‌“You missed the turn for one-twelve,” Tripp points out. “I know,” I say.‌

“Let me guess.” He drums his fingers on the center console. “On purpose?”

“I just thought, since we’re here…” I make a sharp left into a strip mall parking lot, heading for a storefront I noticed on our way to Mad Dog Tavern.

Superior Pawnshop.

“Brynn, come on,” Tripp says when I park in front of it. “What are you up to?”

“Maybe this is where Dexter Robbins works,” I say. “It’s right down the street from the bar he used to own.”

“Are you out of your mind?” Tripp twists in his seat to glare at me. “You heard Rose. Don’t poke the hornet’s nest.”

“I’m not trying to talk to him or anything,” I say. “If he’s still as religious as he used to be, he’s probably not even working on a Sunday.

Which makes today the perfect time to check up on him. Then I can find him later, if I need to.”

“Why would you need to?” Tripp asks, frowning. “I don’t care what you think Shane, or whoever, might’ve done. You can’t send this guy after him. Besides, you said it yourself at Brightside—maybe Dexter Robbins was in the woods that day. Maybe he killed Mr. Larkin, and we should stay the hell away from him.”

“I will,” I say. “I just want to know more about him.”

Tripp doesn’t look convinced, but all he says is, “Well, you’re on your own. Leave me out of this.” I hesitate, wondering if he’s regretting giving me the go-ahead to keep digging into Mr. Larkin, until he smiles and lightly pushes my shoulder. “Go, already.”

“I’ll be quick,” I say, and dart out the door.

I’ve never been inside a pawnshop before, and this one is nicer than I expected. It’s long and narrow, with glass cases lining either side and a booth in the back with a neon sign above it that reads LOANS. One wall is hung with guitars, the other lined with shelves filled with different types of electronics. There are almost a dozen people inside already, browsing the cases, and two workers behind the counters wearing navy Superior Pawn T- shirts. One of the employees is a woman and the other is much too young to be Dexter, so my shoulders—which I didn’t even realize were rigid—relax as I approach the woman.

“Can I help you?” she asks.

“Hi. I was wondering if Dexter Robbins works here?” “Nope,” she says without a flicker of recognition.

“Are there other pawnshops nearby?” I ask.

“Near-ish, if you’re driving.” The bell over the door jangles as someone else walks in, and her eyes drift over my shoulder. “It’s not my job to help you find them, though.”

“Fair enough,” I say, wondering how many more pawnshops I can visit before Tripp’s patience wears out.

—

Turns out the answer is three.

“All right,” Tripp finally says when I climb back into the car after having a friendly, but ultimately fruitless, conversation with the owner of Empire Pawn & Music. I never realized, until the past hour, how much business pawnshops do in used guitar sales. “Enough. I have stuff to do, and this isn’t getting you anywhere. Things would go a lot faster if you went home and just called every pawnshop in New Hampshire.”

“That is…a good point, actually,” I admit. “Can I make just one more stop, though? The guy at Empire said there’s another place right down the street.”

Tripp slumps against his seat. “If this counts as our first date, I’d like to go on record as saying it sucks.”

I grin at him, because he’s very cute when he’s annoyed. And also when he’s not. “It doesn’t count,” I say.

“Good,” Tripp says, closing his eyes. “Then I have no qualms about asking you to wake me up when it’s over.”

It takes less than five minutes to arrive at the appropriately named Last Chance Pawnshop, and its parking lot is much less crowded than any of the others. The only other vehicle in sight is a faded red pickup truck that’s parked directly in front of the window. I park a few spots away from it, and Tripp opens his eyes as a tall, bearded guy wearing a bright red baseball cap and a gray sweatshirt comes out the front door carrying a bulging trash bag. The man tosses it into a nearby dumpster, brushes his hands together, and goes back inside.

“Place is hopping,” Tripp observes. “This is definitely the least popular pawnshop in central New Hampshire.”

“Yeah,” I say, feeling strangely reluctant to leave the car. There was something comforting about how busy the other pawnshops were; here I feel too conspicuous. But it’s my last stop, so…“I’ll be right back.”

There’s no bell on the door, but it opens with a loud, prolonged squeak of the hinges. The man who took the trash out is the only person in the shop, positioned behind a streaky glass case that holds an assortment of

watches. “Help you?” he says, adjusting his baseball cap enough for me to notice that his hair is dark and peppered with gray like his beard.

I wasn’t able to find any photos of Dexter Robbins online, but this guy looks around the same age, which makes me wary of mentioning the name. “I was, um…” My mind goes blank as I approach the counter, so I grasp at the nearest straw. “Wondering if you buy jewelry?”

Red Hat smirks. “Did the gigantic neon sign in the window not give you a hint?” he asks, pointing behind me.

I don’t need to turn. WE BUY GOLD flashed in my face while I was opening the door. “Right. Sorry,” I say, forcing a smile that he doesn’t return. I push up my left coat sleeve, exposing my charm bracelet. “What do you think I could get for this?”

“Lemme see,” he says.

I meet his eyes for the first time. They’re flat and cold, flicking across my face without much interest. He can probably tell at a glance that I won’t actually sell anything, just like I can tell I’m not going to learn anything helpful here. We have no use for one another, and I don’t like his vibe, but I still find myself holding out my wrist.

He snorts and makes a beckoning motion with his palm. “I’m gonna need to take a closer look than that.”

Reluctantly I unclasp my bracelet and drop it into his hand. He lays it across the counter and pulls a jeweler’s loupe off the shelf behind him. While he bends over the bracelet, I scan the scattered paperwork that’s piled beside him. It looks like a bunch of receipts, for items that people have either dropped off or bought, but I’m having a hard time reading them upside down. I inch a little closer, just as he looks up.

“Fourteen karat,” he says, eyes glinting. They’re not brown like I first thought; they’re hazel. Like Mr. Larkin’s were. My heart stutters in my chest as he adds, “Feels light. I can weigh it, but there’s probably less than ten grams of gold here. Ballpark one twenty-five, maybe.”

“Oh, okay. That’s not as much as I was hoping.” Suddenly the only thing I want in the world is to have the bracelet back on my wrist. I pluck it from beneath the loupe, not caring if I’m being rude, and drop my keys onto

the counter so I can fasten it. “Thank you for checking, but I’ll hang on to it after all.”

He shrugs. “Up to you.”

The clasp is delicate and hard to close, and Red Hat yawns while I wrestle with it. Just as it finally catches, I glance down at my keys and realize, stomach churning, that I forgot I’d attached the Mad Dog Tavern medallion to them. It’s lying flat on the glass, snarling dog emblem down, the Billy engraving clearly visible. I freeze, hand still at my wrist, and steal a glance at Red Hat, hoping his eyes have gone back to his paperwork.

They haven’t. They’re fastened on the medallion, which shines brightly beneath the harsh fluorescent lighting. “What the—” he starts, face creasing into a frown.

I lunge for my keys and manage to scoop them up right before he does. He stares at the empty space where they were, then at me, and gooseflesh erupts across my arms. His eyes are narrowed into slits, and every line of his face looks like it’s been etched from stone. “Where the hell did you get that?” he rasps. “Who are you?”

I don’t hesitate. There’s a counter between us, and I’m going to make full use of that barrier because I’m absolutely positive I don’t want to have this conversation. I turn on my heel and run for the door, fling it open, and dash for my car. By the time I hear a shout behind me, I’ve already unlocked the doors and slid behind the wheel.

Tripp is reclined in his seat, eyes closed, and he startles at how loudly I slam the door. “What’s up?” he asks, bringing his seat back into the upright position as I shove my keys into the ignition. As soon as the engine catches, I throw the car into reverse and back up much too quickly. Red Hat is out of the pawnshop now, and starts running straight toward us as I shift into drive. That’s enough to make me turn the wheel sharply, slam on the gas, and tear out of the parking lot.

“Brynn, what the hell?” Tripp asks, staring behind us as I drive over a sidewalk in my haste to get onto the road. “What’s that guy’s problem?”

My throat has closed to a pinprick, and I can’t speak until a glance in my rearview mirror reassures me that no one is following us. Still, I

accelerate well past the speed limit, wanting to put as much space as possible between my car and the Last Chance Pawnshop. “I think that might have been Dexter Robbins,” I say.

“What?” Tripp asks. “Why?”

Oh God. It kills me to admit how careless I was, but…“I put my keys on the counter, and he saw the Mad Dog Tavern medallion. He, um, seemed to recognize it.”

“Recognize it how?”

“He asked where I got it.”

“Maybe he just liked it. They’re kind of cool.”

“Yeah, except…” My head pounds, and I wish I could go back and relive the last fifteen minutes of my life—never go into Last Chance Pawnshop in the first place or, at the very least, put my damn keys into my pocket. “The logo side was facedown, and the Billy side faceup. That’s what caught his attention. And he was…angry.”

“Well, shit,” Tripp says. “That’s not good.” I turn onto Route 112, and he adds, “I don’t think he’s following us, though. There’s nobody around except a Lexus, and…” He waits for it to pass and reports, “The driver’s a woman, by herself. You didn’t give your name, did you? Or leave anything behind?”

“No,” I say, my pulse starting to slow. “I handed over my bracelet at one point, because I was acting like I might sell it, but I got it back.”

“That’s all right, then,” Tripp says. We’re both silent for a few beats until he adds, “You got what you wanted, right? If that was him, you can find him again.”

“I guess,” I say, but I know I won’t. Even though there are now miles between me and Red Hat, and my heart rate has almost returned to normal, I don’t feel silly for running away. I feel like I escaped a predator, because that’s exactly what he looked like when he saw the medallion. His entire demeanor changed in a flash, from bored to flat-out menacing. As much as I want to know what happened to Mr. Larkin, it turns out there’s a limit to how far I’ll go.