"Jasper Lee Heaney of Hadley, Massachusetts," the frizzy-haired woman says, pouring you some tea in her sunroom. "Died about five years ago. Probably, well, murdered. Cops arrested his ex-boyfriend but couldn't prove anything. They say he got cut up pretty bad."
The tea is very good, though you keep your eye on the silver tea service. There's no polite way to ask Lana if Heaney was torn apart by claws, but then you remember the receipt from the gun store.
"Is Hadley near Northampton?" you ask.
"One town over," Lana says. "Across the river."
All the arrows are pointing in one direction.
You finish your tea, say your thanks, and head around the porch of the nice old lady's Queen Anne house back to the quiet suburban street. That's when a familiar yellow van bounces off the curb, squeals to a halt, and lays on the horn. Scarper rolls down the window and shouts, "Where the fuck have you been? Why didn't you call?"
Faces appear in the window of the house across the street. Another nice house, probably with one of those Ring cameras.
"I—" you start to explain.
"'I, I, I!'" Scarper mocks, perfectly mimicking your tone of voice and yet adding a tone of absurdity to it. "I'm so sick of your voice. 'There are more enemies than just this Bane!'" You wince at your words coming from Scarper's mouth.
"I don't have a phone, Scarper. Stop yelling." The locals don't want to listen to a public argument.
"Learning where that rider's saddle came from. It's an interesting story. Do you want to hear it?"
"I've got my own business to attend to, Scarper." This "elder" doesn't deserve my respect or explanations.
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