Page 22

22

SHELBY

The officers are sitting with Mack in the living room and I’m putting a pot of tea on because I don’t know how else to be of help. My mind is spinning—all this time I’ve been convinced that Leo must be behind whatever madness has been happening, and he’s been dead this whole time. Riley said that the condition of the remains, at first glance from the coroner, are consistent with him being dead over a year. It’s probable that he died close to the time he went missing, but they won’t know for sure until after the autopsy.

He was found under the ice in a lake, he said—caught on a hook by ice fishers who called the police. They identified him by his clothes and wallet still in his pocket. My God. All these horrible things I blamed him for in my mind, and none of it could have been him. I look through the doorway to see them all sitting there. Mack is as white as a sheet, although she has been preparing herself for this. She’s not sobbing. She’s just still and shocked.

I carry in a tray with mugs and place the teapot on the coffee table, and I sit. Riley is giving some spiel about how sorry he is to tell her this again, and that they don’t know too much just yet, then he looks to me.

“We would like it if you would accompany us to the station so we can ask some more questions, Shelby, if you’re able.”

I blink at him. “About last night? Don’t you think that’s a little insignificant right now?” I say, and he clears his throat, giving me a thin, impatient smile.

“No, not about last night. We’d like to ask you some general questions related to Leo.” I look to Mack and back to him, confused.

“What are you talking about? What the hell do I know about Leo that I haven’t told you six thousand times?”

“Well, since he was found on your family’s property, it’s only appropriate that we ask you some questions…” he continues to mumble something but I cut him off.

“My…what? You said it was a lake—you mean the lake on my mother’s land? Oh my God. What? Wait, my kids are up there right now.” I stand, panicked, confused. He stands too, like he’s ready to stop me from doing something crazy.

“The lake is several wooded acres from the house. We already talked to her. She knows a forensics team is still there, but the girls don’t know anything,” he says, and for some reason him knowing anything about my girls that I don’t know makes me feel sick to my stomach.

“What does this have to do with me? If you have questions, ask the forensics team.”

“I think you might want a private environment…” he starts to say, and again I cut him off.

“No. I don’t. Anything you have to ask, fucking ask. Do you think I have something to hide? You wanna ask me how he was found in that lake? You think I would know that?” I’m raising my voice now, and the expression on Mack’s face is a look of bewilderment mixed with grief, and I’m so angry at this incompetent dipshit’s insinuations that I can barely hold back, but I try to collect myself. Taking a deep breath I sit back down and so does he, and Jones, who never says a goddamn thing, decides to pipe up.

“There are also some potential discrepancies in the details you’ve given us about the crimes you’ve reported recently that we’d like to get further insight on.” Since I’ve never heard him string that many words together before at one time, I’m taken aback by how oddly formal he sounds, and also by the way he’s looking at me. Suspicion. That’s what it is. They aren’t just being idiots trying to do their job thoroughly, they legitimately think I know how Leo got in the lake.

“I’m sorry. So first the Oleander’s gets the electrical burned, and then my family is almost murdered on the ice at the lake, and then I’m attacked at my own home. Are those the crimes you’re referring to? Is there some problem with my very thorough reports I have already made that nothing has been done about?” I’m so angry that I feel a cold sweat break out on my back despite the frigid temperatures outside, and my heart is pounding in my chest.

“Well, yes, actually,” Jones says.

“What the actual fuck?” I say, and Mack puts her hand on my arm in a gesture that tells me to cool down, and I instantly feel guilt that she has to do that when I should be comforting her right now. I take a breath and try to stay cordial.

“What else can I possibly tell you?” I ask as calmly as I am able. “You think I know who burned the electrical panel at the Ole? You want a list of names of suspects? What else can I give you?”

“We’d like to know where you were that night,” Riley says, and I feel myself stiffen and my mouth go dry.

“You what?”

“See, we have an anonymous tip that it was you. That you may have been attempting insurance fraud—trying to start an electrical fire to recoup money for the place because it’s going under. I’m not saying that’s true, now don’t get me wrong, but I am saying we have questions,” he says, and I can feel my mouth hanging open, but everything else feels numb. I see Mack’s hand cup her mouth as she looks from me to Riley and back again.

“You said someone tried to manipulate the ice at your fishing hut, but the holes, upon closer inspection, look like inexperienced ice fishers or teenagers could have been involved rather than a malicious act, and it was your responsibility to make sure the area was safe. Taking kids out there in the pitch-black without making sure it was secure is nobody else’s fault,” he says, and I feel my cheeks go red-hot. I leap to my feet in defense of my babies.

“Are you out of your mind? Pitch-black? It’s pitch-black at 4:00 goddamn p.m. in the afternoon around here. It was dinnertime. We’ve brought them out there for years with no massive holes to fall through…just like every other family that goes fishing! And you know that. You’re blaming me? Now it’s also my fault that I was attacked at my own house—strangled almost to death. Did I do that too?” I’m practically screaming now, but the injustice, the absolute shock from what he’s saying, is staggering.

“Listen,” Riley says, trying to bring a softer tone to the conversation, even though what he says next is the most outrageous thing yet.

“All we have from the night you were attacked is your account. Again, I am not saying that we don’t believe you…”

“But you are!” I interrupt.

“I’m just saying there are a series of unusual events with zero proof of anyone else involved. We are still looking into it. It just requires more information from you, is all, nobody is accusing…”

“There were drops of blood in the snow! There was DNA, for God’s sake,” I say, almost breathless now, dizzy and shaking at this point.

“That did come back…”

“So you have proof,” I say, feeling suspended in midair waiting for his response.

“It came back a match to…you. It was your blood.”

“What?” It comes out as a stunned whisper.

“You mentioned you were cut on the vase that broke. Maybe it’s from that, but again, there’s just no other evidence after being investigated. No fingerprints, DNA, no vehicle at your property or tire marks. Even the prints in the snow around the property matched only yours or Clay’s boots that you offered for us to compare—I could go on, Shelby. It doesn’t add up. And now that Leo’s remains have been discovered on your family property, we need to have you come in and answer some questions again. You’re not under arrest or anything, we just need your statement on record,” he says. “I’m sure you can understand that.”

I hold my hand to my heart and try to absorb all that he is saying, but all I see is my life flash before my eyes—a future in a prison cell, a life stolen from me—a life without my girls. How can this be happening?

“You can wait until tomorrow to come in for official questioning if you need to. Like I said, nobody is saying you’re under arrest.”

“Under arrest,” I repeat under my breath. I remember Mort explaining in his podcast that there is a forty percent chance that whoever killed Otis or Bernie or Leo—if it is murder—will get away with it, statistically speaking. That’s an absurdly high percentage of people getting away with murder, and with this police force, I can wager it’s much higher than that. I wonder what the percentage is for someone falsely accused.

My God, I have to get out of here. This can’t be happening. I just need to get the fuck out of here right this minute. I feel the tears welling up in my eyes. I see Mack out of the corner of my eye, overwhelmed and without words, so I just stand up and rush to the door where I grab my coat off the hook and run to my car and I drive away as fast as I can.

I need to go and see Poppy and June. That’s all I care about right now. I think about driving to the bait shop to tell Clay about all of this, but I’m so ashamed about what’s being said about me. I wonder if he’s already heard. I can’t face it right now, so I rush home, tears blurring my vision and my head swimming—trying to understand who would be doing this. Why would anyone do all this? For what?

On a windy two-lane road a few miles from home, I stop at a run-down gas station. I stand shivering as I fill up my tank before I go home and grab an overnight bag so I can go to my mother’s and be with the girls and get the fuck out of here for a while. There is no indoor section of this place, just a tiny booth with a window you walk up to for cigarettes or soda. There are no other cars, just the wind blowing and the snow whipping. But I think I hear a car idling, even though I don’t see anything. It’s like somewhere just out of sight, the hum of a motor is present, but I can’t be sure because the howling wind is so loud and the pines are thick, so there are so many places a car could be. And now I think I’m being followed and I start to panic. Then, after a few minutes, once I am finished with the gas and sitting in my car, paralyzed in fear, I realize it was a car, and I hear it pull away, and I hear the rev of an engine until the sound disappears down the long road, but I never actually see it. I wonder if I’m going crazy.

Not like you see in the movies. Am I actually mad? Am I seeing things? No, like I seriously wonder if I’ve had some psychotic break and I can’t even trust my own thoughts.

But even if it was my imagination, it’s gone now, and I race home to get my things. I rehearse packing in my mind—I’ll grab their Frog and Toad Are Friends books and Poppy’s purple nail polish, and they’ll be so surprised. I’ll only grab a change of clothes and my charger, and I’ll be on the road. I text Clay to let him know where I’m headed, but I don’t call because I just need some time alone. To think.

I pull into our drive and turn off the ignition, and in the cold, night air, I think I hear it again: a car idling. But of course it can’t be, because this isn’t a public gas station. This is my home, and there is nothing but woods around us. The barn and garage, but I don’t see anything. Calm down , I tell myself. Get inside, lock the doors, get the gun, and just wait. The door is right there. You’re being paranoid. Just get inside, and if you need to call the cops, God-for-fucking-bid, then call, but just get safe and then reassess.

It’s like running up the stairs as a kid—when you’re in the basement and you’ve pulled the string to turn the lights off and you have to run before the boogeyman gets you. That’s how I feel right now. But as ridiculous as it might be, I start to sprint to the front door and I think for just a second that I hear footsteps behind me, but before I can turn around to see, I feel someone grab me from behind. As my phone drops on the ice with a thud, a thought flits across my mind—why would you come here? Whoever wants you dead knows there are no cameras here. Whoever wants you dead has just won.

And then, as my head falls heavy into soft snow, I see stars, and everything goes dark.