It’s not him. That Monster was big, bulky, and huge, with fingers large enough to crush your skull. It’s not him, but it’s somebody who’s not supposed to be here.
They’re completely nondescript, dressed all in white like a painter. They could be a larger-framed female or a smaller-framed male. There’s no way to tell, especially when they’ve got a baseball hat pulled low, and they never look up the entire time. It’s like one fluid motion as they loop around the driveway and back to the street. Their walk is practiced and perfect. So’s their delivery. This wasn’t their first time.
I slowly sink into the office chair behind John’s desk. What am I going to do? I could take the paper to Detective Layne immediately and use it as proof that That Monster is out to get us. It would settle his mind on Mason once and for all. They could finally start looking for the real criminal. I’ll probably finally get them to patrol the house. Maybe even get that security officer I asked for.
But is that really going to keep us safe? What happens if That Monster gets mad that we went to the cops? He didn’t say not to go to the cops, but everyone knows you don’t go to the cops. Not when you’re dealing with criminals like these.
I burst out laughing. Like I have any experience with criminals.
I should just give it to Detective Layne. Let him decide what to do with it. Except what if he starts asking questions about the message? Would I have to tell him everything? I can’t do that. Not yet. I’m not ready.
THEN
It’s so dark. I can’t see anything in here. Why does everyone else get the light? And not me.
Not fair.
What did I do wrong?
Mama says nothing. I didn’t do nothin’ wrong she says.
But Mama lies.
She lies a lot. Like that one time she told Mrs. Henry that I wasn’t coming to school on Tuesday. Because. I was sick.
That wasn’t true. I felt fine. Except for my shoulder. That hurt real bad.
Tell the truth, she says.
Mama says.
Lots of things. She talks and she talks and she talks.
Until my ears hurt. Until they bleed.
But she don’t care. Even though.
She says she does.
Mama does.
She says she loves me. Just like Jesus.
Jesus loves me this I know.
I know.
She don’t know anything. Nothing she thinks.
About me.
TWELVE
CASEY WALKER
I can’t believe I’m doing this. I’m not sure I’ve ever been so nervous. Possibly when I sat for my comprehensive doctoral exams, but maybe not even then. People’s lives are on the line. I anxiously pull apart the napkin in front of me as I wait. I’m on my second one since I arrived to meet Genevieve’s daughter, Savannah, for breakfast at Huddle House. It’s a cute diner off the interstate.
Last night, Detective Layne got it in his head that she’s the key to getting information about Mason. He’s convinced she’ll crack the case wide open somehow and hopes she might even be able to talk to Mason for us. We hadn’t been off the phone for more than an hour last night when he called me back, as excited as a little boy on Christmas morning to tell me about his idea.
“We can’t talk to Mason without Genevieve present. We’d get in big trouble if we tried to contact him and interview him behind her back. Believe me, I’ve already thought about it, but we can’t get him away from her long enough to even do that. So he’s basically off limits to us right now, and Genevieve is right about one thing—we are wasting time. That’s why we need Savannah.”
“Savannah?”
“Genevieve’s daughter,” he explained. Other than the pictures in their home gallery, I hadn’t given much thought to her. “She’s a completely different story than Mason. She’s nineteen, and one hundred percent separate from any control her mama might have over her. She can do whatever she wants, and we can do whatever we want with her.” He was talking so fast he struggled for breath. “I want you to answer me this question, Ms. Walker, and I want you to use all your psychological expertise to do it.” He paused, giving me a chance to prepare myself. “Where is Savannah right now? Just think about that. She hasn’t been here once since the murder. Not even on the day it happened. I understand she has school. Believe me, I do. My Margaret is a sophomore, and she’s as obsessed with grades as anyone I’ve ever seen, but even she would miss school for a day or two if there was a family emergency. And let’s just say that was impossible—there are no classes on the weekend, right? She could make the drive home for the weekend if she wanted to. It’s less than a four-hour drive. Her family is in crisis, and she’s nowhere to be found? Something stinks about that.”
It was that smell and opportunity that led to me getting up by six in order to meet her in Tupelo by nine. I hadn’t expected to be the one to go, but he swore she’d talk to me easier than she would him because people always froze when they talked to him, especially ones he had personal relationships with.
“This one hits a bit too close to home since she knows my daughter, and I’m not trying to do anything to jeopardize the case,” he said in his booming voice the first time I asked him why he wasn’t the one going. And, “It’ll be too formal and official. We want this to be relaxed,” was his response the second time.
It’s not that I’m not fascinated or intrigued by the case, but I have no idea what I’m doing. I did lots of rotations in different specialties throughout the years, but never forensics or anything where it had the potential to matter this much. It’s hard not to be overwhelmed by the responsibility.