Both of their expressions reflect my disgust. “Oh God,” Becky says. “I didn’t give that any thought.”
“Did they find them?” Or is the killer keeping them as a souvenir. Retaining mementos is common with serial killers.
Goose bumps materialize beneath my sweatshirt.
“Find what?” Becky asks.
“The eyes.”
“Not that I’ve heard,” Hank answers before they both walk away.
For a moment, I stand on the back stoop lost in thought as more questions come to mind.
What the hell is happening in Blue Gil?
Has our town always had this sick resident or is this an outsider?
Chapter
Twenty-Five
The hospital hallways glisten under the bright fluorescent lights. Upon the neutrally painted walls are large, framed photographs of nature. One has a close-up shot of leaves dotted with raindrops. The next photo is a field filled with daisies. Another is of a dilapidated barn and silo, reminding me of many I’ve seen around Blue Gil. Within the picture, the sky is on fire with the reds and oranges of the setting sun. As I wind around the maze of Julie’s floor, I notice more photographs that I didn’t see before. There are no duplicates, just calming, nonconfrontational stills to add color and contrast yet not stand out.
Perhaps it’s because it’s Tuesday morning and people are at work. I’m not sure of the reason, yet the hallways feel emptier than before. Since Sandy, Ollie’s girlfriend, and Matt, Olivia’s boyfriend, need to work today, we have fewer people to sit with Julie. While I wanted to hear Sheriff Manes’s announcement, instead, I’m about to relieve Michelle, Matt’s mother, at Julie’s side.
While the stress is taking its toll on the whole family, I probably slept better than my parents who again spent the night here before Michelle relieved them. Of course, my ability to sleep last night was based more upon my alcohol intake than lack of stress. There’s nothing like an abundance of wine flowing through one’s veins to make the worries of the world melt away and allow slumber to whisk you away.
Once Becky arrived last night, my research went by the wayside. That’s why this morning I have my computer bag in tow.
Finally, I reach Julie’s room.
The bottom of the door scuffs against the tile floor as I push the door inward. A chorus of beeps and blips coming from the machines near my sister’s head greets me as Michelle looks up from a magazine.
The hospital bed has my sister partially inclined, yet her eyes are still closed.
Eyes.
She has hers.
That’s another blessing we can add to our list.
Michelle stands.
“Mrs. Lane,” I say softly.
It’s the first time I’ve met her. And based on Matt, who is easily six feet three or four, with darker hair, I wouldn’t peg this woman as his mother. She is barely five feet with curly blond hair and a stocky build.
“You must be Jillian,” she says with the same hushed tone and a pleasant smile.
“Yes.”
“I’m Michelle. Forget theMrs. Lanepart. After all, we’re practically family.”
“Oh,” I say, my eyes on Julie and back. “Do you know something we don’t?”
“As in a marriage? Heavens, no. I would welcome it. No matter what the kids decide, we adore Olivia.”
“I’m kind of fond of her too.”
