Page 38 of Trapper Road

They don’t want to know that Kevin was a good friend to me. Before him, I was a social pariah, the weird kid with the serial killer father. The kid who freaked out during an active shooter drill and sent a classmate to the hospital. Everyone else kept their distance, but Kevin took an interest. I’ll never forget the day he sat down across from me at the lunch table in school and said, “What’s up?” in that casual, familiar way as if we’d already been friends for ages.

And because Kevin had friends, I suddenly had friends too. That was the last time I sat alone at lunch.

Of course he could be an asshole – an understatement given what happened. He was crazy competitive and yelled at the screen when he messed up playing video games. He was impatient with what he considered stupidity and thought anyone who didn’t see his side of things was a moron who wasn’t worthy of his time. He could be moody when he didn’t get his way, and he hated being told what to do.

He was complicated, just like every other person in the world. But no one wants to hear that. They don’t want to learn anything that might challenge the conclusions they’ve already come to about him: he’s a monster who deserves to die.

Just like my dad. People celebrated when he died. Reporters smiled when they announced the news. No one thought about the fact that Melvin Royal had a son who’d just lost his father. They didn’t know or care about the lazy weekend mornings at home when Dad would cook pancakes in funny shapes.

No one wants to think about Melvin Royal being a loving father. Just like no one wants to think about Kevin being a good friend.

And all of it makes me wonder: if I did something stupid, if I did something horrible, would they write me off just as easily?

Apparently, the answer is yes, given the interviews my classmates have been giving to the media. I’m just glad I’m not home where I’d have to face it all in person. I’m not sure I could handle that. It’s one thing to read articles written by people assuming the worst about you, it’s another thing to see those people face to face.

And it’s not just school that’s the issue. I know Mom would let me stay home; she’s done it before when things have gotten tense. But the shooting goes beyond the school — the entire community is on edge. My picture’s been running in all the local papers. I doubt there’s anywhere I could go in Knoxville where I wouldn’t be recognized. At least that’s what it feels like. If everyone back home thinks I’m a monster, I don’t know how I can ever go back there.

After hours of these thoughts circling endlessly through my head, I’ve had enough. I need a distraction. I need out of this room that’s started to feel like a cage.

Vee is still snoring away in the bed next to me, and I toss a pillow at her. She snorts, pushing it off her face and glares in my direction. “The hell?”

“Let’s go get breakfast,” I tell her.

She rolls onto her side, snuggling deeper under the covers. “No.”

“Come on, Vee, I’m bored and hungry.”

“I don’t care.”

I know Vee well enough that no amount of persuasion is going to get her to change her mind. “Fine, I’ll go by myself.”

Mom told me that Vee and I had to stick together, but I don’t care. The diner is a few dozen yards away — it’s not like I’m going on some sort of wild bender. I pull on jeans and shoes, then slip into Mom’s room to grab the cash she left on the dresser before stepping outside.

I pull up short.

There’s a girl sitting on the low wall blocking the motel room doors from the parking lot. It looks like she’s been waiting for me.

10

GWEN

I arrive at the police station early the next morning. I don’t have an appointment but given what I’ve seen of Gardenia so far, I can’t imagine the chief’s schedule is overly packed. The police department is in an old brick building located in the center of the town, on a large square opposite the courthouse. The other two sides of the square are occupied by a Baptist church and a Methodist church, making it clear that separation of church and state only goes so far in some places.

I park in a small lot and cross toward the two-story building. It looks well kept, the trim around the windows painted a bright white recently and flowerbeds in full bloom under the windows. A flagpole sits out front, proudly displaying both the US and NC flags.

The double front doors are heavy enough that I have to push my shoulder against one to heave it open. It leaves me slightly off balance as I step into the main reception area. It’s larger than I’d been expecting, a full two stories tall with old marble floors, worn in places from generations of feet traveling the same path.

I cross toward the reception desk where a middle aged woman with wavy blond hair and bright lipstick sits, waiting for me to approach. She smiles broadly as I near. “Good morning,” she says in a long drawl, way chippier than anyone really has a right to be this early in the day. “What can I do for you?”

Everything about her appearance speaks of warm, southern hospitality, but there’s a shrewdness to her eyes that hints there’s much more steel to her personality than one would expect. I doubt she tolerates bullshitters, and she certainly isn’t the type to respond well to threats or heavy-handedness.

This is definitely a catch more flies with honey than vinegar situation, though it’s been a while since I’ve had to turn on the honey-charm offensive.

I’ve lived in Tennessee long enough that I know how to soften my voice so that my midwestern accent blurs enough to not mark me as a total outsider. “Hey, good morning to you as well,” I respond, making sure to smile wide. “My name’s Gwen Proctor, and I was hoping I might be able to steal a bit of the chief’s time this morning to ask him about a case.”

“Do you have an appointment?” she asks. I’m guessing she already knows the answer. She seems the type to have the chief’s schedule memorized.

“I’m afraid I don’t. I just drove into town yesterday afternoon, and unfortunately I didn’t have time to call ahead.”

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