “Are you saying you want money for information?”
“I don’t want your money.”
“Then what do you want?”
“For you to go home. Just walk out the door, get in your car, and drive away.”
“That’s not happening.”
“You’re wasting your time.”
“I just got fired. I have nothing but time.” I leaned toward him, summoning my acting skills to cover the fact that this guy intimidated me. I needed him to think my balls were as big as his. “What bothers you more, the fact that I’m here to do your job for you, or the fact that I’m a woman here to do your job for you?”
He smirked, took another swig of beer. “Get the hell out of my office,” he said nicely.
“Fine,” I said. “But I’m not leaving town. There’s no law against me asking questions about the Dark Road.”
“That’s true,” he admitted. “But it is against the law for you to film for commercial purposes without a permit. So if I catch you, I’m going to seize your equipment and hit you with a fine.” He smiled. “Just doing my job.”