Page 85 of The Haunting of Paynes Hollow

“What if I’m not?” I say, looking out again.

“Well, then I’ll be the first person to tell you that, too.”

I lean my cheek against the cool window, unable to look his way. “My aunt found the hatchet in the shed, along with my gardening gloves. Both had blood on them.”

“Okay…”

“The animals.”

Silence. “Your aunt thoughtyoucarved up those animals?”

I swallow hard. “I didn’t. At least, if I did, I don’t remember it. But what if I wasn’t fully conscious. Sleepwalking. Or in a… a fugue state.”

“While killing small animals, chopping them up, and making creepy serial-killer art with their body parts?”

“They could have already been dead.”

He thumps back into the headrest again and groans.

“Not the point, I know,” I say.

“Have you ever been tempted to do something like that?”

“What?” I recoil.“No.”

“Then why would you, even subconsciously, be doing it?”

I look out the window again and my voice drops. “My father.”

“What about him?”

That has me glancing over, eyes narrowing. “You know what. He murdered your brother. Gail was obviously concerned I could have some of that in me.”

“Uh, isn’t she his sister?Fullsister? That means she shares more DNA with a confessed killer than you do. She also shares whatever fucked-up childhood your grandfather inflicted on them. She actually thought you did that? I barely know you, and I’m sure you didn’t, just by the way you’re reacting.”

I blurt, “My wet clothing is in the shed. Right now.”

His face screws up.

“The clothing I wore the night my aunt disappeared,” I say. “I found it tonight in the shed. Drenched in lake water and covered in weeds.”

“And…”

“Gail drowned, Ben,” I snap. “She was pulled into the lake and drowned. I saw the drag marks, and I know what happened. In my gut, I know, and maybe that’s why.”

“Becauseyoudragged your aunt into the lake and drowned her?”

“Yes.”

He sighs, so deeply that I scowl. Do I really believe, in my heart, that I did these things? No. But for some perverse reason, I don’t want him dismissing the possibility so quickly. I want to be taken seriously—not about having done it but about being genuinely scared that I might be losing my mind.

“That’s why you wanted to see the camera shots,” he says.

“Yes.”

“Anything in them?”

“No, but that just means my clothing was there before you set up the camera. I don’t remember taking it off, and now it’s in the shed, in the exact spot where the hatchet was, and the hatchet is missing and…” I twist my hands together and mumble, “What if I did it? What if I’ve just . . snapped?”