Page 110 of Middle of the Night

Anger pushes me to my feet as I think about all the ways in which I’ve suffered. The guilt. The insomnia. The Dream.

“I know it’s hurt you, too,” Russ says. “And I know you’ve had a hard time since Claudia died.”

I stalk across the foyer, intercepted by Detective Palmer. Caught in her surprisingly strong grip, I glare at Russ. “Don’t you bring Claudia into this. Don’t you fucking dare. You still have a wife. You have a child. I don’t. Also, I didn’t kill Billy. You did.”

Russ sways at the accusation. “Wait. That’s what you think? I didn’t lay a hand on Billy.”

“Bullshit,” I say, sounding like I’m ten again and trying to convince Billy there’s no such thing as ghosts. “You killed him!”

Detective Palmer raises a hand to silence me. Turning to Russ, she says, “So you’re telling me that you slashed the tent and just…walked away?”

“Yes,” Russ says. “That’s exactly what I did.”

“I have trouble believing that,” Detective Palmer says.

As do I. “If you didn’t kill Billy, then why didn’t you tell anyone you cut the tent open? You had thirty years to do it, yet you said nothing.”

“Because you’re right,” Russ says. “What happened to Billy is my fault. If I hadn’t slashed your stupid tent, whoever it was that snuck into your yard might have kept walking. But they didn’t. Instead, they saw that gash in the side and realized it was easy access to whoever was inside.”

“That’s going to be hard to prove,” Detective Palmer says.

“Well, it’s the truth.”

“Do you have any proof? What happened to the knife you used to cut the tent?”

Russ’s broad shoulders rise and fall. “I don’t know.”

“Now that’sreallyhard to prove.”

“I swear,” Russ says. “I brought it inside with me after leaving Ethan’s yard. I set it on the kitchen counter and went back upstairs to bed. In the morning, it wasn’t there.”

“And you never saw it again?” Detective Palmer says.

“No. I looked for it after the news that someone took Billy got out. I wanted to—”

“Hide it?” I say, unable to help myself.

“Yes,” Russ snaps. “I was going to hide it. Because I was afraid I’d get in trouble if anyone found out what I’d done. But I couldn’t find it. It was gone.”

“Knives don’t hide themselves, Russ,” Detective Palmer says. “If you didn’t do it, who did?”

“It was me.”

The voice floats down from above, making all three of us crane our necks to look at the top of the stairs, where Misty Chen stands in a silk robe cinched tightly over a set of white pajamas. She looks so old and frail as she starts to descend the steps. Like she’s aged twenty years since I saw her this morning.

“I hid the knife,” she says. “Because, in my heart of hearts, I know Russ is a good boy.”

Saturday, July 16, 1994

12:46 a.m.

Misty Chen hears her son return, just as she heard when he left. Nothing gets past her in this house. Not anymore. Gone are the days when Johnny would sneak out unnoticed, scurrying off into the night to poison himself. By the time she realized what he’d been doing, it was too late, and Johnny was gone.

Now she’s become the eyes and ears of the house, seeing everything, hearing everything. It’s why she moved across the hall not long after Johnny died, leaving the bed she’d shared with her husband. In her grief, she could no longer be distracted by his tossing, turning, and snoring.

She needs quiet.

To pay attention.

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