Page 6 of What She Saw
He drew in a breath until the full expanse of his chest pressed against his T-shirt. “Not so nice. And there are going to be worse than me out there over the next eighteen hours.”
She opened the door and gripped the handle of her guitar case in her right hand. Her stomach grumbled. She laughed. “A burger would be nice.”
“Best of luck.”
She waved to Joe and walked toward the crowd. When she reached the first food vendor, she glanced back and caught his gaze. She smiled, then introduced herself to the young woman setting up the burger station.
A horn honked, drawing Joe’s attention back to the job at hand. He had some pull with a few of the bands. He’d find a way to give her a show-business break, and maybe, who knows, maybe they could find a quiet spot and she could thank him properly.
Chapter Two
Sloane
Friday, August 15, 2025, 12:00 p.m.
Dawson, Virginia
It wasn’t the first time I’d visited the small town of Dawson, nestled in the mountains of Central Virginia. Located twenty miles northeast of Interstate 64, between Charlottesville and Waynesboro, Dawson was a favorite stop for history buffs, wine enthusiasts, sightseers, or anyone looking for a burger or a bathroom break.
The town’s year-round residents hovered around five thousand. But during the summer and fall tourist seasons, when visitors filled rental properties tucked in the hills and valleys, the population swelled to four times that.
I’d arrived during a “shoulder” week. Summer vacationers had left because public schools and colleges were back in session. And it would be two weeks before Labor Day, when the fall hikers arrived. Basically, rents were lower right now.
I’d rented a mountain cottage so far off the beaten path that, even in high season, few wanted it. My budget liked small, rustic cabins in hard-to-reach places.
I found the rental office on Main Street and parked my Jeep in front. Midday was slow in Dawson, but the pace would pick up a little around the dinner rush.
Out of the Jeep, I shouldered my backpack and crossed to the rental office. Agencies usually sent me an entry code, so I didn’t have to bother with check-in. But when I’d rented the place, I was told there was no electronic lock on the cabin. Too much trouble to change the batteries. Okay. Not ideal, but I was here to work, not play.
Bells jingled as I pushed open the door to an office. Two empty desks greeted me. The walls were covered in images of homes far nicer than I could ever afford. My little cabin wasn’t featured in any framed print.
I walked up to the front desk and rapped my knuckles against faux wood. “Hello?”
Footsteps shifted and a toilet flushed. Seconds later, a woman in her late forties emerged from a restroom, drying her hands. Her blond hair was styled into a ponytail, and makeup enhanced handsome features. She wasn’t tall, and her figure looked as if it were carrying a few extra pounds under a cotton top that skimmed over designer jeans narrowing to custom boots.
I had interacted with rich folks when I’d been hired for a couple of ghostwriting gigs. With rich people, it’s not the clothes or cars that are the tell, but the attitude. One woman who came from old tobacco money wanted her life story told but didn’t “like worrying over the details.” Another trust funder who looked homeless wanted his vision for the future enshrined on the page. I could have told them both their stories wouldn’t sell. But I didn’t because the money was good. Both had liked my final product, but to my knowledge, neither book had been published.
“Well, hello there,” the woman said. She tossed her paper towel into a trash can and extended her hand. “I’m Bailey Briggs Jones. What can I do for you?”
In the weeks after the concert, Sheriff CJ Taggart had interviewed Bailey Briggs, who’d been seen at the concert with one of the Festival Four victims, Debra Jackson. Bailey had admitted under oath that she’d seen Debra at the concert, and they’d chatted about high school. She’d been very calm when she testified that she’d left the concert via the fire road around 1:00 a.m. and hitchhiked home.
“I’m Sloane Grayson.” I hoisted my backpack higher on my shoulder. “I rented a cabin and need to pick up the keys.”
“Pick up the keys!” Bailey laughed. “That’s a blast from the past. We have two rentals like that now. Seeing as the Sawyer place is already rented, you must be after the Taggart cabin.”
“Taggart, that’s right.”
“We haven’t had much interest in that cabin for a while, and his great-nephew is on the verge of selling it.” She opened a drawer at the first desk and removed a set of three old keys on a ring. “The locks are old, but they work.”
“I’m sure it’ll be fine.”
Bailey gripped the keys in manicured hands before she dropped them in my calloused palm. “You’re here for two weeks?”
“That’s what I’ve paid for, but who knows? Is the cabin rented after my stay?”
“Lord, no. You could keep it all September.”
“Good to know.”
