Page 40 of Middle of the Night

“He was, yes,” Detective Palmer says. “And he made many generous donations to places throughout the state, including the governor’s campaign fund.”

I roll my eyes. “Of course he did.”

“But I don’t think that had anything to do with it. You have to remember, Billy’s trail seemed to end at the access road in the woods, a mile away from the institute, leading everyone to think he was taken to a car waiting there. And considering the institute grounds are surrounded by a perimeter wall, it was assumed no one could easily trespass onto the property.”

“But we did,” I say. “Me, Billy, three other people. We all trespassed with no problem.”

“A fact none of you mentioned until yesterday.” Detective Palmer’s expression can only be described as “not mad but disappointed.” With her tilted head and lipsthisclose to forming a frown, she looks like a kindergarten teacher who just caught someone trying to sneak a second chocolate milk. “Had my colleagues known this all those years ago, they would have included the institute grounds in their search.”

Shame presses down on my rib cage, to the point where my breathing starts to get shallow.

“What did they do at the institute?” I say.

“I’m not sure. It’s my understanding they did research.”

“What kind of research?”

“Privateresearch,” Detective Palmer says. “The kind the public isn’t privy to.”

“But you have some idea, right?”

Detective Palmer grips her coffee mug and turns it slowly. “From what I’ve been able to gather, it was just a bunch of eccentrics. Very smart, very rich eccentrics. Certainly not the type of people who would kidnap and murder a little boy.”

“Well, you asked me who I think killed Billy and I told you,” I say. “Since it’s not the answer you wanted, I guess we’re done here.”

“We’re on the same team, Ethan,” Detective Palmer says, and this time it sounds genuine. “We both want to catch who did this and find some justice for Billy. So, let’s try again: Who do you think did it? Someonenotassociated with the Hawthorne Institute.”

I stare over her shoulder, to the backyard beyond the patio door and the woods beyond that. Someone emerged from that forest, sliced the tent, and pulled Billy out of it and into the woods. Whoever it was then killed him and threw his body over the falls. Just thinking about it makes me queasy. And that’s without considering the very realpossibility that, had the killer approached the tent from a different angle and slashed the other side, it likely would have been me who was abducted and killed.

“There were—” My mouth has gone dry, making it hard to talk. I gulp down some coffee and start again. “There were rumors of a stranger roaming the neighborhood the day before Billy was taken. Someone who came out of the woods.”

“And you think he might have done it?” Detective Palmer says.

“Maybe,” I say. “Some serial killer who later went far, far away from here.”

“Unfortunately, that’s highly unlikely. Over the years, every known serial killer, kidnapper, and killer of children has been interviewed and asked about Billy Barringer. I’ve mentioned him to at least a dozen myself.”

I try to picture Detective Palmer, with her chipmunk cheeks and Girl Scout troop leader smile, interviewing a serial killer in a maximum-security prison. It’s impossible.

“Not a single one has confessed to the crime, which they love to do, even if they didn’t commit it,” she continues. “No one has even hinted that they were in a hundred-mile radius at the time. So the culprit was either a psychopath who’s killed only once—a sick, thrill-kill situation—or a serial offender we don’t know about or who hasn’t yet been caught, or it was—”

“Someone from here,” I say.

I can tell I’m right when Detective Palmer locks eyes with me from across the table. Now I understand why she doesn’t think the Hawthorne Institute had anything to do with Billy’s death. She suspects it was someone closer to home.

“This wasn’t done by someone on Hemlock Circle,” I say.

“I understand why you think that. I know it’s hard to believe one of your friends and neighbors is a killer.”

“It’s impossible.”

“Even when you consider the details of what happened that night?” Detective Palmer stands and goes to the patio door. Pointing to the yard, she says, “You and Billy were asleep in a tent. Something you did throughout that summer, right?”

I swallow, my mouth suddenly dry again because I know what she’s getting at. “Every Friday night.”

“So it wasn’t a secret,” Detective Palmer says, stating it not as a question but as the undeniable fact it is. “Now, consider how you didn’t notice when Billy was taken. Yes, you might have been awake for it, based on your recurring dream, but that seems more because of the sound of the tent being cut open and not any other noises.”

She pauses, giving me a chance to figure it out for myself. When I do, it feels like I’ve been punched.

---