Or maybe, just maybe, I could be wrong about this, too.
It feels good to let myself believe it, if only for a second: That if I didn’t hurt Margaret, then maybe I didn’t hurt Mason, either. That maybe there’s another explanation, another reason, that absolves me of any guilt.
I could talk to Dr. Harris, perhaps, ask him more veiled questions in another desperate attempt at answers. Or I could go back to Paul Hayes’s house and try to figure out, again, who that old man is. What he knows. Maybe he’s lying about seeing me walking around at night, Mason wrapped in my arms. Maybe he’s just trying to confuse me, scare me. Get me to stop asking questions. I decide it’s better than nothing, because right now, I’m back at square one. Waylon isn’t on my side anymore—he made that perfectly clear yesterday, sitting in my living room, accusing me of murder—which means, once again, I’m back to being alone.
Back to trying to find my son without the help of the police, the public. Ben.
There is something about Ben, though, that’s been tickling at my subconscious. Something about our meeting yesterday that felt familiar, though I can’t put my finger on why. Maybe it was the surreality of staring at Valerie up close, at finding myself so swiftly flipped into the role that Allison once held—no longer the other one, but now, the old one. The one he had discarded for something shinier, better, like a malfunctioning toy. The way she had sashayed into the archway, her tanned skin visible behind the translucency of his shirt, like she had just rolled out of bed—his bed—and grabbed it from the floor, plucking it from the spot where he had abandoned it the night before in a fervent frenzy and shrugged it over her shoulders.
The way she had called to him from the kitchen, her singsongy voice floating through the halls.
“Ben? Are you out there? Who is it?”
And his response, like a swift kick to the stomach: “Nobody.”
I’ve been driving on autopilot, these familiar roads of home leading me back to the city, but suddenly, the scenery around me seems to get brighter, sharper. The edges magnified with a startling clarity, like I’ve ingested some kind of drug.
I know what it is. I know what was nagging at me. I know what it was about yesterday that made me feel so uneasy.
It was those words. Valerie’s words had dislodged another memory from somewhere deep inside me: the guilt, the shame, of being pushed into the bushes at the memorial as Ben peeled himself from me, jogged up the porch steps, and discarded me like his cigarette, still smoldering in the grass. The fear of holding my breath and letting the branches claw at my hair, cut at my cheeks, like a gnarled hand pressed tight against my mouth. Dirty nails digging into my skin, keeping me quiet.
The panic that swelled in my chest as I watched that man saunter into the backyard, hands in his pockets.
“Ben? Are you out there?”
Watching his shoulders tense as he spotted my glass, champagne still fizzing, and the smudge of lipstick on the brim as he lifted it up, inspected it, like he had found some kind of clue. I hadn’t seen his face—I ran before he had the chance to turn back around, face the house, and find me hiding there—but I heard him. I heard his voice loud and clear. It was a voice I didn’t recognize at the time, but now, I would recognize it anywhere. It’s a voice that has been so prevalent in my life for these last two weeks, ever since he introduced himself on that airplane, sat across from me at my dining room table. Rang loudly in those giant headphones clamped tight around my ears.
That man was Waylon.
I grip the wheel harder, my foot like lead pushing down on the pedal. Even after all these years, I feel sure of it in a way I haven’t felt sure of anything. All this time, Waylon’s voice felt familiar. I knew I had heard it before—I knew it—I just couldn’t figure out from where.
But now, I know. He was there, at that house. This is what he’s been hiding. This is Waylon’s secret. This is what he didn’t want me to know.
He knows Ben.
I throw my car into park on the side of the road and dig out my phone. Does Ben know he’s here? Did he send him to me for some reason? To extract information, maybe? Another way of keeping tabs?
I launch a new browser and type his name into the search engine, my fingers shaking as I pound at the screen. The page fills with articles about the podcast, interviews with true crime forums, mentions of the Guy Rooney case and his involvement in getting it solved. None of this is helpful, so this time, I refine my search: Waylon Spencer and Benjamin Drake.
When the results load, I feel the breath exit my lungs.