Ben
While Luke brushes the grit off his cell phone, I pat my arms to reassure myself that I’m not dead.
I’m alive.
For now.
I look around at the four kids with me—all of them white except for me. I wish my mom and dad were here. Or any of my brothers and sisters. Or Jordan and Derrick, my closest friends in the youth group and the only two other Black kids on the trip. They’re still on the soccer field above. It’s dumb to want them here. I shouldn’t want that, because they’re safer where they are.
I’ve grown up in the same town and church as the sisters and Luke. They’re cool. But I don’t know Sebastian. He’s never come to anything at church before. He’s quiet and angry, and when I tried to talk to him yesterday, he shut me down.
Luke dials the phone and all of us watch, desperate for him to make contact with anyone who can help.
Chapter Ten
Over the days of the following week, autumn began painting a collage of fall color across the north Georgia mountains. Genevieve continued to stick to the daily schedule Dr. Quinley had given her as if her life depended on it. Which, perhaps, it did.
She’d made two additions to the original schedule.
One, she’d taken up a hobby. Granted, the macabre pursuit of researching the Shoal Creek Killer and Russell Atwell’s death may not have been what the doctor had had in mind.
Two, she’d been talking to and hanging out with Sam more often. He’d told her she could call him, and so she had been. Also, at long last, he was comprehending her “I’m desperate for human interaction” signals. If he was at home when she gardened or did laundry, he joined her.
She didn’t know whether the Shoal Creek Killer research was benefiting her. But she knew for certain that her time with Sam was. His presence was like body butter for her parched soul.
She’d gone on outings with her parents. Joined Natasha’s family for dinner. Enjoyed her morning walks on the farm. Downed coffee and more coffee. Eaten convenience meals cooked in her mini-kitchen. Made time for lunch dates with old friends. Taken a visit to see Nanny, her dad’s mom, who was suffering from dementia.
Whenever she was at the cottage, she’d taken to lighting her apple cider candle. It was burning even now, on this Friday night, twining its rich scent through the small space.
Had she been at home in Nashville this evening, she’d have plans with friends or she’d have a date. Not so, here in Misty River.
She tapped her big toe against the leg of her desk and leaned forward to try to catch a glimpse of Sam’s farmhouse through the trees. She could make out a small glow through the darkness, nothing more. It was enough. Warm sparkles revolved within her chest.
She’d get to see him tomorrow at the Fall Fun Day.
She transferred her vision back to her computer and continued reading the article that filled its screen. No one knew how the Shoal Creek Killer, Terry Paul Richards, had chosen his victims. The experts speculated that he may have seen them on the street and followed them to their address. Or he may have simply parked in a random neighborhood and waited until a male entered one of the houses alone.
Great similarities linked his six murders, and only slight variances from his pattern made each of them distinct. He’d killed his first victim without any apparent struggle. He’d killed his second victim with his own hammer, instead of with an object belonging to the victim. He’d killed his third victim, then taken his shirt, in addition to a lock of hair, as a trophy. He’d killed Russell and arranged his body afterward, instead of leaving it where it fell. He’d killed his fifth victim with a single blow because the man had been elderly. He’d killed his sixth victim and taken the man’s money from his wallet—
That did it. She couldn’t take any more. She closed her web browser and turned on “Black Widow” by Iggy Azalea. She sang every lyric, dancing hip-hop from one corner of her cottage to another in order to lift her mood from serial killer gloomy to hip-hop hopeful.
Feeling slightly better and a little out of breath, she ate a package of jelly beans, then dialed her sister.
In lieu of a simple hello, Natasha answered with “‘In vain I have struggled. It will not do.’”
“‘You must allow me to tell you how ardently I admire and love you.’” Genevieve finished the quote fromPride and Prejudicewith gusto.
“I love you, too,” Natasha said. “Recovery update?”
“Still clean.”
Natasha gave awhoop.
“I’ve finally finished reading everything about Terry Paul Richards and Russell that I could find online. You?”
“Same. I’ve also finished the two books I told you I checked out from the library.” Children’s shrieks came from Natasha’s end. “Hang on,” Natasha whispered. “I’m going to hide from my kids in the pantry, which might buy me one and a half minutes of privacy. There.” The shrieks dimmed. “Oh, gosh. I’m so bloated! Maybe I’ll down a shot of apple cider vinegar while I’m in here. Um ... what were we saying?”
“I was about to say that I’m frustrated because there’s not a lot of reliable news from the time period about Russell specifically.”
