Like if I could just make them disappear, it would mean that they were never even there to begin with.
“No,” I say at last. “Nothing out of place. I went downstairs, into the kitchen, and found my parents. And that’s when … that’s when they told me about Margaret. That she had an accident.”
“Okay.” He nods. “Okay, sweetheart, that’s all I need. You did great.”
He pats my knee with his hand before standing up and walking back toward my father. Then they both smile in my direction before stepping into the hallway and shutting the door behind them.
I stay seated for a while, staring at the wall in front of me, my heart pounding in my chest. I’ve never liked to lie. It always makes me feel so wrong, so ashamed, but earlier this morning, when Dad was walking me through it, he had said that sometimes a lie can be a good thing if it’s done for the right reasons.
It reminded me of a lie I told for Margaret once, sometime last year, after she had broken my mother’s crystal vase. She knew not to touch it—it was an antique; like so many other things in this house, off-limits—but she did it anyway, standing on a barstool on her tiptoes, reaching for it with outstretched hands. She had just picked Mom some flowers from outside, but before she could display them, her right foot slipped, sending the thing crashing down onto the tile, shattering everywhere. Mom was angry, of course—furious—but I knew Margaret didn’t mean it. She didn’t mean to break anything. So right then, in the middle of her scolding, I stepped forward and took the blame.
Maybe this was like that, I reason. A good lie. Maybe Dad wants me to lie to protect Margaret. But somehow, deep down, I know that’s not right. I know it’s not Margaret he’s protecting.
Somehow, I know that it’s me.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
NOW
I can’t keep watching these videos—not after that visit from Dozier. I feel rattled, restless, like my veins have morphed into live wires buzzing with electrical charge.
I’m having a hard time processing everything he just told me: that that comment could’ve been a figment of my own imagination; that Paul Hayes lives alone. I suppose it’s possible he had company—that maybe that old man on his porch was visiting for the week, someone completely harmless—but still. Why was he sitting out there in the middle of the night? Why had he ignored me? Had he even seen that I was there?
And, even more terrifying: Was he even there?
I shake my head, pace around the floor for a bit, trying to relax. I’ll go back to the house tonight, see if he’s still there. Maybe I should bring Waylon with me, just to be sure that he sees him, too. And if he does, I’ll know. I’ll know I’m not crazy.
I grab my phone and open up Facebook, typing in his name: Paul Hayes. I quickly realize that there are a lot of Paul Hayeses out there—an attorney in Texas with a wide-brimmed hat; an Oklahoma teenager with a giant truck. There are even a few right here in Savannah, holding up deer and fish and other dead things, but none of them are him.
I open up Instagram next, do the same search, and scroll.
Nothing. Not a single thing.
I lower my phone, chew on the inside of my cheek, and think. To the outside world, Paul Hayes seems not to exist—and suddenly, I wonder if that’s on purpose. I wonder if he was forgettable for a reason. When I talked to him last year, knocking on that door with Mason’s poster in hand, he had been the perfect combination of unremarkable: polite but not overly friendly, cooperative but not especially helpful. Like someone who didn’t want to raise any flags. Someone who wanted to disappear into the shadows.
Someone with something to hide.
I suppose it isn’t a crime to like your privacy, but still. He has a record. He’s out on parole. He was at the vigil. His porch has a direct view into my backyard.
It’s something—a lead, definitely. And one that I need to know more about.
I also need to know more about my sleepwalking. I need to find out if it means anything, and—I swallow, close my eyes—if I could have done something again. Something I don’t remember. I look down and dial Dr. Harris’s number next, listening to the ringing before it flips to voice mail. Then I leave a quick message, asking to be penciled in as soon as possible.
I hang up, but before I can put my phone down, I feel it start to vibrate in my hand.
“Waylon,” I say, answering immediately after seeing his name on the screen. “You’ll never guess—”
“Hey, Isabelle,” he interrupts, sounding breathless and excited. “Just got a few words in with Detective Dozier.”