Page 134 of We Are All Guilty Here

Emmy knocked again, softer this time, but with purpose.

“Adam?” The woman’s voice sounded frail and distant. “Is someone at the door?”

Emmy heard murmurs of conversation closer by. Two men were arguing. One louder than the other. Adam and Walton. The conversation died down quickly. There was the sound of more floorboards creaking, feet shuffling, then the front door swung open.

Walton Huntsinger’s face was drawn. His eyes looked tired behind his thick glasses. His unnaturally black hair was combed over to hide the baldness.

Emmy asked, “Dr. Huntsinger, are you and your wife safe?”

“Yes, thank you.” His voice sounded beaten down. They had been here once before. He knew how that had ended. “Adam’s in the kitchen. Follow me back.”

Emmy stepped into the house. Nothing had changed. The only thing missing from the front hall was Walton’s suitcase. Emmy walked past the spot, her mind conjuring the image of the black Samsonite with the colorful golf umbrella hooked through the handle and a red nylon man’s wallet with the Georgia Bulldogs logo shoved into the zippered pocket. She followed Walton down the long hallway past the living room, then the dining room, then into the kitchen. The bright yellow walls had faded, but the appliances finally matched. A keychain with a fob for the Toyota was on the counter.

Adam was sitting at the kitchen table. His mouth curled up at the corners when he saw Emmy. He stared at her through his thick glasses. There were three items in front of him:

Penley’s sawed-off shotgun from the bar.

A half-empty bottle of Jack Daniel’s.

A sixteen-ounce general purpose claw hammer.

Emmy felt her breath catch. The wooden handle was almost black with dried blood. The blood around the steel head was brighter, newer.

Paisley.

Adam said, “Leave us be, Dad.”

Walton didn’t look at Emmy. His feet shuffled across the floor as he left the kitchen. The room somehow felt smaller without him.

Adam said, “Sit down, chief.”

Emmy didn’t sit down. Her eyes flickered to the windows. The curtains on the door weren’t fully closed. She saw Brett reaching for the doorknob. His Glock was in his right hand. Emmy shook her head, telling him to stay outside.

She asked Adam, “Where’s Paisley?”

“Fuck you,” he said. “Wrong question.”

Emmy knew what he wanted her to ask about. It was the reason he’d called her. “Tell me about the hammer.”

“You fucking know about the hammer.”

Emmy’s eyes followed his right hand as he placed it flat on the table. Close to the bottle. Close to the shotgun. Close to the hammer. Any one of them could hurt her. She leaned back against the counter, putting herself out of swinging distance. She felt her mind racing with questions.

Why had he called 911 demanding to speak to Emmy? Why had he threatened Brett’s life? Why had he left the hammer on the table like a cat bringing her a dead bird? Was his accomplice trying to frame him? Was Adam trying to fake her out?

Emmy took in a deep breath, forced herself to turn a question back on him. “Was that hammer inside the toolbox in your truck?”

“Exactly where your sister put it.”

“Why would she do that?”

“You know why.”

Emmy held her breath again when Adam’s hand moved, but he only grabbed the bottle. His eyes stayed on hers as he drank. His throat made a loud gulping sound. Then he slammed the bottle back on the table. She watched his left hand slither upnext to the shotgun. The snake tattoo practically pulsed around his arm. She knew that he was trying to scare her. To make her show fear.

Emmy wasn’t going to give it to him. “Where’s Paisley?”

“Why the fuck do you keep asking me about that stupid little bitch?”

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