Page 100 of The Boy from Half Moon

I glanced toward his parents. “We already have sworn testimony to that fact, Josiah. I’m sorry that you, as well as seven other boys, were molested by Franklin Smith.”

“Was not.”

Josiah wouldn’t look at me. His face was glued to the floor as he hunched over in the corner of the room, two walls meeting behind him to provide the protection he so desperately wanted. But he couldn’t hide from the open area in front of him, the space where a mean man like me kept poking at him. I wasn’t enjoying beating up on him, but I needed the truth. He looked frail, scared to death, and half the size of a normal sixteen-year-old.

“Please look at me, Josiah,” I asked. “I’m not here to hurt you.”

He raised his head, his eyes darting from me to his folks to Alec and the rest of the assembled group of six other people. He had to feel picked on. “We found your blood in the pump house drain,” I revealed. “If you weren’t there, can you explain how your blood got there?”

His giveaway, the telltale sign of a script failing, was when he glanced at Alec, seeking advice. “What is this about?” Alec interrupted. “I’ve not seen this evidence.”

“I sent it to your office, Mr. Browning,” I stated. “Per professional protocol. You have it.”

“Luke helped me clean up,” Josiah blurted out. “I hurt myself is all.”

The lies they tell when a witness feels trapped begin the slow revealing of the truth, and Josiah was figuring out that he’d better start talking.

“Must have been quite the injury,” I sympathized. “Can you please tell me, you know, for the official record, what was the nature of your injury?”

His eyes moved to his folks, and the tears ran like river water after the big spring thaw. My heart instantly broke for the kid. I already knew the truth. Luke had told me that.

“Answer Mr. Finnigan’s question, boy,” Josiah’s father said.

Josiah slowly shook his head from side to side, tears covering his baby face. The kid looked twelve, not sixteen. His mouth opened but quickly closed before he bent over, sobbing. His mother began weeping and his father kneeled in front of him, taking him into his arms.

“Did he hurt you, son?” Josiah’s father asked. Josiah nodded, too much pain preventing him from speaking. “Did Franklin rape you?” he whispered, his voice tremoring as the words stuck in his throat. Josiah nodded again.

“Josiah,” I spoke, trying to get his attention while being cognizant that he had to be completely shattered inside after his reveal exposed him to the room. “Can you please use words so that we can all confirm your answer about Franklin Smith raping you?”

He lifted his head, and a devastated and agonized face greeted us. “Yes. Father Franklin raped me. Lotsa times,” he choked out, falling back into his father’s arms.

A detective I didn’t recognize, all six burly feet of him, openly sobbed after Josiah’s admission. He quickly turned away from the group, doing his best to stifle his cries.

And in perfect timing, and with his usual tact, Alec spoke. “Doesn’t mean he killed the asshole.”

I glared at Alec, wishing a harsh look could actually kill someone. “Where are the clothes, Josiah? Your jeans and your undergarment?” I asked, ignoring Alec.

“I buried them after Luke took care of me and went home,” he answered. “I didn’t want anyone to know what happened to me.”

“But Luke knew, didn’t he?” I asked.

“Luke helped me like he always did, and I begged him not to tell,” he admitted. “Who would believe us? No one goes against Franklin. No one would’ve believed me,” he cried, pushing his father away and pointing at his mother, tears pouring forth once again. “Not even them!”

His mother visibly pulled back in shock, but like her role on the ranch as an unequal person, like all the other females there, she said nothing.

“I’ve heard enough,” I announced, standing.

“This doesn’t prove shit!” Alec raged. “No way does this prove he did it instead of your murderous boyfriend.”

I calmly walked to the door, opened it, and before I stepped out, turned to face the group. “And it doesn’t prove Josiah didn’t do it.”

CHAPTER FIFTY-FOUR: Luke

“When we get in there, let me do all the talking,” Tate said, rubbing the top of my hand with his thumb.

“I know,” I muttered. “Like always.”

I gazed at Tate, my heart overflowing with love, and wondered how he did what he did. The past month was the worst time of my life, yet he was always there, visiting, comforting, and fighting for me.

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