I nod, feeling suddenly so tired and defeated that I start to break down. The rancid smell of rotting meat in the house makes me think of bloat and of maggots as I picture Emily’s and Nolan’s hollowed-out bodies getting ravaged by maggots. The temperature in the house seems to rise all of a sudden too, so that I’m overwhelmingly hot.
Detective Evans notices. “Is everything alright?” he asks, and this time, his tone has changed.
I pluck at my shirt. I lift it from the skin so that it billows, though there is no air in the house to get in. “It’s so hot in here. And that smell...”
“Why don’t we go outside and get some fresh air,” he suggests, and I nod, grateful. I follow him through the open front door and outside, where he says, his voice far more lenient now, “We’ll run some tests on the shirt and see if we can determine who the blood belongs to. Maybe it’s hers and maybe—”
He turns to face me. At the same time, the wind rushes me, blowing my hair back. The lighting is better outside too so that, for the first time, he sees the bruising on my cheek.
He becomes still.
“You want to tell me what happened?” he asks.
The answer is a resounding no, I don’t want to tell him what happened. But I can see on his face that it isn’t so much a question as it is a command.
Tell me what happened.
I stay quiet, keeping it to myself.
“Mrs. Gray?”
“It’s nothing. It’s not what you think.”
Detective Evans watches me for a minute. He throws a glance to the other officers, saying, “I think we’re done here. You two can go. Take that back to the station and log it,” about Reese’s sweatshirt. He watches as they head to their squad car, parked at the end of the drive behind mine, and pull away.
Only when they’re gone does Detective Evans turn to me. He lowers his guard. His features soften, the taut lines on his forehead relaxing. “I grew up,” he says slowly, “with a father who had a temper. He hit things, walls and doors mostly, but every now and then my mom would be on the receiving end of his rage.”
My words are a whisper. “It’s not like that. It’s not what you think.”
“Isn’t it?”
“No. My husband didn’t do this to me.”
“Then who did?” When I say nothing, he says gently, “There are fingerprints on your face. Someone did this to you, Mrs. Gray. If not your husband, then who?” He watches me closely, his eyes reading mine. He cocks his head, the wind moving his hair. Mosquitoes circle our heads. One lands on his arm and he kills it with his hand. “Was it Wyatt?”
My face gives me away.
“It was Wyatt, wasn’t it?”
“You can’t get him in trouble. Please. He didn’t mean to do it. It was an accident.”
“Tell me what happened.”
“He was sleepwalking. He woke up in the middle of the night, looking for his lunch. He was so worried about being late to school because he couldn’t find his lunch. I tried to wake him, to get him back in bed. He lashed out, because he was having a dream someone was trying to kidnap him and he fought back. He was asleep. He didn’t mean to hit me.”
“He thought you were this kidnapper?”
“Yes.”
“Are you afraid, Mrs. Gray?”
I hesitate because the question takes me by surprise. “Of course I am,” I say. “Someone killed my brother and sister-in-law. Someone has my niece. Of course I’m afraid. I’m fucking terrified. Shouldn’t I be?”
“But are you afraid of Wyatt?” he asks. “Do you feel unsafe living with him?”
Do I feel unsafe living with Wyatt?
“You can tell me, Mrs. Gray,” he says when I hesitate, reaching out to touch my shoulder. He lowers his gaze. “It’s my job to protect you, to keep you safe.” I look up. I meet his eye, feeling all of a sudden like I could cry.
