“I’d like to see what he does at his worst. That will probably be pretty telling.” Detective Layne nods approvingly.
“So you’re just okay with hurting him on purpose? Letting him fall apart so you can see what happens?”
“I’m sorry if this is hard for you, but it’s my job to look at the greater good, and the greater good is protecting the most people. Bringing justice to Annabelle. Does that mean people sometimes get hurt in the process?” He rocks his head back and forth. “Absolutely. But I’m looking at the bigger picture. And what’s the bigger picture?” He peers into my eyes, waiting for a response, but I give none. “Getting a murderer off the streets. That’s what this is about. Don’t forget that.”
The thought sobers me instantly. Fair enough. People are more on edge than I’ve ever seen them. Guns poke out of people’s waistbands at the gas station. I see them strategically placed on dashboards of cars in parking lots and at the grocery store. Nobody is trying to pretend like they’re not carrying their guns. They’re also not trying to pretend like they won’t use them if they have to, and our gun laws give them permission to do just that.
“What happens next?” I ask, letting out a deep sigh.
“I’ve got to give the townsfolk something. They need to start relaxing a bit. It’ll help them to know we’ve got a person of interest.” He leans back in his seat, satisfied that we’ve worked out our differences and he’s gotten me to see the light, even though I’m not sure we have. “We’ve got some of our best people going in there tomorrow to interview Mason. The others will focus on Genevieve.”
“Wait, Mason’s officially a person of interest?” He gives me a pleased nod. “Have you given up looking at anyone else for the crime?” I’m not sure they ever started, despite what he’s said in the past. I don’t think Mason ever stood a fair chance.
He smirks. “Trust me, Ms. Walker. I’ve been at this for a long time. Genevieve and Mason were the only two people there at the creek that day, and one of them did it. Genevieve might be a messed-up lady, but she doesn’t strike me as a murdering one, and even if she was, she seems more of a kill-you-with-poison kind of a girl. This is too messy for her. Too brutal. My money is on Mason.” He gives a clipped nod like he’s placing a Vegas bet.
I’m not so sure. I saw the look on Genevieve’s face when she came undone in the parking lot, and it wasn’t pretty. Her entire body shook with rage. She would’ve grabbed Harper if I hadn’t jerked her away. She was way too comfortable in her rage for it to be her first time, and people who lose it once can lose it twice. Rage fits are like seizures: once you have one, your threshold goes down for another.
Why is she so angry? Is it because we hurt her son by taking him away from her or because we’re circling too close to the truth? Detective Layne says murder cases are all about motive and weapon. He says it in this weird teacher voice that he only uses every once in a while. The weapon part is easy. Has been since day one. There’s only the why, and that’s what I keep coming back to over and over again. Just like Detective Layne asked me.
Why would Genevieve want Annabelle dead?
There’s only one person who might be able to answer that question for us, and I know exactly where to find her. Nobody knows the insides of a woman like her daughter.
THEN
Shiny. Bright. Beautiful blade. Blonde beautiful babe.
Crisscross applesauce.
Maybe touch me. Don’t you dare.
Two times two and ten plus one.
Tap. Tap. Tap twice.
Sing.
Sing us a new song. She says. But what if you like that one better? The old one. That life.
I miss it. Here we go again.
Hold your breath.
Count to ten.
Tap. Tap. Tap twice.
No burn. Just slice.
Hold your breath.
Count to ten.
Tap. Tap. Tap twice.
TWENTY-TWO
GENEVIEVE HILL
“Hello?” His voice reaches out again after a few more beats pass and I still haven’t spoken.
I expected That Monster’s voice. Who is this?
Blood swirls in my ears. Panic hammers in my chest. I planned a thousand different things to say, but I can’t speak. What am I doing? What was I thinking? I’d recognize that voice anywhere.
This isn’t him.
I should hang up, but I can’t.
Who is this? Thoughts, not the words I want them to be. Fear stole my voice. Won’t give it back.
“All right, don’t talk, Mrs. Hill. You can keep quiet all you want, and I’ll do the talking. I don’t mind talking at all.” There’s no fear in his voice. Only confidence. Cold and calculated. “I’ve been talking to our friend Simon from Hurricane Creek, and it looks like things didn’t go so hot for y’all down there.” He laughs like there’s anything about this that’s funny. “I think we need to get a few things worked out between us.”
“Who are you?” I ask, finally finding my voice, except it doesn’t sound like mine. It’s my little-girl voice. The one I used to beg Daddy for ice cream and Barbies with.
“Now that would be too easy, wouldn’t it, sweets?” I want to tell him not to call me that, but you don’t tell criminals to shut up. “You’ve met Simon. Did you really think he was capable of something like that all by himself?”
But I hadn’t met Simon. Not until that day. That terrible day when nothing went as planned. We never should’ve left the house. When will I ever listen to my gut?
“Who are you?” I ask again. Too scared to ask what he wants. My voice isn’t any louder or more like mine the second time.