A high, shrill siren of a noise filled the cabin. It was coming from my mouth, pouring forth like a volcano, and I couldn’t stop it. And then I was sobbing, my face to the ceiling.
I don’t know how long this lasted, but it seemed to go on for a very long time. All the despair and grief of my stolen life streamed out of my mouth and eyes and nose, and everything and everyone around me disappeared until I could cry no more.
I got up and staggered to the bathroom. Weirdly, understanding my drowning dream, where it had come from, made me feel better. And the truth was, it wasn’t that surprising Michael Rhones had killed my mother, after all the other crazy things he’d done. It actually made a lot of sense. I blew my nose, then splashed cold water on my face and used the toilet.
Back out in the living room, Dekker was saying, “So he killed her and took Petty and changed their names and disappeared.”
Mitch nodded.
I reseated myself on the sofa.
“Why didn’t Michael just divorce her?” Dekker asked.
“He said if he couldn’t have her, no one could,” Mitch said, moving the mantel figurines to their original positions before turning toward us. “Michael framed me for the murder. He planted evidence and I was put on trial in Denver.”
Nothing surprised me anymore.
“I was acquitted. That’s a matter of public record, but it ruined my life. Not only because Marianne was gone, but because I’ve been hounded by the press since. I moved to this cabin to escape it all, but the teenagers up here like to dare each other to ‘touch the murderer’s house.’ ”
“That’s why you came out with a rifle,” Dekker said.
Mitch went on as if he hadn’t heard. “The media turned me into a monster. It was hell. Of course, all this happened before the Internet, so your mom didn’t know Michael had a history of stalking women. He’d been in prison for raping and disfiguring a woman he was obsessed with. This was in another state—-Ohio, I think—-and he had several aliases. I don’t even know if Rhones was his real name.”
He came toward me in two long strides, fell to his knees and grabbed mine, making me jump. “Someone like him, Petty, doesn’t kill just once. And he doesn’t rape just once, so . . . I have to know, Petty. Did he . . . ?”
Dekker’s head whipped toward me.
“Did he . . . what?” I said, barely able to get the words out.
“Did he violate you? Did he have sex with you?” Spit flew from his mouth as he said “sex” and it landed on my cheek.
I shoved Mitch’s hands off my knees and got to my feet. “No!” I said. “He never touched me.”
“Are you sure? Sometimes—-I’ve read quite a bit about the subject—-when children are molested, they suppress the memory. They bury it, but it sometimes comes out in dreams. They become withdrawn and introverted and depressed.”
Dekker looked at me as if I were roadkill. Horrified. Disgusted. Probably thinking to himself, That describes Petty to a T.
I paced. “I’d remember,” I said. “I know I would.”
“No,” Mitch said. “You might not. Michael was a violent, sadistic rapist and murderer. When the authorities found Marianne’s body, it was mutilated. He’d cut off her—-”
“Stop,” Dekker said. “Don’t. Don’t say it. Stop.”
He’d cut off her what?
“She needs to hear this.”
Dekker rose, trembling, and stood between me and Mitch. “No, she doesn’t.”
Mitch frowned at Dekker, gave him a flat stare for a moment, then his face cleared.
“Of course, you’re right. I apologize. You’re absolutely right.” He sat back in the rocking chair, took off his glasses and rubbed his eyes. “I’ve carried this burden by myself for eighteen years, and I guess I’d hoped we could carry it together. But it was selfish of me.”
Dekker and I sat on the sofa. Mitch gave me a pointed look that I couldn’t figure out. It was as if he was waiting for me to say something, but I didn’t know what.
Then his shoulders dropped. “I’m so tired. I’m going to go to sleep now. We’ll talk more when I get up.” He leaned over me and kissed my forehead and squeezed my shoulder. Then he turned to Dekker. “I don’t know when you were planning to leave, but there’s snow in the forecast, and we get snowed in up here pretty good.”
Dekker looked at me, and I shrugged.
I’d told him he should leave, just like Mitch had suggested. But I didn’t want him to go. I felt—-what was the word?—-safe with him, and I couldn’t figure out why. He didn’t know how to shoot a gun, or how to fight, and he sure couldn’t run. What did it mean?
Mitch hadn’t made a move toward his bedroom.
“So be off with you, then!” he said to Dekker with a forced laugh.
“All right,” Dekker said. He gave me a blank look and went into the guest room.
Mitch turned to me and gave me a big grin and the okay sign with his hand.