Page 88 of Snow Creek

“He raped me,” she cries. “He kept me prisoner. I thought he was a good guy. He’s a monster.”

I know who the monster is.

She’s young. Pretty. Evil.

“Nice try,” I say as Sheriff and the other officers converge around us, the blood oozing from my hand and Joshua’s body turning the dust into a red mud.

Sheriff, panic in his eyes, pulls me away and immediately stems the bleeding with a Miller Highlife graphic T found in the barn.

And as he does, I look down at Joshua.

He’s alive.

“Someone stop his bleeding,” I say.

The first ambulance roars away, its sirens and flashing red and white lights amplifying the horror of the scene as it careens toward the hospital.

I sit on the back of the second ambulance. I’m at once embarrassed and proud. I know I did good investigative work. My failure was in letting my guard down. I watch Mindy lead the others collecting evidence, securing the scene. They walk with precision, avoiding any area that might reveal additional evidence.

Sheriff pours some hot coffee from a thermos into a paper cup. I hold the cup in my now bandaged hand. I don’t need a cardboard sleeve to protect me from the heat. That’s about the only thing good about my injury.

“He’s going to make it,” he says.

“Good,” I answer. “Dying would be the easy way out.”

He knows my comment is about justice, not a bitter statement—a comment born of my own background.

“How are you, Megan?”

“Okay. Just thinking.”

“What about?”

I down the coffee. It tastes good and I know I need a boost of caffeine. I refused pain meds because I want to be here in this moment. Right now. The girl on the portrait posed with her brother is on my mind.

“Sarah Wheaton,” I say. “We need to find her.”

“Or her body?” he asks.

I study the car holding Ellie from my ambulance perch.

“Right. There was a third party’s blood, a female, on the evidence we processed. Joshua said he didn’t kill her. Was that her, Sarah?”

“All good questions,” he says.

I get up. “Excuse me, Sheriff.”

I walk over to the cruiser transporting Ellie for processing at the Jefferson County Jail. I tap on the window and ask the officer if I can have a minute or two with her.

“Alone.”

He tries to dissuade me from what he considers a dangerous situation.

“She tried to kill you.”

I want to tell him others have too, but I don’t. It would only add speculation from some of my peers that I come from a fucked-up situation. No parents. No family. Car wreck? Murder–suicide? I’ve heard the gossip.

And I know they couldn’t even imagine.

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