1
Brooklyn Walsh
August 2006
Saturday – 1:14 pm
The house had surrendered itself to a heavy silence.
The bleak quietness lingered in the corners and along the stairwell like it had every right to stay, while pop music trickled from the radio in a sad attempt to chase it away. The tunes were nothing more than a thin distraction that couldn’t quite mask the emptiness.
Through the open bedroom window, the hum of the neighborhood carried on, from the thrum of a lawnmower to the distant bark of a dog. Those sounds seemed to falter at the windowsill, as if unwilling to cross into the desolation. A warm August breeze slipped inside instead, stirring the curtains and carrying with it the faint scent of fresh-cut grass, a reminder that life beyond these walls hadn’t stopped.
Brook folded a t-shirt before placing it in the dust-crusted suitcase she’d dragged down from the attic. It was a relic from when vacations had still been a part of her family’s vocabulary.She tried to recall the last trip her parents had planned for them, and she vaguely remembered visiting her aunt in North Carolina maybe five or six years ago.
Movement in her peripheral vision turned her attention toward the hallway. She paused before reaching for another shirt, wondering if her mother would finally acknowledge her existence. Brook received her answer when her mom merely shuffled past the doorway without a single glance.
Even though it was midday on a Saturday, she still wore a faded pink robe that probably covered the pajamas she had slept in last night. She hadn’t said more than two words since the day she found out her son was a murderer.
Brook had read somewhere that an individual needed to claim the lives of three people in order to be labeled a serial killer. As far as she was aware, her brother had killed two young women. In the eyes of the law, he didn’t fit their criteria.
To her?
Jacob’s depravity had cost far more than two lives.
She reached for another shirt inside the bottom dresser drawer, wondering how her hands could be so steady. There was no tremor whatsoever, and somehow, she managed not to betray the chaos that churned beneath her composed exterior.
A flash of her best friend lying in her own pool of blood materialized in Brook’s mind. Just as quickly, the image morphed into Jacob standing next to Sally Pearson’s body, holding a knife with her blood dripping from the tip of the blade. It had eventually fallen, absorbed into the soil as if it were desperate for any kind of precipitation.
Brook suddenly couldn’t breathe.
She hastily dropped her shirt and made her way to the bay window, each step an effort, as if she were wading through some type of invisible mud. She sank down onto the bench, lifting her face to the sun and doing her best to drag some oxygen into herlungs. Unfortunately, the warmth did nothing to diminish the cold that had set up residence in her bones.
Something pinched her leg, causing her to glance down at the white, wooden bench seat. She’d forgotten about the manila envelope containing the signed legal document that changed her surname from Walsh to Sloane. She hadn't told her parents yet. That conversation loomed ahead like an approaching storm, inevitable and potentially destructive.
Then again, they might not have the energy to care.
She had hoped the name change would be some type of severance. To the family that had been fractured beyond repair. To the whispers that followed her through the grocery store. To the sidelong glances at the post office. She’d soon come to realize that none of that would stop until she left Morton for good.
The music on the radio shifted to an upbeat track that was obscenely cheerful against the backdrop of life inside the Walsh residence. In the effort to turn the volume down, she caught sight of a familiar car on the side street just through the branches of the old oak tree.
Given that the bay window overlooked the backyard, she needed to lean in closer to the glass and peer between the leaves to get a better view. Sure enough, a refurbished Camaro was parked against the curb, and leaning against the driver’s side of the midnight blue paint job was Scotty Nevin.
Her chest tightened, though she couldn’t label which emotion caused the reaction. Maybe something between relief and dread. She leaned out the window and called his name a couple of times, hoping he would notice her. He finally lifted a hand in greeting and gave her one of his infamous crooked grins. She then held up one finger, signaling him to wait.
She quickly slipped on some sandals before making her way into the hallway. Instinctively glancing to her left, she wasn’t surprised when she found her parents’ bedroom door shut tight.She paused, listening for any sign of her mother, but heard only silence.
Brook descended the staircase to find her father sitting in his recliner. He still had that vacant stare that had become his default expression. He didn't even acknowledge her presence as she headed toward the front door.
She’d become a ghost in her own home.
A painful reminder of the son they had lost—not to death, but to something far worse.
She opened the front door with a soft click, stepping outside into the August heat. The only time she left the house was to run the errands that her parents couldn’t…wouldn’t…do on their own. That didn’t mean she wasn’t self-conscious about her new role in the community. Fortunately, none of her neighbors seemed to be out and about.
Scotty pushed himself away from his car when she cut through the side yard. Without a word, he wrapped his arms around her when she was close enough, and she fought against the sudden pressure building behind her eyes.
She lost.
