I bite my lip, my chin trembling, and feebly shake my head, understanding how stupid it sounds now. Admittedly, I've always wondered if he really did have friends, or if he was just trying to scare me.
Regardless, even if he didn't then, he might now—if he and thecopycat truly are working together.
“Did the police ask you if you saw anything?”
Another hot tear trails down my cheek, and the guilt in my eyes is answer enough.
“And you said no.”
I roll my lips together, and after a beat of hesitation, I nod again.
“You stayed silent. You knew the truth. And you didn’t say a fucking word,” he says quietly, a bone-deep sorrow embedded in every syllable.
“Why?”
By the time the word squeezes past his throat and falls from his lips, it’s in fragments, whispered so brokenly, I barely hear it at all.
I take a deep, shuddering breath. No matter what I say, it will never be sufficient. It will never take away the fact that someone out there had the opportunity to save his mother, and they didn’t take it. Nor will it change the fact that he went through hell to put my father behind bars and then went through hell for succeeding. Not a single time did I step in to help him.
Dropping my gaze, I clear my throat again and swipe away a few more stray tears before wringing my fingers together.
“All I can say is that I was a kid, Dread. That won’t make it better for you, and I get that, but I was a child who walked in on the most evil thing you could possibly imagine, only to be told the same thing would happen to me and my mom if I spoke a word. When Barry arrested him, my mom told me every day they were going to release him. She said over and over that they had nothing substantial against him. So every day, I expected him to come home. I was terrified, and I didn’t understand everything, but I understood what it felt like to die.”
He remains silent long enough to draw my gaze back up to him. He glares at the floor, the muscle in his jaw on the verge of tearing through his flesh while his knuckles repeatedly flex, though he seems to be working on calming himself.
“I wrote a letter to the parole board telling them this,” I say after the silence continues to drag. He slowly brings his attention to me, and his gaze is cold enough to turn my lips blue. “I also told them when I was in the shed, he showed me a box. He called it his lockbox, where he kept locks of hair he’d take from all the victims. He was proud of it, and he made me…” My voice starts to crack, so I take a second to regain my composure again. “He made me touch the pretty hair. That was the last time I saw it, of course. And when the FBI raided our house, they obviously never found it. I… I don’t know where it is, but I know it’s out there somewhere.”
I tuck a strand of hair behind my ear, wishing more than anything a black hole would open beneath me.
“You told them all this, and they still let him out?”
I hold out my hands in a shrug, as if to say,What’re ya gonna do?
“They spoon-fed me the same medicine they shoved down your throat. They questioned the integrity of my claim because I stayed silent for so long. As far as they’re concerned, I’m the petty daughter wanting revenge for my mother’s death. In her suicide note, she’d said she couldn’t take the pain of being separated from the only person she’s ever loved.”
Repeating those words should hurt, but I’ve long since accepted my mother didn’t know how to love me.
“The warden sent them a glowing letter about what a stand-up man he is, how he deserves to be free, so they ignored it and basically tossed my letter in the garbage.”
He scoffs and shakes his head. “Of course they did,” he mutters beneath his breath.
I sniffle and then inhale deeply, attempting to gather myself somewhat, despite the absolute carnage inside my body.
“Look, I’m not asking for your protection, but I mean it when I say my father won’t allow me to live if I continue to defy him. I’ve already broken my promise and tried to tell the parole board the truth. My mom isn’t alive to hold it over my head anymore, and, well, my life was always going to be on the line anyway. I’m a witness to his crimes, and I know there’s evidence out there tying him to the murders. I’m a loose end he’s not going to just let go.”
He looks off to the side, his eyes darting back and forth as the muscle in his jaw continues to pulse, mulling that over for a moment.
“He could’ve destroyed the box. Gotten rid of it,” he says finally.
I shrug. “It’s possible, but I don’t think he did. He knew he was going to get out one day, and I don’t think he would’ve destroyed such a coveted collection. He thinks he’s smarter than everyone else and obviously knows how to hide shit.”
The gears in his mind churn, and truthfully, I’m not even sure what I’m hoping to get out of this anymore. I sure as fuck never thought he’dsave me. I hoped he’d at least stop dangling me as bait, and take me seriously when I said Lionel will kill me.
Except I realize now that maybe I’m giving Dread the perfect opportunity to get revenge on me, allow him to keep using me to draw my father out, let him kill me, and then either kill Lionel himself or send him back to prison for my murder. Whichever of the two serves him best, I guess.
Either way, I’m dead.
And, well… that fucking sucks.
