I turn off the news as I finish cutting up Harper’s strawberries on the counter and hope she doesn’t notice. Our mornings, much like everything else, have to follow a specific routine, or she melts down. The WDYM morning show is always part of breakfast. I peek at her out of the corner of my eye. She’s spooning the last bite of Cheerios into her mouth, which means she’s close enough to finished that the news being off won’t matter. She’s probably already rehearsing her next step under her breath—get dressed.
I can’t stomach any media right now. They just keep interviewing residents, and everyone keeps saying the same things over and over again:
“We never thought it could happen to us.”
“Things like that don’t happen round here.”
Technically, Tuscaloosa is a city, but it’s really just an overgrown small town where everyone knows everybody else. That’s why people move here. Some people have never lived anywhere else. This is home for me. I’m a true southern girl, but of the less traditional variety. I was always more likely to be driving the pickup truck than I was to be riding in the passenger seat like most of my girlfriends. We grew up with Friday-night football games, home-cooked meals, and church on Sundays. Not much has changed since then. We like believing we’re safe, but if the mayor’s wife can die, then nobody is safe.
I slept terrible last night, but I knew that I would. Stress always disrupts my sleep. I’ll need extra coffee today.
My phone buzzes with Detective Layne’s call. Why can’t he text like everyone else?
“Harper, I have to take this call quick. I’ll be back in two minutes,” I call to her as I step into the living room and hurry down the hallway out of her earshot. “Hello?”
“Hi, Casey, sorry to call you so early, but I knew you were up,” he says, but I’m pretty sure he’s not sorry. He’s called every morning for the last three days. Seems like we’re establishing a pattern.
“What’s up?” I ask, waiting to hear what he has to say and straining for sounds in the kitchen at the same time. Harper’s strapped in her seat, but I don’t trust her to stay there with me not in the room. Her seat worked when she was a toddler, but she’s bigger and smart enough to get out now. She’s done it before. Feels weird to have her in a booster seat when she’s nine, but she started flinging herself off the chair recently. She banged her head on the table twice when she fell, so I didn’t have much of a choice unless I never wanted to take my eyes off her, which is impossible.
Detective Layne clears his throat. “I have a few psychological-assessment reports on Mason from the psychologists that examined him before. Can you take a look at them?”
“As long as the proper consent is in place, sure.” I’m one of those weird people who really like numbers and figures, so I can’t wait to see what the reports say about Mason. It was impossible to get any sense of him yesterday. “Do you have my email?”
“No, that’s why I’m calling so early.”
I quickly rattle it off for him. “I’ll try to look at this as soon as I can, but it probably won’t be until later this afternoon. I have to drop my daughter at school and be to another appointment by nine.” As if the mention of her summons her into action, she pounds her spoon on the table.
“Ah, shoot, I was hoping you’d be able to do it this morning. Any chance you could move things around?” he asks in a pleading, sweet voice. A dramatic difference from after I insulted him about the investigation last night.
“I’ll see what I can do, but I have to go,” I say and end the call as Harper’s sounds beckon me to the kitchen.
I’m having to reschedule clients left and right, but I guess that’s what happens when you’re part of a murder investigation. I’m still trying to wrap my brain around what Detective Layne told me last night. Annabelle was brutally murdered, and if Mason didn’t do it, then someone else did. That’s why Detective Layne is pushing so hard for it to be Mason to the exclusion of everyone else. If Mason killed Annabelle, then it was likely an accident or he didn’t realize what he was doing, which isn’t any less tragic, but it is less scary. If he’s the guilty party, then there’s no monster lurking in the woods waiting to attack their next victim. I understand his reasoning, but what if he’s wrong?
The PDF from Detective Layne takes forever to load on my computer screen. I waited to open it until after I dropped Harper at school so that I could give the report my undivided attention. I watch as the screen finally fills. There are hundreds of pages from multiple reports. Mason’s had numerous evaluations from psychologists, doctors, and specialists over the years. I dive in immediately.
He’s had all the gold-standard tests—Autism Diagnostic Observation Schedule, Childhood Autism Rating Scale, and the DDD interview—and received the matching autism spectrum diagnosis to go along with them. He has the usual deficits in social communication and social interaction, as well as restricted interests. His interests center around trains and listing the United States in alphabetical order. He’s also obsessed with the color red. He doesn’t recognize people’s emotions or facial expressions and has unusual or no reaction to social cues.