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“I’m sorry,” I say automatically and search for more. “I wish things had turned out better for both of you.”
Something I say makes his gaze narrow.
“How do you think she and her friends managed to pull it off?” he asks me and then clarifies. “The five men who hurt them being burned alive in the barn. How did they do it?”
“I—I don’t know,” I answer him and he gauges my reaction. I add, “Maybe it wasn’t them?”
“They’re my only suspects. A murder of revenge. That’s my working theory. Five young women and men, all of whom have never stepped out of line in their lives. One night, they conspired and committed murder. How did they do it?” he questions me again.
“I can’t tell you.” I’m certain surprise colors my eyes when he looks at me. I’m not a cop or an investigator. I don’t know why people do the things they do. I’m shocked by weekly events here. I could only imagine what transpired that led to the fire that night.
“Someone helped them,” he concludes.
“Who would help them? The priest?” I take a guess, still confused and not completely on board with Walsh’s working theory.
“I don’t think so. I don’t understand how Father John plays into all this.” I can see the wheels turning in Walsh’s head, trying to piece together what happened.
“If it wasn’t the priest who helped them… then who?”
“Someone they see as a vigilante. That’s my theory.”
“A vigilante?” The longer I stand here talking to him, the more and more I feel insane. Or maybe he’s the one who’s lost it. My mind whirls with all the secrets I know and it makes it more difficult to pretend I don’t know what he’s getting at. He called Marcus a vigilante. Delilah wrote about it.
“Someone who wanted the men dead for a different reason. Someone who would benefit from the event occurring and make himself look like a hero in the process.”
“Who would want them dead?” I play along, pretending I don’t know what he’s implying.
“You know who.”
“I don’t understand. I’m afraid you have me at a loss,” I lie.
“Marcus. I’m sure you’ve heard of him. Everyone in this town has,” he comments and I feel my cheeks burn. For a moment, I doubt that I’ve held the secret of taking Delilah’s notebooks close enough. I question if he knows. Or is it just that he assumes everyone knows about Marcus? The way he looks at me, though… It feels like he knows I know all about him and all about Marcus.
“A girl is hurt, and not well. This man seeks her out, knowing he can get her to do unspeakable things in order to feel better. In order to feel like she got the justice she should have gotten from the legal system.”
I don’t want to know about any of this. I’m her caretaker and that’s the only reason I intervened. The words are there, ready to be spoken. Instead I find myself thinking and pray I swallow the thought quickly enough that the officer doesn’t see it written on my face. Is that what happened with Delilah?
I’m drained as I get to my loft and sag against the door. There’s not an ounce of me left to keep me upright. My keys jangle as I toss them on the counter.
I’m torn when it comes to Officer Walsh. What I read about him and what I saw tonight are at odds, painting contrasting mind pictures. I don’t know what to think about the man, but I can’t get what he said out of my head.
I find myself slipping into old habits, inserting myself between the business of powerful men with unjust causes just as easily as I sulk to my living room to gaze at the bouquet.
Some nights I’m numb from work. It’s a brutal reality to be submerged in. That’s why I told Seth I want to stay at my place after long shifts. He agreed. Nearly everything I suggested, he agreed with this morning. Technically, yesterday morning.
I sag into my sofa and then kick off my sneakers, one by one without untying them. Tonight, this exhaustion isn’t from work. It’s because I’m questioning my own ability to think straight.
How did I get to this point in my life where I constantly question my sanity and my judgment? When did it get this bad?
A knock at the door sounds, as if answering the question. The large black hands on the clock on the wall read 1:47. I’m hesitant to rise, but almost certain it’s Seth.
There’s no one else who should be here. For a moment, I question if I should get a knife. I don’t have a gun and as the doorknob rattles I curse myself for that.
“Laura,” Seth calls out before the door is cracked open and I let out a strangled breath. Thank fuck.
