The Edge

Chapter 8

"Yes, I bought the boots used for the crime," Luke confesses. "And no, I was never anywhere near Rainsong that night. Whoever's claiming I was is a liar."

I'd come across him only moments earlier, meandering his way along White's Ferry Road. I'd messaged him as soon as I'd set out, and he hadn't been difficult to locate. White's Ferry lies in the pastoral outskirts of town, light on traffic, and a perfect spot for idiots like myself to pick up potentially dangerous hitchhikers without being glimpsed by witnesses. Now here we were, driving aimlessly through the back roads of rural Mississippi, and I'd asked the first question weighing on my thoughts.

Fairchild, then, had spoken the truth about what he witnessed. Fairchild. Lord, he'd been hard to get rid of, and what with the "incident" in my driveway after our return trip, I don't care to face him anytime soon. I push that out of my mind for now

My lips press together as I consider Luke's admission. "Explain."

"Hello to you, too. Yes, I'm doing fine. How have you been?"

"Get on with it!"

"A friend and I went hiking at the lake a couple of days before the murder. I needed some boots, went to the store and got a pair. I left them out in the garage afterwards but they were gone by the next day. I figure they're still in the possession of our killer."

"You didn't think that was odd? To have your boots stolen?"

"Sure, but what was I going to do, file a police report about it?"

"What about gloves? Fairchild said you picked up a pair of rubber gloves too."

"My aunt needed them for housework. The police bagged them when they served the search warrant and considering I'm not in jail right now, we can assume they weren't used in the crime."

I chew on my lip. "Who knew you'd purchased the boots? Besides Fairchild and your family?"

"My friend was out with me when I bought them. That's it, as far as I know."

"Tell me about the friend."

"He's a guy I've known since high school. Dominic Hathaway, son of the illustrious Hathaway clan. He should have been part of the clique running the school, but instead he was a member of the rather, ah, select group of people I could term friends."

"Any motive you can think for him to frame you?"

"Not really. We spent most of our time hanging out at the lake, smoking weed and plotting world domination." He notices my amused expression. "Don't judge, it was a phase, for me at least. I don't know what happened with Dominic. Everyone expected him to snap out of it, graduate and go to an Ivy League school somewhere. But he never did anything with his life; he's the same as ever, living with his parents and spending his days job hopping or getting high. We've stayed in touch since I left, but haven't been as close."

"What size shoe does he wear?"

I can tell he's taken aback. "Can't say that I've ever noticed. Do we care?"

"We do. The killer must have a similarly sized foot, if he could wear your boots to commit the crime."

"That's our best lead? The size of the murderer's feet?" He laughs and shakes his head. "I am so very screwed."

"Let's assume the killer wore your boots while committing the crime. If their feet were too small or too large, it would have been difficult to carry out the murder while wearing awkwardly sized boots, don't you think? Hard to overtake someone when you're stumbling around."

"Now we know the perp wasn't a midget. Useful."

"How rude. They're called little people," I correct.