“Except that it is,” Detective Layne says with the jaded authority of someone who knows.
“There were other people out there. Are you checking out the runners’ stories as close as you are hers? What about other runners besides the ones that found them? The place is remote, but it’s not empty.” I brace myself for his response, since he had such a poor one when I challenged him last time.
“Of course we’ve looked into the runners. They weren’t anywhere near that part of the trail where we found her, and they were using a running app, so we were able to see their exact route that day to verify it.” Thankfully, he’s not as annoyed as he was before.
“What about Annabelle’s husband?” Sure, he’s the mayor and firmly cemented in the good ole boys’ club around here, but isn’t the husband always the primary person of interest whenever a wife gets murdered?
“He was out of state at a political convention for that entire week, along with a good portion of his staff.” He lets out a sigh. “Look, Ms. Walker, I don’t want the boy to have done this any more than you do, but we’ve examined all other potential leads, and all signs point to him. I have to rely on the facts even if I don’t like them, and we’ve got some solid evidence against him.”
He’s doing that annoying power trip again. It must be nice to have all the pieces of the puzzle. I try not to be irritated as I ask, “And what evidence is that, besides just being there?”
“Mason’s prints are all over the murder weapon.”
“The murder weapon?” He’s never mentioned anything about a murder weapon before. Am I missing something?
“Yes, that’s what we’re always looking for in any murder—motive and weapon.” He clears his throat. “Investigators gathered the rocks from the scene and tested all of them for prints. There was a large rock next to her head that they assumed was the murder weapon, and Mason’s prints are all over it. His prints are the only ones on it, and according to the forensic report, that rock hasn’t been touched by anyone else but him in years.”
My mind races through possible scenarios for why his hand might have been on the rock. Any alternative explanation that doesn’t end in that poor boy hurting anyone on purpose. “Maybe he moved it off her? He could’ve touched it when he was moving things around. I’m sure he was moving things all over the place when he first discovered her. That would make sense.” I give him room to respond, but he stays silent like what I’ve said is insignificant. “Okay, okay, well, whatever happened, he couldn’t have known what he was doing. He has significant intellectual impairments.” My brain scrambles, trying to come up with something. Anything to explain the boy’s actions. I don’t want him to be guilty any more than Genevieve. I know I’m having countertransference all over the place, but it doesn’t stop the feelings.
“Ms. Walker, with all due respect, even four-year-olds know not to hit people with rocks.”
ELEVEN
GENEVIEVE HILL
Mason and I head downstairs. We’ve been in his room reading books for over an hour. I wanted to make sure Detective Layne and Ms. Walker were gone for good before coming down. We’re almost to the landing when my eye catches sight of a small piece of paper lying on the entryway floor in front of the door. It’s Monday. The mail already came. There’s no soliciting allowed on my porch.
Everything stills. My throat tightens so hard it cuts off my breath. “Honey, why don’t you go into the family room and play with your toys while Mama makes you a snack, okay?” I let go of his hand. He doesn’t move. “Go.” I push him in the direction of the family room, and he shuffles off.
The fear rolls in like a slow fog that’s been waiting for me. Relax. God is in control. Everything is going to be okay. Detective Layne or Ms. Walker might’ve put it there before they left, or they could’ve dropped it on their way out. Talking to myself does nothing to calm my racing heart. There are only two steps to the door, but it feels like my feet might fall through the floor with each one, and it takes forever.
Then I’m there.
I can’t swallow. I can’t breathe. I’m going to be sick.
But there I go bending over and picking up the paper. I watch my actions from somewhere outside myself as I examine it. Thick. Hard. Good card stock. Time moves in slow motion as I read the words printed on the back:
This isn’t over.
Everything gets bigger, smaller, louder, quiet. All of it and nothing.
Three words typed out perfectly. Ones I’ve been worrying and wondering about since the moment we met That Monster. I didn’t know he was there at first. He wasn’t supposed to be. None of this is right. This can’t be happening.
Except it is. Exactly what I was afraid of.
Mason was hunched over Annabelle’s body, trying to give her CPR, when I found him. Blood was smeared all over his face like he’d tried to eat hers. Even on his teeth. It was a scene straight out of a horror movie. There’s so much blood. That’s all I kept thinking over and over again as my brain tried to process what my senses were telling me, but everything was so muddled and messed up.
“Ma. Ma.” He spoke the words I’d spent hundreds of hours teaching him to say.
Those words shocked the life right back into me, and I sprang into action. I lurched forward just as That Monster stepped out from behind a tree. I froze as his eyes flicked over me like a snake’s tongue.
They’ve been following me ever since.
I feel him at the grocery store when I hurry in to grab milk or something else I forgot to put on my delivery list. I swear I feel him breathing down my neck at the gas station when I’m standing there pumping my gas. He’s everywhere, and he’s coming after me. He doesn’t want to hurt Mason. If he wanted to hurt him, he would’ve done it that day. He wants me.
I’m his target. I’m his prey.
Fear sucks the air from my lungs—the same kind of fear I had when I was a kid, terrified of the dark. I didn’t have a lamp at my bedside, so I had to flick off the bedroom light from all the way across my room. Every night I waited until the last possible minute, until after my daddy had hollered at me to turn the light off one last time, and then I’d flick it off and sprint to my bed as fast as I could before something—those awful somethings that slept underneath my bed and hid in my closet—grabbed me by my ankles and pulled me down to torture me. That’s how it is every second that I’m awake.
I flee to the other side of the house like Mason and I fled from the creek that day.
I practically dragged him. By the time we made it out of the ditch and up to the main road, the gravel parking area was filled with media trucks and vans. The police and paramedics who arrived first had already secured the scene with their yellow tape, so the reporters were all champing at the bit to know what had happened. I don’t know who spotted us, but as soon as they did, they rushed us like an angry mob with their flashing cameras and flat black sticks.
Mason’s nails dug into my arms as I ducked my head and kept walking, trying to shelter my face with my free arm.
“Genevieve! Are you okay?”