Page 48 of What Have You Done?

I remember when it happened to me, that time in the locker room, after everyone else had gone. I was humming in the shower and didn’t hear him come in. When I got out, he was standing just a few feet away. I was so startled that I gave a little scream. I tried to cover myself with my hands, while looking frantically for my towel, which I’d hung on a nearby hook.

‘This what you’re looking for?’ he said. He brought my towel out from behind his back and smiled. He held it out to me, as if beckoning me forward to take it. I froze. I was trying to gauge whether I could get past him, wondering if he’d locked the door. But he was blocking my way. I wondered if anyone would hear me if I screamed. If anyone would believe me if I told. All of this went through my mind in a flash. I don’t know how long I stood there, but even now, I recall how anxious I felt, how afraid.

He tossed the towel to me. ‘Don’t tell anybody about this. They’ll never believe you anyway. I’ll say that you invited me in for a look.’ And then he left.

I didn’t tell, just as he expected.

After that, I kept my distance. But sometimes I’d catch him looking at me, as if we were sharing a dirty secret.

Maybe he was more dangerous than I realized.

Edward returns home, unable to wait even until lunchtime to talk to his son. Shelby, who has stayed home from work to be with Cameron, is glad to see him, but Cameron is not. He’s entered Cameron’s room without his wife, thinking he’ll get more out of him if she isn’t there.

‘What’s this about?’ he asks his son. He’s perhaps more abrupt than he has been. His nerves are getting the better of him.

‘I don’t know,’ Cameron says defensively.

‘Where did you go last night?’

‘I got something to eat and then I just drove around, that’s all.’

‘Drove around where? You must have done something to get on their radar, or why would they want to ask you about it?’ He’s almost shouting now. Cameron looks back at him in fear. But Edward can’t help himself. He demands loudly, ‘Are you trying to hide something?’

‘No!’

‘Where did you go?’

Cameron recoils from him, shrinking back against his bedroom wall. ‘I went to a place I used to go to with Diana – an empty field. I just parked there and sat for a while.’

‘Why?’

‘Because I miss her!’ He starts to sob.

Edward softens toward his son. ‘Where is this field?’

‘What does it matter?’

‘Tell me.’

‘It’s where Pickering Road meets Town Line.’

Edward feels a chill come over him. ‘But – that’s right near the Ressler farm, where Diana was found.’

Cameron says nothing, and for the first time, Edward believes it’s actually possible that his son is a murderer.

Brad Turner finally leaves the police station, waving off the reporters eager to take his picture, shouting questions. They know Diana made a complaint against one of her teachers, and here he is, served up nicely for them on a platter. That bitch from KCVS is front and centre.

‘Mr Turner,’ she calls, saying his name loudly, ‘do you have any comment on the allegations made against you by the murdered girl?’

He meets her eyes briefly, seething with rage and trying not to show it. He’s afraid of what will happen when they find out about Zoe. He turns away, without answering. He gets into his car and drives home. He takes a long, circuitous route, to make sure none of them are following him.

Once he’s home, Brad collapses on his sofa, his head in his hands, his fingers tearing through his hair. He has to call Ellen. He considers getting an attorney. He doesn’t like how that will look, but he’s scared.

He lights a cigarette and calls Ellen at work. Her phone rings and rings, then goes to voice mail. She always picks up even if she’s busy at the bakery. There’s his answer, right there.

Shelby has been out of her mind with worry since Detective Stone called the house that morning. She hopes her husband can get something out of Cameron. She confronts Edward now as he slowly comes down the stairs. ‘What did he say?’ she whispers.

Edward shakes his head and directs her farther away, into the kitchen.

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