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Overwhelmed isn’t what I’m feeling at all.

I’m feeling like this is a show I never want to watch again.

CHAPTER 3

Tyler

I’m not sure how the news traveled so fast, but somehow what happened in the woods has spread like wildfire in this small town. By the time the cops bring me to the station, a crowd of crazy, pissed-off people is waiting in the parking lot, yelling names and accusations at me as the cops try to maneuver me through them to get to the door:

Kidnapper!

You’re a monster!

Pedophile!

You’ll burn in hell, you freak!

Murderer!

Rot in prison!

Lock the psycho up!

I use my shoulder to wipe someone’s spit off the side of my face and keep my head down. I became an outcast in this town when I was seventeen years old, so I’m used to people staring at me and treating me like a sideshow freak. But I still can’t believe these idiots think I could actually hurt a young girl. I’m the one who found her and saved her from that psychopath. Doesn’t that make me the hero?Fucking morons.

“What were you doing out in the woods so early in the morning?”

I stare at the wall behind their heads, craving a cigarette really bad and getting edgier by the minute. The bright light of the room is bothering my eyes, and the walls are closing in on me.

For hours the detectives have had me holed up in this tiny, stale room at the station, asking me the same questions, which I don’t try to answer. After the display in the parking lot, I don’t trust anyone. Especially when they’re all trying to pin kidnapping and murder charges on me.

“We know you can talk, Tyler, so cut the shit,” Britton says. The haggard-looking older detective doesn’t hide his disgust for me. He checks his watch for the hundredth time, then glares at me. “We’re tired. Answer the fucking questions so we can all get out of here.”

Taking a deep breath, I close my eyes and thrum my fingers on the table between us. Nobody understands how hard it is to make myself talk, how much my own ears hate hearing my voice, or how difficult it is to just get the words out of my head, especially when I’m stressed out. I’m not stupid—I know part of it is psychological and part of it is physical, but that doesn’t make a rat’s ass bit of difference to me.

Britton leans forward, his small eyes narrowing even more. “One more time. What were you doing out there?”

When I don’t answer, the younger detective—Nelson, I think his name is—impatiently pushes a pen and a pad of paper across the table to me. “Just write down your answers, then. We can’t sit here all day.”

I grab the pen and write quickly:

I live up there. I walk every morning.

They exhale simultaneously and exchange glances.

“And you just happened to stumble upon a girl in a hidden hole in the ground?” Britton’s voice is dripping with sarcasm.

I nod but write:

Yes. I heard a noise. It was the dog.

“What dog?” Nelson asks, frowning.

The girl’s dog.

The detectives glance at each other. “We didn’t find any dog,” Nelson states firmly.

It ran off. It was there. It was making a strange noise. It was debarked.