Page 57 of Snow Creek

I asked her if she knew where my mom was, where he could have taken her. But she shook her head. Didn’t know where he lived. And when I asked if she’d help us to find her, she said, “Let’s figure it out later.”

“There is no later,” I say in the most direct way that I can.

She bites down on her lower lip before speaking. “I mean, after you eat and rest.”

I don’t understand her peculiar reluctance. Her sister has been abducted by a serial killer. Why is she being so weird?

Hayden’s eyes landed on a cheese sandwich and a stack of Pringles potato chips that our aunt has set on two cornflower-blue plates that she’s placed on an enormous table in the kitchen. On the wall adjacent to the table are some photographs. Lots of them. My heart skips a beat and I feel a surge of bewilderment. My school photo is among a bunch of images of complete strangers. There’s an old picture of Hayden, too. We were part of a family. We just didn’t know it.

Aunt Ginger turns to me and mouths some words. She says, “After he’s in bed, we’ll talk then.”

I sit down across from my brother while our aunt pours milk from a glass bottle. I don’t even like milk, but I say nothing. I sit there thinking of how the forces have collided to make my life worse than it has ever been.

And how my mother has less than six days to stay alive if I don’t do something about it.

* * *

The air from the open window passes over me. I check my phone before I turn out the light.

Again, nothing.

Is that all I am to him?

I go to Hayden’s Instagram feed. He doesn’t know I’m a follower. My handle was meant to be an inside joke.

Twisted Sister.

Twenty-Six

Just when you need it, the marine layer from the straits sends a blanket of air that drops temperatures by at least ten degrees. Sometimes twenty. I dress in a blue suit. Sheriff Gray and I are attending the memorial. I expect Bernadine to be there too. I’ll be sure to thank her for being such a great advocate—and news source for theLeader.

And though it is a longshot, I wonder if the killer will come. Maybe watching from afar? Enjoying the results of his handiwork. It has happened, many times, though mostly in cases with a larger pool of possible suspects.

Merritt stands alone.

I go over the case in my mind as I drink a cup of coffee, spread blackberry jam on toast.

Evidence from the Wheaton farm is being processed and I expect some preliminary results some time this afternoon. Too bad I won’t be able to get an update in the cell phone iron curtain of Snow Creek. I have time to make a run at the Torrance place before the memorial.

I open my email. Again, nothing other than a bunch of offers for discontinued furniture from Pottery Barn. Half-off a red and white checked sofa is half-off nothing anyone would ever want.

That’s why it’s discontinued.

I check my teeth in the bathroom mirror before leaving. Good thing. Blackberry seeds have found a home on my front tooth. Not a good look for a memorial service.

The offices of the Jefferson County sheriff sound so much better than the night before. The refrigerator hum is definitely in the background where it belongs as deputies, clerks and ringing phones take the forefront. Everyone is talking about the Wheaton case, of course. It’s the biggest thing we’ve had around here in I don’t know how long. Maybe forever. Nan at the front desk looks especially excited.

“A producer from Seattle’s KING TV called. Wants to come out and do some interviews on how the murder of Mrs. Wheaton is affecting the town,” she says.

“We shouldn’t be doing interviews,” I say.

She shrinks like a popped balloon.

“Bernadine did one already.”

“That’s Bernie. Not us. We drive the media story when we need to. Not to serve their ratings, Nan.”

She still looks deflated, but she nods.

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