He frowns disapprovingly. “Mason was the one next to the body and covered in blood. He was also the one who attacked the cops at the scene and has a history of violence. Let’s not forget that or the fact that his prints were the ones on the rock.”
“But nobody ever really looked at Genevieve as having anything to do with what happened, did they?” I press, unwilling to let it go. “She’s never been considered as a person of interest, has she?” He reluctantly shakes his head. “See, that’s what I mean. It could’ve been her.”
“There are a lot of problems with that theory, though. You’ve got to see that.” He takes a long, slow drink from his coffee. “First of all, who brings their son with them if they’re going to kill someone?”
“She could’ve made Mason do it for her.” The thought only occurs to me as I say it, and I’m as surprised by the statement as he is.
“That’s pretty devious.” He looks even less convinced of that possibility. “So they went out there to kill Annabelle, and the runners just happened to stumble on them before they got away? I mean, what was her plan? She’d do it and bolt with Mason, hoping she didn’t get caught? That she’d be able to get them to their car unnoticed? Doesn’t seem like a very sophisticated plan.”
He has a point. A pretty solid one.
“I’m just saying you should at least consider her,” I say, doing my best to hold on to my confidence.
“Okay.” He taps the table between us with two fingers. “But that still doesn’t answer the most important question.” He lays it out there like I’m supposed to know what he’s referring to, but I don’t.
“What’s that?” I ask.
“Why would Genevieve want to kill Annabelle?”
THEN
Row. Row. Row your boat.
Gently down the stream.
That’s easy.
So easy.
I can do it.
But she doesn’t let me try. She never does. Why?
I can do it. I can.
Stupid face.
I don’t care. Let me.
Try.
If you don’t. This might be the time.
For that word.
The one I can’t say.
Shhh. Fingers to her lips. Pretty lips.
Paint them red. I want to.
What would she say?
If I did to her what she does to me?
That’s what I want to try. Not this.
EIGHTEEN
GENEVIEVE HILL
Five thousand two hundred and thirty-nine steps. Kitchen through the living room to my mother-in-law suite back through to the bedroom and into the kitchen again completes my loop. This is my route. Eighteen laps in the last hour. I’m too scared to go outside. Everywhere I go there’s a dark shadow stalking my every move.
Mason sits like a lump on the couch in the family room. He’s barely moved since his testing session with Ms. Walker yesterday. Testing always takes so much out of him, and he was even more drained than usual when I picked him up from her office afterward. Her office was so dumpy. I hadn’t expected that.
Or the absence of any more messages. There’s been nothing tucked underneath my windshield or slid through the mail slot for twenty-four hours. I wish it made me feel better, but it doesn’t. Not even a little. That Monster isn’t going to leave me alone.
The buzz from the doorbell sends the contents of my stomach up and back down. I swallow hard and pull out my phone, quickly bringing up the app. Detective Layne’s distorted body fills my screen, accompanied by two other officers I don’t recognize. It’s hard to keep them straight when there are so many. A woman in plain clothes is tucked behind him in the middle of the other officers.
“Mason, the police are here. Be on your best behavior!” I shout to him as I hurry to the door. I take a deep breath and a second to collect myself before opening the door. “Hi, everyone.” I greet them with a smile just like my granny taught me. No matter what, you smile.
Detective Layne takes a step forward. “Hello, Genevieve. Mind if we come inside and have a word?”
Normally, I’d whip open the door and welcome him inside, but something about this visit feels different. Did Ms. Walker already go to the media? She couldn’t have done it that quickly, could she? I thought she said she’d let me know when she’d done it. My hands twist in front of me. I’m not ready for this yet. I haven’t prepared. “What’s going on?”
“Why don’t you just let us come inside?” he says in a way that solidifies something’s up.
“Why don’t you tell me why you’re here?” I stretch my arms out so each is resting against a side of the doorframe.
He glances at the woman, and as if on cue, she pushes herself through the others to the front of the pack. She sticks out her hand to me. “Hi, Genevieve, I’m Patrisha, but you can call me Trish. Most people do.” I keep my hands in place against the doorframe. She’s told me nothing. I don’t trust her. I don’t take her hand. She keeps it there until it grows awkward and she slowly drops it to her side. “Like I was saying,” she says quickly, trying to recover from the moment, “I’m Patrisha Roberts, and I’m with the Family Services Division of the Alabama Department of Human Resources. Can we come inside?”
“For what?” I’m not moving. She’s not setting a foot in my house. I know exactly who she represents and what she does. I’ve heard the horror stories, and I’m not going to be another statistic.
“Genevieve, don’t make this difficult. We’ve gotten along so well this far. Let’s not spoil it with this.” Detective Layne speaks like I’m a child.
“You show up with half a basketball team on my front steps without telling me why you’re here, and I’m the one that’s being difficult?” I glare at him. He sees I’ve got a point. So does she.
“Look, we’d like you to call a family member to come with us to take Mason for a medical evaluation by a pediatrician.” She takes another step forward, invading my space. My stomach turns.