Switch Blade Romance

At Some Point

February, 23rd. 11:30 am.

Adler Tennessee.

John Henry, drove The rental car as it hummed along the empty two-lane blacktop toward the Adler County Sheriff's Office like a tired old dog finally finding its way home. John Henry gripped the wheel a little too tight, knuckles white under the dashboard glow, while Dr. Juanita Anthony sat shotgun, staring straight ahead as if the road might swallow them if she blinked. In the back, Rachel Edison slumped against the window, mouth open in exhausted sleep, her breathing shallow and ragged. Lacey Woodley sat beside her, eyes fixed on the dark fields sliding past, the kind of dark that presses in close and whispers things you don't want to hear.
They must be beat, Juanita said quietly, slipping off her dark glasses. The lenses caught the faint green from the instrument panel and threw it back like cat eyes. Yeah, Rachel especially. Poor kid's been tearing herself up over this thing. We all have.
Juanita's voice cracked just a hair, the way a branch does right before it snaps. I keep seeing Charles and Andrew in my classroom. Just four, five months back. Laughing, passing notes, acting like the world was still a safe place. If only I'd known...
John reached over without looking, patted her knee the way you'd pat a spooked horse. It's not on you, Juanita. None of us saw it coming. Nobody knew Grady had put a bullet in Aiden Pierce and stepped into his skin like it was a new suit. Nobody knew he'd come to Annabelle and start cutting kids down like summer wheat.
Juanita took his hand, squeezed it hard enough to hurt. That's what I tell myself. But still... I just don't know anymore.
The Chevy slowed, tires crunching gravel as John pulled into the lot behind the squat municipal building. The place looked like every small-county seat John had ever seen: brick faded to the color of old blood, lights buzzing in the dark like dying flies.
Lacey leaned forward, gave Rachel a gentle shake. We're here, hon.
Rachel jerked awake, eyes wide and glassy for a second before the world came back. They'd been in Adler maybe five hours total, three of them stolen in uneasy naps. Who do we see first? she asked, voice thick, climbing out into the chill night air.
Sheriff Donald Tompkins, John said. He's meeting us inside, then taking us down to the coroner's office. To see the bodies.
They filed in through the glass doors that smelled faintly of Lysol and old coffee. Tompkins was waiting: short, balding, somewhere north of sixty-five, carrying the weight of too many bad nights in the lines around his eyes. He shook hands with John and Juanita, nodded politely at the women.
You folks the ones from Texas? he asked.
Juanita managed a small smile. That's us. Dr. Juanita Anthony, Sheriff John Henry, Rachel Edison, Lacey Woodley.
Tompkins gave the younger women a grandfatherly nod. Well, if you'll follow me, I'll show you where the Greenwoods are waiting.
The coroner's room was cold, fluorescent-lit, the kind of cold that gets into your bones and stays. Rachel had seen Grady's work before-up close and personal in Annabelle-but memory is a merciful liar. Romona Greenwood's head lolled at an impossible angle, throat opened almost to the spine, the wound ragged and black in the harsh light. Her eyes were still wide with the last thing she'd seen: pure, animal terror. Beside her, Bruce looked the same, like someone had tried to erase his face with a dull knife.
So you think your boy's responsible for this too? Tompkins asked, voice low.
Rachel nodded once. Yes. And the note we found-it was Andrew's handwriting. Exact match.
Tompkins rubbed his chin. You figure Andrew Grant helped him do it?
No, Rachel snapped, turning on him so fast it startled everyone. Jesus Christ. Andrew was damn near a victim himself. Back in Annabelle there's no proof he was even breathing after he left that note. For all we know, he's rotting in a ditch somewhere, or stuffed in a culvert, or... She trailed off, throat closing.
I'm sorry, ma'am. I have to ask.
It's fine. I think I need coffee. Or air. Something.
She walked out, shoulders hunched like she was carrying the whole damn world.
The room felt smaller after she left. Juanita cleared her throat. Besides Grady's prints-and that's rare as hell-any witnesses?
Tompkins shook his head. Just a guy who saw the car, and that was damn near two months later. Prints matched Andrew Grant and Charles Grady. I thought Grady burned his fingertips off regular-like.
He does, John said. Did it in Manitachie Falls. Did it in Annabelle. My guess? He's getting sloppy. No time to build a fresh identity. And he's got Andrew now. That's the only thing that explains it. Usually he's smarter. Faster.
He can't hide forever, Juanita said, voice steady but thin. Trust me. He'll surface. They both will. But until then... where? Does he own land around here? Arkansas maybe?
John looked at the floor a moment, then up. I've got someone who might know. His Aunt Marta Lampkins. Still in Manatachie Falls. That's only a couple hours from here. If we roll now, we can make it before the night gets any older.
Lacey and Juanita exchanged a glance, then nodded. They stepped out to find Rachel, who was leaning against a vending machine, staring at nothing.
It was time to go back. Back to where the bad thing had first crawled out of the ground, almost ten years ago. Back to Manatachie Falls, where the shadows were long and the secrets had teeth. The kind of place that never really lets you leave. Not all the