Horror fills Renetta’s eyes, and they grow wide. For a second, I forget this isn’t the first time she’s heard the news. God, I love TV. “Are you saying that Mason smashed Annabelle’s head with a rock?”
“I am.” I rearrange my shirt, straightening the sleeves. “But what I’m also saying is that he only did that because he was mimicking what he’d seen. What the police never released to the public is that Annabelle had two head injuries from rocks—one in the front and one in the back.”
Renetta gasps. This will make a great clip. Maybe he’s watching too. I hope he is. Sitting right next to Simon somewhere. Nobody pushes me around. Nobody.
“She was hit twice,” I explain in case anyone missed it. “And I admit, Mason is responsible for one of those hits. Is it the one that killed her, or was she already dead? I know it shouldn’t make a difference, and maybe it only does if you’re his mama, but I like to think Annabelle was already dead when he hit her.” I grab my glass of water from the table and take a huge drink. Truth telling has me feeling dehydrated. Or maybe I’m just giddy from the freedom that happens when you’ve got nothing to lose.
“Do the police have any leads on this other man?” She shifts the focus like magic.
“I doubt it. The only person they’ve ever looked at is Mason, no matter what I’ve told them. And I’ll admit I didn’t tell them the full story about everything, but I was really clear about there being somebody else out there. I could totally be wrong”—I give a hand shrug—“but aren’t they at least obligated to look?”
“I tend to agree with you. Police should be examining all the possible leads in any case.” She takes a drink of her water, too, then sets it down next to mine. “Where’s Mason at now?”
“They’ve been trying to get Mason to give a statement about what happened. That’s how it’s been, just pushing and pushing him to talk, which isn’t fair to my baby. He only knows a handful of words. Most of what he says he’s just repeating back something he’s heard. He uses sign language, but it’s signs we’ve used since he was a baby to communicate, not real sign language. Lots of them nobody else would even know. Mostly he draws what he wants. He loves to draw. Anyways.” I straighten my shirt again. Smooth down my skirt. Ankles tucked. “The detectives hired all kinds of different specialists and doctors to work with them on the case, and they brought in one lady, Casey Walker”—I stare straight into the camera as I say her name—“to help them take my son away from me before they ever knew he was guilty of anything.”
“Take your son away from you?” She bats her eyes.
“Yes, take my son away from me.” I clutch the tissue in my hand. “Casey Walker works with families and autism, so she’s supposed to be an expert, but I’d stay as far away from her as possible if I were you. She made a false report to the police that I was abusing my son because she saw bruises on his arms. Social services took him right out of my house, and I haven’t seen him since.” I let the tears fall. I don’t brush them away this time or try to pull them back inside.
“I wish I could do something to help you,” Renetta says, sensing my helplessness and desperation.
I lean closer to her and the monitor over her head. “Here’s the thing—somebody else was out there when Annabelle got killed. It wasn’t just my son, and that person is still out there. We don’t know what they’re capable of doing. They might’ve taken my son away and put all the blame on him, but as long as that other person is out there, nobody’s safe. And they’re not going to stop looking at my son as the responsible party until someone comes forward and gives them information about the real killer. I know y’all are scared, and I’m scared, too, but we can’t let him terrorize us. We just can’t.” I give my most desperate look. “Please, I’m begging you, if you saw anything, heard anything, even if you think it doesn’t matter, even if you think it’s silly and doesn’t mean anything, will you just come forward and tell the police? Please? There’s an anonymous tip line. You don’t even have to give your name. Just tell them what you know. Please. I know there’s someone out there who knows something.”
“Let’s put that number up on the screen right now for all our viewers to see.” Renetta motions to one of the technicians. “And cut,” she calls afterward. She takes her mic off and sets it on the table. “Wow. That was good, Genevieve. That was really good.”
I blush. “I was just doing my best to be real and genuine. People need to see us as real people, you know? That makes all the difference in the world.”
THEN
Little pink man with your little pink hands.
Stay away from me. No.
She said. Run. Three steps. Four steps. Five steps. Six.
I hate the color red.
She’s not supposed to be red. She said. Only run. That’s all you have to do.
Not one or two. Just three steps. Four steps. Five steps. Six.
Look at me.
Little pink man with his little pink hands. All over her. I won’t.
You can’t make me even if she says.
Simon says. Play.
I don’t want to. This game isn’t one I like.
I never get to quit. She does. Always. She makes the rules.
Rule maker. Life taker.
There are screams inside of me. So loud you can’t hear them. Then.
I let them out. Yell so loud. I don’t stop. Won’t stop.
Run.
Three steps. Four steps. Five steps. Six.
THIRTY-THREE
CASEY WALKER
I spot Detective Layne huffing and puffing his way through the police station parking lot. I’ve been waiting for him to come outside for almost two hours and hurry to catch him. He spots me coming and waves me off, his keys in his hands.
“It’s over, Ms. Walker. Go home.” His car alarm beeps, and he heads toward the sound.
I shake my head. “It’s not over.” I catch him quickly.
“We made an arrest. You have to let it go,” he says. Just like he’s said every time I called him, but that’s not good enough. Not for me or Mason.