The most damning evidence, what ensured an arrest, was discovered in cottage four, the one he rented. In a Ziploc baggie within the freezer was one set of eyeballs—Marty’s. And in the sink were the scissors used in myassault. No one besides Becky and Keith had a key to enter the cottage.
“We didn’t need keys when we phrogged these cottages.”I recall Liv’s words.
There isn’t much more than circumstantial evidence regarding Julie’s attack—Keith was sighted at the party. He has no alibi for the night before the search.
No one, even Liv, mentions the game.
Was Keith a player or an unwilling participant?
Does anyone care?
Regardless of me not pressing charges, Keith Gilbert was charged with one count of first-degree murder (Marty Thompson) and two counts of aggravated assault (Julie and me). Through it all, he maintains his innocence. Although his parents provided him with a top attorney from Detroit, the Mills County judge denied bond.
“Blue Gil is safe,” my mother says. “Keith is being held up north at a maximum-security facility until his trial.”
And after my release from Bronson Hospital, Blue Gil is where I am, back at my parents’ home in my old bedroom.
“What about Craig’s death?” I ask. “Do they think Keith could be responsible?”
“It was an accident,” my mom reminds me.
“But his eyes?”
She shakes her head and wrinkles her nose. “It’s gruesome, but his eyes weren’t removed with the precision of Marty’s. The coroner believes it’s a coincidence. They were removed by animals, probably birds. MaybeKeith removed Marty’s eyes in retaliation for Craig’s being missing?”
I’m probably the only person in Blue Gil who isn’t convinced of Keith’s guilt. Nevertheless, the evidence supports the masses.
A week after my return to my parents’ home, I’m surprised by a visit from my boss and visual-effects supervisor. In the middle of the afternoon, there’s a knock on my bedroom door.
“Jillian, you have a visitor,” my mother’s voice comes through a small opening.
I don’t fight company.
I don’t seek it, but I have no reason to fight. Women from Mom’s church come by now and then. The neighbor Sally is a daily visitor.
“Come in.” My voice is sounding closer to normal. Like the others, I was also strangled.
Mom’s smile fills the space before she opens the door wider. Behind her I see Echo Wallis, all five feet, three inches of Hollywood power standing at the threshold of my bedroom in Blue Gil, Michigan.
Echo’s smile is feigned, yet she’s here.
“I think we should leave research to what we can find on the internet and case studies from now on,” Echo says.
With her assistance, Echo and I move to sit out by my parents’ pool. With my mother supplying more snacks and lemonade than two people need, and a beautiful late spring day, we talk.
“Have they arrested that detective from Marquette?” she asks once we’re alone.
“Yes, but...”
“But what?”
“I met Keith. We were…friends.” I try to recall the particulars. “I don’t think it was him.”
“Jill, did you read my email?”
Email?
I purse my lips. “Echo, I’m sorry. The police still have all my electronics. I haven’t accessed anything since...that night.”
