I shake my head. “I never went into that shed again, so I didn’t see any others?—”
“But you knew there were others,” he cuts in abruptly, his tone sharper now. I tighten my lips, having expected his reaction but still fucking hating it.
“I-I never asked, and he never told me. I was six years old and barely understood what I saw. I-I didn’t understand what a serial killer was, or that theykeepkilling?—”
“But you must’ve known about all the women disappearing,” he says harshly. “They had several counties in Northern California on high alert. It was all over the news that there were women going missing left and right. Several counties had strict curfews for over a year before they even arrested Lionel, and all the kids at school talked about it because we couldn’t play outside after dark anymore. We're the same goddamn age, Rev, and for a long time, women being murdered was all anyone could talk about.”
His body seems to inflate with fury as he stares down at me, his stare menacing and blazing with anger.
“Georgia died in 2009. My mom died in 2011. She was hislastvictim before he was arrested. Do you know how many women he could've killed between their deaths? I mean,fuck, Rev. The man was probably on a fucking spree fordecadesbefore he killed Georgia. Families in all of Northern California were terrified for years because they couldn't find him, which is why we were virtually on fucking lockdown. And allalong, you knew exactly where he was. You had to have connected the dots eventually, right? That he was the one doing it?”
I nod, several more hot tears searing paths down my cheeks. “Yeah. Yeah, I think I knew and was too scared to say anything.”
Dread stares at me like I’ve morphed into a beast, like he doesn't even recognize me. Unshed tears well in his eyes, glassy, offering a stark reflection of his agony.
“You knew he was still murdering women, and you didn’t tell anyone.” It's a statement, not a question.
I nod rapidly and roll my lips, because what else is there to say? I understand why he’s so angry. It’s the same reason I’m so angry with myself.
“You could’ve saved them,” he whispers, the words breaking at the seams. Then, his face twists with fury and disbelief. “You could’ve savedher.”
I close my eyes just as another tear slips free. “Yes,” I say, my voice hushed.
“If you just… if you just would’ve told someone?—”
“Your mom would still be alive,” I finish, my voice cracking.
He stares at me with wide eyes, thunderstruck, hurt, filled with so much rage.
I was a witness. I even knew he kept trophies from the murders.
And I stayed silent.
And because I did, Lionel D’Amour was free to meet Katherine Sharpe two years later. He was free to ask her on a date. He was free to pick her up at her house, leaving behind a grieving little boy who’d already lost his father. And he was free to murder her, to scatter her remains in a fucking junkyard.
Dread takes a step toward me, his expression battling between disbelief and anger.
“It took five months before we went to trial, and the trial took another month. That entire fucking time, I fought witheverythingI had to get people to believe me, and almost no one did, except that jury, Barry, and Jeff.” Another step, and my spine curves, feeling so incredibly small. “Thatwhole time,” he points an accusing finger at me, baring his teeth, “you sat in on all those interviews, praising what a wonderful dad he was while knowing he was a fucking monster!”
“I was a littlekid?—”
“SO WAS I!” he roars, his voice cracking.
I wince, rivers rushing down my cheeks as he struggles to breathe, his face flushed red.
“They all called me a fucking liar. Foryears, Reverie! Theystillfucking do. They said I was putting an innocent man behind bars, that the real Locksmith was still out there. Kids bullied me fucking relentlessly because their parents said I was evil. The world wrote hundreds of articles about the little boy who manipulated a jury into ruining a man’s life. They fucking stalked me, sent my grandmother death threats, vandalized her home more times than I can count. I-I couldn’t go out in public without someone recognizing me and giving me dirty looks or telling me I should be ashamed of myself. They fuckingtormentedme!” I flinch as he trembles violently, so much fucking agony reflecting at me. His voice quietens, though his words are raw as he says, “But no one gave a fuck about how my life was ruined. No, they only gave a fuck about howIruinedyours.”
He takes a deep breath, seeming to struggle to hold back the tears threatening to spill over his waterline. That, more than anything, almost sends my spine crumbling to dust.
“And I-I get it, Rev. You were fucking terrified. You saw something traumatizing, and even though it fucking hurts, I can understand why you were too scared to tell anyone. But when they arrested your father, he couldn’t hurt either of you anymore. He wasn’t allowed out on bail, so he was in jail for a year before the trial even began.”
“There were a few times he mentioned having friends, and they sounded like threats,” I defend weakly.
“They sounded like it, or they were?” he questions.
“He never explicitly said they'd do anything bad to me. It was just the feeling I got. Except for when I was thirteen. I think he knew I was pulling away by then, so he told me he had friends who weren’t in prison. That's when I decided to walk out and never go back.”
Dread hums. “But you never saw these alleged friends? Never heard of them or saw them outside of these vague mentions?”
