Amongst them is yet another girl wearing the fake blood and white T-shirt.
04/02/09.
Rebecca Jenkins.
My throat threatens to close, so I shift my focus past her toward where they’re playing beer pong. I can't see anything past the staircase, so I strain my ears. I don’t hear people cheering for Dread anymore, but it’s hard to tell for sure.
Regardless, he’s obviously somewhere close, and I’d like to delay my confrontation. If he wanted me here just to see what he put his minions up to, fine, I can handle that. But if he has more planned…
Maybe if I wait him out long enough, he'll get too drunk to carry it out.
Muffled noises bring my attention to the room’s corner, where asliding glass door leads to the backyard.
There’s a huge hot tub situated off to the right, several people packed inside, their behavior just as raucous and obnoxious as the rest of the partygoers.
I quietly head toward the door, sparing a glance at the table. I’m relieved none of them seem to pay me any attention.
When I get closer to the glass, I glimpse a pool house to the left. Only a couple lights are on, and I don't see any people through the windows. It seems like a safe enough place to hide for now. I’ll wait out there for an hour or two, hopefully while Dread gets shit-faced, and then slip out if I hear nothing.
I came, I saw, I hid, I left.
Sparing one last glance over my shoulder to ensure he’s not lurking behind me, I slip out the sliding door with little notice from the people in the dining room. As I gun for the pool house, though, several eyes flick my way from the hot tub.
None of them are Dread, and none of the girls sport bloody necks. That’s all that matters to me.
No one stops me as I slink through the shadows. The freezing night air slithers beneath my jacket and nips at my skin, but the adrenaline pounding through my system eases the discomfort.
When I reach the door on the back end of the smaller house, I don’t hesitate to slink inside, instantly greeted by warm air. I quietly shut the door behind me and exhale a relieved breath as I glance around.
The living area is huge, the color scheme identical to the main house. To my left, a bartop table sits below a large server window that offers a direct view into the kitchen. Next to it is a dark, uninviting hallway, shadows creeping out from the depths.
Open windows line the other three walls—behind me, to my right, and straight ahead—at least ten of them total, with the blinds pulled up to reveal the pool right outside. If I turn around, I can clearly see the other students partying in the hot tub from the window beside the door.
I take a single step when a distinct, low noise freezes my muscles for the hundredth time. It’s coming from hidden speakers throughout the room, but the source is a TV mounted on the wall straight ahead. When I slowly slide my gaze to the screen, the hair on the back of my neck stands, and my blood runs cold.
“I must ask, what do you truly think about these accusations against yourhusband, Mrs. D’Amour? I mean, it can’t be easy hearing he’s being accused of such heinous crimes.”
I recognize the man’s voice instantly. Connor Boredman.
At the time, he was a young talk show host, eager to carve out his place in the world through Lionel. And he was smart to do so. His ratings skyrocketed, and he became one of the most famous hosts after successfully conducting the first and only interview of the entire D’Amour family following Lionel’s arrest.
After all, the world regarded the Locksmith as a modern-day Ted Bundy. So, when an eight-year-old boy claimed Lionel D’Amour was a prolific serial killer, his trial and the case of Katherine Sharpe became an international sensation. We couldn’t take a single step without a reporter shoving a microphone in our faces. Regina embraced the attention and dragged me to so many interviews, my reflection in a camera lens became as familiar as in a mirror. Therefore, when the jail granted Connor special permission to interview Lionel alongside us, it took the world by storm.
It also sealed the public’s opinion of my father, and subsequently of the little boy who they believed falsely accused Lionel of murdering his mother.
Now, that little boy is all grown up, very fucking angry, and forcing me to watch the interview that destroyed what was left of him after losing his mom.
“Well, I’d say they’re utterly baseless lies!”Regina answers before huffing an affronted breath.“I don’t want to speak ill of a grieving little boy, but my goodness, how his atrocious claims have completely destroyed our lives!”
“Oh, darling, don’t get too worked up now,” Lionel interjects, drawing out his words in a bashful—but pleased—manner.
Darling.
The endearment Lionel called my mom throughout that entire interview, and boy, did the media fucking eat it up. Article after article worshipped my father for the way he loved hisdarlingwife.
It makes me sick hearing it now, which is exactly why I’ve heard it nearly every goddamn day for the past four years.
“Oh, Lionel, it’s just so upsetting.”Regina places a hand over her heart, the other atop Lionel’s, her face twisting with heartbreak.“Our family has been ripped apart by all this nonsense. And—and—”She covers her mouth just as a sob breaks free, prompting Lionel to soothingly shushher as he crooks his finger beneath her chin.“We just want you home.”
