“I told you before—she’s vicious.” Despite my declaration that I think her mother might’ve had something to do with a woman being murdered, she doesn’t appear surprised or shocked at all. “It’s what I’ve thought all along. But good luck getting anywhere with that one.”
I can barely wait for her to finish her sentence before jumping in. “You thought she was the one who hurt Annabelle this whole time? Why didn’t you say anything?”
She shrugs like it’s not a big deal, and part of me wants to go off on her like I would if she were Harper and lecture her about keeping secrets. I hold myself back and give her a chance to explain herself, doing my best to be objective, but it’s a struggle.
“Saying something wasn’t going to change anything. Besides, it’s not like I have any proof or anything. Just a hunch. A feeling because I know her.” She says it with the authority of someone who’s studied another person for years. Genevieve might not have been paying attention to her, but Savannah was definitely paying attention to Genevieve. “I felt the same way about her when my daddy died. She probably killed him too.”
She declares it with such cold detachment that it takes me a second to realize what she’s just said. I put my hand up. “I thought your dad died of a heart attack?”
“He did, but she probably had something to do with that.”
“What makes you say that? Do you have anything to substantiate that it was something other than a heart attack?” I sound just like Detective Layne without even trying.
“Oh,” she huffs, “it was definitely a heart attack. I was there. I saw the way he fell off that chair, but she caused it.”
“Do you have any proof? Something we could take to the investigators?” I turn my hands up on the table.
“Nothing other than what he told me.” She runs a finger around the rim of her glass. Her eyes guarded. Protective of whatever truths they shared.
“Which was?” I coax.
“That he was leaving her,” she declares with an icy stare before slowly crossing her arms on her chest and leaning back against the booth. She pushes her food to the center of the table, leaving half her meal untouched.
I take a minute to let her words sink in and dissolve. I have no idea how to respond. Nobody’s ever said anything even hinting that there’s anything suspicious with John’s death. “Did you tell the police that?”
“No, because I knew they’d never believe me.” She motions across the table at me. “Just like you don’t.”
“What do you mean? I never said that I didn’t believe you.”
“You didn’t need to. I can see it all over your face.” She points at me.
Heat burns my cheeks. They’re bright red, I’m sure. “I don’t know what to say.” I loosen the collar of my shirt. “That’s a shocking statement to make, so I might need a minute to process it.”
“There’s nothing to process. Genevieve killed my daddy, and she probably had something to do with killing Annabelle too. She’s evil.” Unlike mine, her face is devoid of emotion. She’s a blank slate. Perfect therapist position, except it’s supposed to be the other way around. “Did you go to my daddy’s funeral?”
It’s not what I expected her to ask next.
“I didn’t. Believe it or not, I’m one of the few people in this town that didn’t know your dad.” He was well liked and well respected everywhere. The church was packed to standing-room only. He got a feature in the obituary section of the Tuscaloosa News.
“It was incredible. Genevieve prepared for it like any other event she did. There were balloons and amazing flower arrangements everywhere. So many people. My gosh, you should’ve seen them. They came out in masses from all over the place. She gave away a huge scholarship in his name. The slideshow was incredible, and she released doves at the end. But the most incredible part? That was her eulogy. Did you see it?”
I shook my head. I only skimmed the funeral footage at the beginning of the investigation because it brought up too many painful memories about my mom’s funeral and seemed unnecessary at the time.
“You should watch it. It was phenomenal. People were hanging on her every word. Even people who don’t normally cry were sobbing openly. You couldn’t help it, though, because it was the perfect mixture of beauty and grief.” Her eyes cloud with memories. She blinks a few times before returning her gaze to me. “But here’s the thing—I watched Genevieve practice the eulogy in the mirror. Not just once”—she shakes her head—“no, dozens of times. That’s what she spent the last three days doing before his funeral every night after everyone had gone home and she was alone in her bedroom. I snuck upstairs and watched her. She recorded herself and played it back so she could critique her performance.” She slips into Genevieve’s voice: “‘Oh no, I don’t think that’s a good spot to cry in.’ I heard her say that one more than once. Or how about this? ‘Don’t forget to look at the camera when you’re talking about the kids.’” Her imitations are almost as good as Mason’s. She pulls herself back into herself, shrugging off her mother quickly. “You tell me, Ms. Walker—what kind of a grief-stricken widow does that?”
TWENTY-SIX
GENEVIEVE HILL
My headlights stare down the two-story brick colonial across the street. It’s nondescript like every other house on the block. Built in the 1950s with the traditional white exterior paint and front porch. I’m not supposed to know where they’re keeping Mason, but in a town this small, it’s not that hard to find out. I called Shelby Richardson because she’s got a heart of gold just like me and is part of a nonprofit that helps kids transition out of foster care. She’s always going on and on about one of the teenage girls she’s letting stay in her house.
Her eagerness to talk about it didn’t disappoint. I made it sound like I was considering helping out those teenagers the way she does, and it wasn’t but five minutes, and she was prattling off the therapeutic foster homes they have in Tuscaloosa. There are only two—one for kids under twelve and one for kids over—so it wasn’t hard to figure out where to find him.
My hands shake on the wheel. They haven’t stopped shaking since I hung up the phone with that man. I run my hands through my hair. I don’t know what to do. He hit end and left me hanging. He hasn’t called back since.
How’d he get the video? That’s what I don’t understand. John never would’ve sent that video to anyone else. He was too embarrassed. He’d never send it to a stranger—that’s for sure. What if it’s one of his friends? Would he do something like that? And why now? If he sent it to someone else all those years ago, what have they been waiting for? Did John give them some kind of weird instructions when he sent it to them?
I don’t know. I don’t know. I don’t know.
I don’t know anything about John. I thought I did, but then he turned out to be a different person. Now everything’s turned upside down. And I don’t know what to do about it, and he’s not here to help. Of course I get stuck picking up all the pieces. Anger burns my insides, but I have to let it go. I just do. I’m not going to let that man go dredging up bad memories, making me relive things I worked so hard to bury.