That’s what she always says.
But I don’t like it. She doesn’t either but she won’t say. Just like me. Don’t be like her.
I never will. I won’t. I promise.
Pinky-promise hook. Not my finger. Or my feet.
Sticky feet.
Little lights like Mary had a little lamb. Fleece as white as snow.
Catch them if you can. Carry them in your hand.
Your hand.
Don’t hold me. Let go.
You have to do this by yourself. Just you.
I don’t want to.
She. Never listens.
Not to me. Not to nobody. Not to somebody else.
I wish he was here.
Daddy where’d you go? Why’d you take the light?
Twinkle twinkle little star. Don’t you wonder where you are?
EIGHT
CASEY WALKER
Genevieve’s house is even prettier than the pictures in Southern Living, where it’s featured every spring alongside Brett Favre’s sprawling estate in Sumrall, Mississippi. Detective Layne and I stand awkwardly in the living room, taking it all in. He insisted on confronting Genevieve about the inconsistencies in her story about what happened down at the creek after we reviewed the troubling information in Mason’s reports.
“We don’t sleep on things like this,” he said as we headed out the café door, and I followed him here.
It’s not like being a first-time visitor in Genevieve’s house, since every room has appeared on her blog at least twice, and she regularly posts pictures of it on Instagram. I didn’t follow her before this, but I’ve been monitoring her social media like a hawk. Everything she posts goes viral. The world is alive with her story.
The living room gleams with order and smells like fresh laundry. A cream sofa faces a modern marble fireplace with a glass-topped coffee table in front of it. The table is adorned with a collection of Elle Decor. Framed family photographs line the fireplace mantel and walls.
Her husband, John, looks so full of life. His chiseled face is shaved and wrinkle-free in every picture. Not stressed at all as he smiles down at his wife and kids or into the eyes of the camera. The room is filled with pictures of them—John, Genevieve, Savannah, and Mason—and they all have perfect teeth to match their perfect smiles. I shift my gaze to the other wall. There’s a huge framed picture in the center, and it takes me a second to remember.
“That’s right, you’re a former Miss Alabama,” I exclaim as the realization hits me. She went on to compete for Miss USA. How could I have forgotten that? She’s stunning with her glowing skin and nothing but youth radiating from her eyes. The mayor threw her a parade down University Boulevard in celebration of her winning the title. It was the most exciting thing to happen to us outside of the Crimson Tide championships, and she drew a crowd almost as big.
She grins wide like she’s been waiting for me to notice the picture and ask about it. “Sure was, and”—she tilts her hand at me playfully and puckers her lips—“sixth runner-up for Miss USA.” She talks like a cheerleader giving a pep talk and cocks her head to the side, feigning like it’s nothing, but the picture is the second-largest one in the space. “I even got to meet Mr. Trump before he was the president.”
My eyes travel down the wall like the living room is an art gallery and land on a small girl in a pink pageant dress and huge pageant hair sprayed perfectly in place. The first-place ribbon she’s holding with both hands is almost as big as she is. “Is that your daughter?”
“Sure is. Savannah took her turn at the beauty pageant circuit too. For a while she wanted to be just like her mama.” She quickly turns to Detective Layne. Her hazel eyes are highlighted by her perfectly threaded eyebrows. Lipstick paints her lips. “Anyway, enough about me. What can I do for y’all today?”
He’s ogling her Miss Alabama bikini picture, which is displayed on one of the bookshelves lining the back wall. The other picture made sense, but this one I’m not so sure about. It’s the classic bikini pose—red swimsuit flattering every curve, one leg jutted out, hand on the other hip, and smiling at the camera seductively. I kick him in the heel to get him to pay attention, but he doesn’t care. He speaks while he’s still staring at her picture. “We just came by to talk to you and ask you a few follow-up questions from our chat yesterday.”
“Okay, sure. Absolutely. Anything I can do to help. Can I get you something to drink before we get started? Coffee? Water? Sweet tea? Anybody in the mood for sweet tea?” She motions to the leather club chairs in front of the fireplace before giving us a chance to respond to her rapid-fire questions. “Sit. Sit.”
I grab the chair on the right. “I’m fine, thank you.”
Detective Layne takes a seat in the other chair. “I’m good too. Why don’t you join us?” He motions to the couch.
“Okay, okay.” She hurries around the coffee table and perches on the edge of the couch even though it’s clear she doesn’t want to. She’s too jumpy to sit, but everyone automatically does what Detective Layne tells them to do. I’m not sure if all officers have that effect on people or if it’s just him.
“One of the reasons we’ve called Ms. Walker in to help us with this investigation is because she knows all about the kinds of stuff your son is dealing with.” He stops to scan the open-concept floor at the mention of him. “Where is Mason?”
“Upstairs sleeping. He’s had a real difficult time sleeping since this horrible tragedy. We both have. Normally, I don’t let him sleep during the day. It’s bad for his routine and all. Makes it so hard for him to go to sleep at night, and he’ll stay up all night if he’s not tired. I don’t know if y’all kids sleep well, but my Mason sure doesn’t. Never has.” She tosses her hair over her shoulders.