Detective Rowan’s attention swept to Wendy. She looked at Wendy, then over to Mr. Davies before her gaze settled back on Wendy. Almost imperceptibly, Detective Rowan shifted closer. Her hand moved to rest casually on her duty belt.
“Where’s Matthew and Joel?” Mr. Davies asked, sweat glistening on his forehead.
“They’re with your wife en route to the hospital,” Detective James told him.
“I came as soon as they called me,” Mr. Darling said. “We were on the other side of the woods, looking for the kids—but you found them?” His words spilled over one another. “I told you to stay inside when your mother and I weren’t home!” he barked angrily, but Wendy could feel the way his hands trembled.
“I know. I’m sorry,” Wendy said.
“Mr. Darling.” Detective James stepped forward. “We—”
“I know where John and Michael are, Dad,” Wendy said quietly. All eyes swung to her.
Her father froze, and she rushed on before he could get his hopes too high.
“They’re buried under the big tree in the clearing,” Wendy told him. Maybe if she said it softly, it would hurt a little less.
Mr. Darling’s hands dropped to his sides. He stumbled back a step as if she had slapped him. His breaths sawed in and out.
She glanced at Detectives James. “I remembered,” she told him, “when I saw the tree.”
Detective James cut a look at Detective Rowan. Immediately, she called over two CSI agents and murmured an order. They headed for the clearing, but Detective Rowan stayed where she was.
Wendy’s words hung in the air for a moment. Everyone was quiet.
Mr. Darling was rattled, but not surprised. Maybe he already knew and had just been waiting five years for someone to confirm it. He opened his eyes again.
Mr. Darling turned to Detective James. His face tried to pinch into the angry expression Wendy had grown to know well, but his chin wobbled and his eyes glistened. “What happened to them? Who did it? Was it the man who took the other kids?” he demanded, his voice thick.
“It was Mr. Davies.”
All the eyes that had been glued to Wendy swung over to Mr. Davies.
Wendy braced herself, expecting him to immediately deny it, to argue and push back. Maybe he would even start shouting about his innocence.
Instead, Mr. Davies took on a sickly pallor. His eyes fell to the ground. He bent forward and buried his face in his hands.
“What?” Wendy’s father was the first to break the silence, his attention bouncing between Wendy and his friend. His face scrunched up, sharp lines of confusion digging into his brow.
“Are you sure?” Detective James asked carefully, stony and serious. Detective Rowan silently slipped behind Mr. Davies. Wendy nodded, her fingers twisting into the hem of her shirt. “How do you know that, Wendy?”
Her hand found the acorn tied around her neck. “I remembered.” The gunshots echoing through the snowy woods. Her brothers crumpling to the ground. Splotches of red on white snow. The glint of the rifle. Mr. Davies’s signature red plaid. They were seared into her memory now, not soon to be forgotten. Probably never. A new set of nightmares to relive over and over.
Wendy wished Peter were by her side.
“She’s telling the truth,” Mr. Davies almost moaned, dropping his hands from his face. His eyebrows gathered in, his mouth twisted and miserable. “It was me.” His eyes darted nervously among Mr. Darling, Wendy, and Detective James.
Wendy saw Detective James’s hand go to his waist. Her father didn’t move a muscle.
Mr. Davies swallowed hard. “I did it—it-it was an accident,” he stammered. “I was hunting out of season—I had been drinking—I thought they were deer!” He spoke so fast Wendy could barely keep up. Mr. Davies buried his hands in his hair. “I panicked! I got a shovel from my truck and I—I—” He let out a groan like a wounded animal. “I wanted to confess,” he said pleadingly to Mr. Darling. Wendy’s father continued to stare. Deep red blotches bloomed on his cheeks. “But I had my two little boys at home, and my wife—”
Wendy felt no sympathy for Mr. Davies. She wasn’t fooled by his words. He had thought only of himself. By not coming clean, he’d let her family suffer for years. Because he kept his secret to save his own skin, she and her parents had gone through years of mourning with no closure. He hadn’t just taken John and Michael, he’d tortured her family. He’d let it happen. He’d watched as they’d borne the weight of losing John and Michael, and fell apart under it.