The Dead and the Dark(4)

But maybe you had to die to see the valley like this.

Tristan Granger wouldn’t see it. He had no body to bury.

“I hope it helps,” Ashley said. She pulled her black cardigan tight around her chest to block out the wind. “I just thought if Tristan knew we were still looking for him, maybe he’d come home.”

Mrs. Granger nodded. “I hope you’re right.”

A stand at the front of the vigil held a photo of Tristan for everyone to see. It was Ashley’s favorite picture of him—unkempt sandy blond hair, a ratty black hoodie, and the same basketball shorts he’d worn every day since freshman year. His chin rested on his hands, his smile easy and warm. The picture would be cheesy if it was anyone else, but nothing looked cheesy on Tristan. Ever.

Today marked six months since Tristan’s disappearance. Five months since the application deadline for the University of Oregon closed. Three months since Owyhee County police stopped looking for a person and started looking for a body. A month and a half since Tristan missed his high school graduation. One month since Sheriff Paris had called the disappearance of Tristan Granger a cold case.

Today was their four-year anniversary.

Ashley tried not to think about that.

“You two were so good. I know he loved you,” Mrs. Granger said. “You’ve got your mom’s spirit, though. I wish I was that strong.”

Ashley said nothing and looked across the vigil. Tammy Barton stood at the refreshments table with a plastic cup of lemon water in hand, gently managing several conversations at once. It wasn’t the first time today someone had compared Ashley to her mother, but each time she was reminded of how untrue the comparison was. Tammy’s expression was a careful balance of warmth and grief, her stance inviting and solemn all at once. Ashley wished she had even half her mother’s poise.

As if on cue, Tammy turned and caught her gaze. She made her way from the refreshments and delicately placed a hand on Ashley’s shoulder, softening her practiced smile into a small, sympathetic frown for Tristan’s parents. “Greg, Susan, I’m so sorry about all this. You know we’re praying for you and your family every day.”

“Tammy,” Mrs. Granger said. “Thank you for everything.”

By everything, Susan Granger meant money. Whatever Tammy Barton couldn’t provide in emotional support, she made up for tenfold in financial support. Over the last decade, Barton Ranch had almost completely taken over Owyhee County. The vigil, the food, the decorations—it was all on Ashley’s mother’s tab. Tammy reached out and took Mrs. Granger’s hand. “We were practically family. I wish there was something I could do.”

“There’s nothing you can do,” Mr. Granger said. His gaze shifted to Sheriff Paris, who stood alone at the front of the vigil, quietly eyeing Tristan’s photo. “There’s something he could do, though.”

“Frank is doing everything he can with the evidence he has, Greg.” Tammy put a hand on his shoulder. “People can point fingers all they want, but he has to prove it.”

Ashley grimaced. Since Tristan’s disappearance, she’d had this exact conversation a thousand times. The vigil was supposed to be a time to just think about Tristan, but even here, people only wanted to talk about Brandon Woodley. Until a few months ago, Ashley had never heard of the Snakebite-resident-turned-TV-ghosthunter, but the moment he arrived in town, it was like everyone forgot how to breathe. Like everyone forgot how to talk about anyone else.

Some of the suspicion made sense. Brandon Woodley was apparently here to film an episode of his show, but he refused to tell anyone what mystery he was here investigating. He hadn’t brought any cameras or crew. As far as Ashley could tell, he’d just been wandering around Snakebite for the last six months with no intention of leaving. That might not make waves somewhere else, but Snakebite wasn’t the kind of town where people lingered. In Snakebite, you were either fleeting or permanent. People who came to town always left, and people who left didn’t come back.

Except Brandon Woodley. According to her mother, Brandon had been gone for almost thirteen years and no one had paid him a single thought since the day he left. He was an unknown entity—a ghost from a version of Snakebite that existed before Ashley. Just the thought of him made Ashley uneasy.

And then, a week after his return, Tristan vanished.

“I’m gonna get some water,” Ashley said.

“Careful, the lemons aren’t great. I think they might be old,” Tammy said. She gave Ashley’s shoulder a single pat.

Across the service, Fran Campos and Bug Gunderson chatted quietly. Ashley drifted toward them and it felt as if she were finally coming to shore. Everyone else here was bent on asking her a thousand questions about Tristan—When was the last time you saw him? Did he say where he was going? Did he ever mention Brandon Woodley?—but Fran and Bug were better than that. They were her best friends and the only comfort she’d had in the last six months, like twin beacons in a night that refused to end.

Fran spotted Ashley and pulled her into a tight hug, honey-colored curls bobbing at her slender shoulders. Bug hovered behind them with a glass of lemonade clutched between her fingers. Her freckle-smattered face was distant, her little mouth a frown, eyes trained on the lake.

“Say the word and we can go,” Fran said. She tucked a wisp of Ashley’s hair behind her ear. “You don’t have to stay the whole time.”