He grabbed my shirt in his fist and shoved me. I stumbled backward, tripped on a root, and fell onto the path. He towered over me—beady eyes and pockmarked face. Warmth spread down my legs on both sides.
“People like you make me sick.” He spit on the ground after he said it. My teeth chattered with fear as he staggered back over to Mason. I scrambled to my feet. Horror filled my insides as That Monster picked up the bloody rock lying next to Annabelle’s body and grabbed Mason with his other hand. He yanked him up in one swift motion. Mason yelped. That Monster shoved the rock into Mason’s hand.
“Take it,” he said in a commanding voice like someone in the military.
Mason took the rock and did what he was told. He always does what he’s told.
Mason leans back against the tub as I let the water fall over his head. I work the soap through his thick, curly hair. He loves getting his hair washed, and I owe it to him after leaving him alone while I went to see Richard. I’ve only done that twice in his whole life, and both times I didn’t have any other choice.
It’s not like I wasn’t careful. I put him in his playroom with way too many snacks like I was leaving for weeks instead of a few hours. His iPad was fully charged and in his hand before I locked the door behind me. He didn’t even notice I was gone. He’s a total zombie on that thing. I checked on him periodically, and that’s all he did, just like I expected. The security cameras inside the house were a wise investment, and I’ve never regretted installing them. It makes things so much easier even when I’m there.
I can’t believe anyone in this world would think my sweet baby boy had anything to do with something as awful as Annabelle’s murder. “They don’t know you, honey. Not at all. You’d never hurt a fly, would you, my sweet thing?” He closes his eyes like he’s sleeping, but he’s listening to every word I say. I can tell by the way his forehead still has that last line in it. His long eyelashes flutter against his flushed cheeks.
I grab the pink plastic cup we’ve had since he was born and use it to pour more water on his hair. The cup used to be bright neon pink, but it’s dull and faded now. Doesn’t matter to me, though. I’m not throwing it away. He’s as attached to it as I am. We like the same things. How things go together. The same way every day. That’s how you’ve got to do it if you want to do it right.
I move down the edge of the tub and start washing his body, giving him a real good scrub, starting with his feet. “They don’t understand you, but that’s okay, baby boy, because they don’t understand me either. But guess what? Nobody has to understand us as long as we understand ourselves. You got that?” His body tightens. Fingers curl. “Oh, you just relax, honey. There’s no need to get upset. Nobody’s going to find out nothin’ we don’t want them to find out, and you didn’t do anything wrong, you hear me, honey? Nothin’ wrong.”
FOURTEEN
CASEY WALKER
“I’ve missed you,” Dad says, setting the bowl of spaghetti noodles on the table. Harper swipes her hand back and forth through the steam twirling off it. She looks nothing like me. She’s the spitting image of her dad—curly hair, beige skin, and dark-brown eyes—which always makes me smile because I look just like my dad, too, even though it’s sometimes hard seeing Davis staring back at me in Harper’s face.
“I’ve missed you too,” I say, pushing Harper’s milk out of the way so she doesn’t spill it. “This looks great, Dad.”
There are so many things he’s had to learn to do on his own since Mom died, and cooking is one of them. Dad never cooked when Mom was alive, but not because he didn’t want to or wasn’t always offering to help. The kitchen was Mom’s domain, and it was the thing she loved the most next to us. She liked the order and structure, the illusion of control it gave her compared to her otherwise chaotic life as a trial attorney. It didn’t matter how busy she was—she always made time to cook. She made my lunches at eleven o’clock at night regardless of what she had going on and put them in the fridge for me to take to school the next day.
“I think I’ve finally gotten this one down,” Dad says, pushing his glasses up his nose and giving me a huge smile. At least he’s good natured about his cooking, because we’ve had to endure some pretty awful dinners over these past few months. We started with the basic things like learning how to boil water and fry an egg. Harper didn’t know how to do any of it, either, so we made it into a fun family thing. It didn’t take long to figure out Mom’s cooking gene had skipped a generation, because Harper was as bad as he was.
“I think you did. It smells delicious,” I say, reaching across the table and spooning some pasta onto Harper’s plate. He made sure to use the only Cappello’s noodles she’ll eat. Certain type. Specific label. Nothing else. We’ve tried over the years to sneak in different brands, but she always knows when they’re not Cappello’s. I have no idea how she tells the difference, but she does.
Harper grabs the iPad sitting next to her and quickly taps on her TouchChat app. “Thanks, Mom,” the little boy with the British accent pipes out after she’s finished. He’s a new voice and her current favorite.
“You’re welcome,” I respond, tousling her hair.