Page 58 of Passerby: A Psychological Thriller

Unfortunately, unpacking that isn’t my most pressing issue right now.

Now, I have to figure out how I’m going to keep people out of this room. Outside of hanging crime scene tape, I’m not exactly sure how I’m going to accomplish that seeing as more than half the town is about to descend down on this house, and there’s nothing like a locked door to make nosey people want to open it and peek inside.

You wouldn’t think any of them would want to see this.

You’d be surprised.

Although, before any of that happens, I have to find Davis.

My guess? He’s wandering around here somewhere, all zombie-like, his clothes covered in blood. God, I hope he’s smarter than that.

The thought conjures a memory of us as kids. We’d rush home from school and sneak up to this room to watch recaps of the OJ Simpson trial on the old big box televi

sion that used to sit in the corner.

I doubt Mama and Daddy had any idea that’s what we were doing, because if they had, they never would have allowed it.

It makes me wonder if Davis learned anything.

Me, I learned this is a room of many uses.

It could hold the secrets of secrets.

Although, I suppose you always get caught, one way or another. Karma has a way of evening the score, which means I’d better find Davis before Roy or anyone else does. I’ve lost one brother. I’m terrified of what’s going to become of the other.

Chapter Thirty-Eight

Ruth

One thing I’ve figured out, you can’t have better standards for a person than they have for their own self. That is proven when I walk into the kitchen and find Davis sitting at the table with his head in his hands. The kitchen is an absolute disaster. I’d been readying things for the party when I realized that I’d forgotten to pick up my dress at the seamstress. I rushed out the door, drove like a bat out of hell, just to reach her shop as she was locking up.

She didn’t look thrilled to see me, but she handed over the dress, and she was kind enough to allow me to try it on, even making a slight alteration while I waited. I take note of Davis and begin to clear clutter from one of the counters. It’s pointless, all things considered, but it helps with the nervous energy and it gives me something to do with my hands.

Meanwhile, Davis doesn’t look up at me, or acknowledge my presence. He sits with a bottle of red in front of him, unopened, and he mumbles. I’m not sure what he’s saying, but it sounds a lot like the Lord’s Prayer.

His hands tremble. His fingernails are caked in blood. “I didn’t mean to do it, really, I didn’t.”

“You need to get showered and changed,” I tell him, sliding into full-on big sister mode. “Guests are starting to arrive. And we can’t have them seeing you like this.”

I don’t mean any of this literally. Obviously, that would be tampering with evidence. I only mean that we need to get him somewhere a little more private, at least until I can figure out what to do, or if that’s what I want to do.

“Where’s Roy?” I ask. It’s a rhetorical question designed to shake Davis out of his stupor. I glance toward the window, feeling more than a little relieved not to find him in this kitchen.

If Roy isn’t in here, and he isn’t upstairs, the next most likely place for me to find him is in the parlor, standing over the pool table, weighing his next move. But then, I realize there’s some part of me that suspects that might not be the case and that Davis’s lack of response indicates something far worse than I’d imagined.

“I didn’t mean it.”

“It’s okay,” I say softly. “I don’t blame you.”

“You should.”

“Davis, listen to me. I need to know if you’ve seen Roy. He texted that he was downstairs.”

I glance down at the knife on the table in front of him.

He rubs at his eyes with the palms of his hands. Still, he refuses to look at me. “I think you should leave, Ruth.”

“I can’t leave. We’re having a party. Like right now.”

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