She gave a traditional beauty pageant wave to all the fans and media that had gathered to watch along with her family. It was the same wave she’d used when she’d sat atop her pink-and-white float made out of roses at her Miss Alabama celebration parade. Her smile was just as wide as it had been that day. Her eyes shone as bright as her grin.
She met her husband, John, while recovering in the hospital. He was in the hospital at the same time with a broken hip and two busted ribs after a Jet Ski accident in Gulf Shores. They nursed each other back to health, and she wrote a tell-all memoir about her time in Africa and coming back from the attack. It ended with an epilogue announcing her marriage to John. The book didn’t do so hot at the national level, but she was a local celebrity. Still is. It’s why people like her never leave their small towns.
Her story only grows more compelling, even though it’s filled with finding out Mason has autism and the tragic loss of John. I try watching the clips from the funeral, but they’re too emotional with all the sobbing and gut-wrenching speeches. Genevieve didn’t let any of it get her down, though, and she became the biggest advocate for the issues that impacted her family. So much so that she has community service awards and excellency certificates spanning almost a decade. She’s been featured by Today’s and HuffPost’s parenting sections as well as Babble numerous times. All of them singing her praises.
Nothing hints at any kind of violence or trouble in her history. It’s like she takes every bad thing that’s happened to her and turns it into something positive. She’s definitely one of those glass-half-full kinds of people, and she makes the “when life gives you lemons” reference more than once in her speeches.
Savannah suggested a deeper dig, but all I’m finding is a woman who looks like she’s dedicated her entire life to serving and helping others. That’s pretty unusual for a woman who comes from such privilege and position. It’s hard not to be impressed by it. Genevieve looks really good on paper, but there’s something about all of it that doesn’t sit right with me. It’s just all so perfect. I never trust perfect.
FIFTEEN
GENEVIEVE HILL
“Ma. Ma. Ma,” Mason calls from the back seat of the car.
“Just a couple more minutes, honey. Just a couple more minutes,” I say without turning around. We’ve been parked in front of the police station for almost an hour. He’s been bored since we pulled up and spent half the time making annoying sounds, trying to get me irritated enough to leave. The boy knows how to push my buttons.
“Ma. Ma,” he says, his voice getting louder and stronger, grating on my last nerve.
“I said just a second,” I snap.
“MA! MA!”
“Ughh, can’t you just be still for a few more minutes?” I yell back at him, but he doesn’t listen. Just starts kicking my seat. He insists on sitting in the back. I’m two seconds away from losing it. “Stop it!”
My seat jerks with another kick. Then another. This one harder.
“Oh my gosh, you’re driving me crazy!” I shriek, grabbing my purse from the passenger seat. I frantically dig through it until I find my phone and thrust it at him. “Here, take this and be quiet.” I bite my lip to keep all the swears I want to say inside. He snatches the phone from me, and his eyes light up as he brings the screen to life. I’m not one of those parents who use screens as babysitters. In fact, I pride myself on not doing it, but sometimes it’s necessary. Today qualifies as one of those days.
My pulse throbs in my temples. Leftover panic still hammers in my chest. I keep going back and forth about whether I should go inside and give the notes to Detective Layne. I’m waiting for a sign. I’ve already asked God three times to give me one, but so far nothing has shown up.
I didn’t sleep at all last night. I took an Ambien, but it did nothing except give me a huge headache that I still can’t get rid of. That was after I did ten thousand steps. That’s almost five miles. I walked five miles in my own house. That’s how scared I was after finding the note slipped through the mail slot. Every sound made me jump out of my skin. I kept racing back and forth to look out all the windows on the lower level, then dashing upstairs to watch the live footage from the security cameras. I couldn’t bring myself to stay in one place for more than a couple of minutes. It was torturous.
Sometime around four, I made myself lie in my bed with my eyes closed to rest my body. People say resting your body is the same as sleeping, but that’s a lie. My eyes feel like they’re going to bleed the same as if I’ve been up all night.
I did my best to carry on like everything was normal this morning for Mason. I have to find a way to keep his routines. Things can’t get off with him, or we’re in trouble. He loses skills so quickly. I don’t even want to think about what happened last time. That’s why I made sure his breakfast—oatmeal with cinnamon toast because it’s Tuesday—was on time and arranged on the red plate exactly how he likes it. He took his morning poop like clockwork, and we headed out the door for a walk before eight.
Things were going just fine until we walked down the driveway and I spotted something on the windshield of my car. I gripped Mason’s hand, digging my nails into him, and froze. My eyes skirted the yard for any activity or movement. There was none.
“Stay here!” I ordered, letting go of his hand and darting to the car. I snatched the card from the windshield and raced back to Mason. “Come on, we’re going back in the house. No walk,” I said with my head on swivel, scanning everywhere from left to right in case someone was hiding behind the rosebushes or next to the garage. I grabbed his arm to pull him inside, but he jerked away.
“No,” he said stubbornly, crossing his arms in front of him, digging his heels in like it was about to be one of those times.
“Oh no, you don’t,” I bellowed. “You’re not doing this.” I grabbed his arm again and yanked him inside before he had a chance to go into his fit, slamming the door behind us and punching the security code in as fast as I could.