Page 8 of The First Hunt (The Final Hunt)

JOHN

“ Y ou seem tall for your age. You play any sports?”

John looked up from his book at the detective, who looked very different than the one who’d approached them in the forest. His young-looking face didn’t match the white hair, reminding John of Steve Martin, but without the humor.

He’d been sitting across from John in the small, windowless room for the last hour.

His father had been taken to an interview room to speak with Detective Peretti, the man who’d found them at the lake, and another detective.

John shook his head.

“That’s a shame,” the detective said. He’d introduced himself as Detective Harris but told John he could call him Andy. “So, where’s your mom?”

“She died,” John answered, guessing the detective already knew.

“I’m sorry to hear that. How did she die?”

John thought of that night, three years ago.

His mother’s crumpled body on their concrete patio, her head lying in a small puddle of her own blood, was a sight he could never unsee.

But John didn’t gratify the man with an answer.

The older detective was probably looking for a way to blame his mother’s death on his dad.

Instead, John lifted his faded, paperback copy of The Call of the Wild higher to cover his face. His leg jiggled against his chair.

“Whatcha reading, son?”

“ The Call of the Wild ,” John said without looking up, even though it was clearly printed on the cover. “By Jack London.”

“Huh. Your teacher making you read that?”

“No.”

The detective shifted in his seat, causing his chair to creak. “I had to read White Fang in fourth grade. I don’t remember it that well, but I know I wouldn’t have read it on my own.”

“You should’ve read The Call of the Wild. ” John turned the page. “It’s much better.”

The man chuckled. John lowered the book in time to see the detective’s belly shake.

“I didn’t know ten-year-olds were such literary critics.”

John furrowed his brows at the detective before returning his attention to the book. This guy couldn’t get anything out of me if he tried.

His stomach growled. He hadn’t eaten since breakfast. What was taking his dad so long? There was no clock in this room, but it had to be at least early afternoon.

“You and your dad take a lot of walks in the woods?”

John thought of the sandwiches his dad had packed for them to eat at the lake that were still in the backseat of the car.

“You ever been down to the Green River, son?”

John’s gaze shot up from his book. Ever since Sally’s body was discovered, John had been stopping at the library most days after school, reading everything he could on the Green River Killer in the hope of understanding his father—and the laws about murder.

Since John was under twelve, the detective shouldn’t be questioning him without his father’s consent.

But if the police believed John had witnessed his father’s crimes, that changed everything.

But John knew enough to know he didn’t have to answer.

He’d memorized everything he could about the fifth and sixth amendments, and his teacher always said he had a memory like a steel trap.

John’s stomach twisted, but this time it wasn’t from hunger. Did they think his dad was the Green River Killer? Were they so desperate to make an arrest they’d lock his father up?

John set down his novel. He was about to say no, he’d never been to the Green River, when the door to the small room flew open. Detective Peretti, the Rocky lookalike who’d found them at the lake, stood in the doorway. John peered around him, looking for his father. But the hallway was empty.

Peretti turned to the older detective. “I’ll take it from here, Andy.”

“Actually, I was just asking the kid—”

“I said I’ll take over now.”

He sounded angry, and it reminded John of his dad when his temper threatened to seep out.

Detective Harris frowned. “Fine.” He stood and turned to Peretti before opening the door. “But the kid’s not talking. I already tried.”

Detective Peretti smiled at John. “I had a great talk with your dad. He said I could ask you a few questions before you go.”

Andy looked warily between Peretti and John, lingering in the open doorway.

“Oh.” Peretti reached into his suit jacket pocket and withdrew a can of Coke and a Skor Bar.

“Here. Your dad said you might be hungry.” John took the candy bar—his favorite—and pop can.

He looked up at Detective Peretti as he tore open the candy bar wrapper.

“You sure my dad said you could question me?”

Harris spun around to face Peretti after he stepped into the hall. “Look, I don’t think you should—”

Ignoring Harris, Peretti closed the door and turned the lock on the handle. “Yes, he did.”

“Why are you locking the door?”

Detective Peretti took the older detective’s place in the seat across from him. “Just to be safe. We have criminals here.”

His dad’s warning on the drive here echoed through his mind. Cops cannot be trusted.

“I had a great talk with your dad.” The detective leaned forward, placing his elbows on his knees, which pulled his suit jacket tight around his biceps. “Has your dad ever picked up any women off the street?”

John bit into the chocolate-covered butter toffee.

Peretti cocked his head. “To give them a ride…or anything?”

John glanced at the locked door while he chewed. “Where is my dad?”

“He’s just waiting while I talk to you.”

“I know my rights.” John popped the rest of the delicious candy bar into his mouth. “I don’t have to answer anything.”

Peretti smirked. “You been watching Murder, She Wrote , kid?” He sat back and crossed his bulky arms. “Well, you’re right. I can’t force you to talk to me. But helping the police is always the right thing to do. You want to do the right thing, don’t you, John?”

John opened the pop can and took a swig. It was the first time the detective had used his name. John stared back at the detective in silence, his father’s warning about police at the front of his mind.

“Have you seen the movie The Terminator ?” the detective asked.

John stopped to think when the last Green River Killer victim had gone missing. The one who’d been found in the woods where his dad had taken him today. November 23rd. John studied the detective who waited eagerly for his response. He’s checking my dad’s alibi.

“Yes.”

“Oh, yeah? Me too. I loved it.” He grinned. “What was your favorite part?”

John didn’t have to think about it. “When Arnold Schwarzenegger was naked and fought those guys three on one to take their clothes.”

The detective’s smile faded. “You see it at home?”

John shook his head. “The theater.”

“Do you remember when?”

“The day after Thanksgiving.”

The detective bit his lip. “And who’d you see it with?”

“My dad.”

“Nice. Did you two do anything else that day? Like go for any drives?”

“No. We just watched football at home on TV.”

“That’s great.” The detective attempted another smile, but it was forced.

John suppressed a grin.

Peretti withdrew a photo out of the inside pocket of his suit jacket and extended it in front of John’s face. Every muscle in John’s body went stiff.

It was Sally. She looked different in the photograph than when John had met her.

She was younger with longer hair and less makeup.

From the blue background behind the headshot, John guessed it was a school photo, probably from when Sally had been in high school.

But it was definitely her. Seeing Sally’s crooked smile and the same glimmer in her eyes that she’d had in the front seat of his dad’s car made John’s throat suddenly dry.

“Where’s my son?”

John jerked his head toward his father’s angry voice coming from the hallway. Detective Peretti held the photo closer to John’s face.

“You ever seen this woman before?”

John’s heart pounded so hard against his chest he was afraid the detective might hear it.

“Her name was Sally,” Peretti added. “We know you were in the backseat when your dad picked her up in December.”

A fist rapped against the door, rattling it against the hinges. John whipped his head toward the sound.

The detective put his thick hand on John’s knee. “You know it’s a crime to lie to the police, right? Your father wouldn’t want that.”

“I know he’s in there,” his father yelled. “Open this door!”

Peretti ignored John’s father on the other side of the door and narrowed his eyes. “Tell me the truth. Have. You. Seen. Her?” He lowered the photo and brought his face closer to John’s.

John’s hands trembled. He clasped them tightly together. “No.”

Rap. Rap. Rap. “Open the damn door!”

The detective frowned at John. “Don’t lie to me, kid. You saw her. Your dad killed her.”

John shook his head.

Peretti’s demeanor darkened, his face contorting in anger. “He killed her in the woods while you sat in the backseat of the car. Or maybe you got out to watch? Tell me, kid, did you hear her scream?” He slapped the armrest of John’s chair, making him jump in his seat. “Tell me now, dammit!”

Spittle from the detective’s mouth landed on John’s cheek. John closed his eyes, willing his mind to take him somewhere else. Anywhere but here.

Rap. Rap. Rap. The door handle jiggled from the other side, making the whole door shake. “Let me in or I’ll kick the door down,” his father shouted.

Peretti stood, flashing John a look of disappointment. As soon as he turned the lock on the handle, the door flew open. John’s dad marched into the room with Detective Harris on his heels, his father’s face flushed with anger as he looked from John to the detective.

His father snarled. “What the hell are you doing? I told you not to speak to my son.” From the tightness in his jaw and the flare of his nostrils, John could tell his dad was fighting to keep his composure.

He stepped toward the detective, pointing a finger at the more muscular man’s chest. “How dare you question my son without me. And without my permission. He’s a child.

I came down here to be helpful, and this is how you repay me? Accosting my ten-year-old?”

Detective Peretti slid Sally’s photo back inside his suit pocket while silently assessing his father.

“I was just bringing him a snack,” the detective finally said, his voice calm. “I thought he might be hungry.”

His dad lifted a hand toward John without taking his eyes off the detective. “Come on, John. Let’s go.”

As his father led him out of the room, John stole a glance over his shoulder at the burly detective. The moment their gazes locked, there was no mistaking the look in the detective’s eyes: he knew what his father had done, and he knew John did too.