He held her stare. His chest rose and fell with several breaths as the air between them stretched thin. “I have.”
The truth shouldn’t have sunk her heart the way it did. She’d known it, deep down, and yet, here it was. Confirmed.
“If it makes any difference, I don’t kill women.”
Did it make a difference? A life was a life, whether it belonged to a man or a woman.
“And I sure as hell don’t kill kids.”
The pogo stick and the drawings on the refrigerator flashed into her mind. Worry stroked down the back of her neck, then between her shoulder blades. “What happens if their child comes home?”
Cal looked out the window, and Fern could tell he didn’t want to answer.
“When the other men come…” she started to say, but Cal cut in.
“I don’t want you here for that. It’s too dangerous. There should be a root cellar or someplace you can?—"
He broke off at a scuffling sound behind them. They whipped their attention toward the sound; it had come from the closet. Her heart streamed out a handful of beats. The sound didn’t come again. But it had been too substantial a noise to have been a mouse or a rat.
Cal held up his hand, signaling for quiet. He drew his gun and approached the closet, Fern edging up behind him. He pushed aside the dresses on hangers, revealing a knee wall, about three feet in height. Cal crouched and felt along the wall while Fern held her breath. His hand stilled; then, he dug his fingers into a well-concealed crevice and pulled, aiming his gun at the same time.
The board came down, revealing a crawl space. Tucked inside, a young boy, pale-faced and sweating, stared at Cal, mute with fear.
19
Cal lowered the gun immediately. “Shit.”
The boy’s lips started to move, but Cal quickly held a finger to his lips. “Quiet,” he whispered. “Don’t breathe a word.”
Fern crouched next to Cal within the closet, the legs of the overalls brushing against her back. Heat radiated from the crawl space, and the tang of urine met her nose. The boy had beenhere. He’d been here the whole time. He was about ten, though the fear rounding his eyes made him appear younger.
“What’s your name?” she asked softly.
The boy sat with his knees tucked up into his chest, his arms wrapped around them. He dipped his head. “Billy.” His voice was muffled when he spoke.
Fern swallowed hard, imagining what had unfolded earlier while she and Cal had been on their way here. Or maybe sitting in the Bluebird Diner, laughing about ketchup on egg salad sandwiches. The boy’s mother might have been standing at the sink, washing disheswhen the Buick and Ford turned fast into the driveway. She’d likely seen the cars through the window and shouted for Billy to hide. Lied to Rod and said he was at a friend’s house for the day. She’d protected her son the best way she knew how.
“I’m Fern,” she told him.
Distrustful eyes jumped from Cal to her. “Where’s my ma and pa?”
Her eyes burned with the sting of tears, and her mouth wouldn’t form the words.
“Billy, it’s important you stay very still and very quiet,” Cal whispered, avoiding the boy’s question.
“You look like them,” the boy said to him.
“I’m not gonna hurt you. But if they find out you’re here…” Cal paused. “Just, stay quiet. We’ll be gone soon.”
“I’ll bring you water,” she told Billy as Cal secured the knee wall back into place.
Her legs throbbed as she stood up and moved back into the bedroom. Cal followed, shutting the closet door for good measure. He slid his gun back into its holster and paced near the door, worry slackening his usually rigid expression. “If Rod finds out he’s here, he’ll kill him.”
It was what she’d feared.
“What do we do?” she whispered.
Cal stopped pacing, then sank down onto the edge of the bed. He propped his elbows on his thighs and folded his hands, as if in prayer—though Fern knew that was the last thing he was doing. He was thinking. Trying to figure a way out of this mess.
