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He nods, the sandwich clutched in his hand so hard I’m afraid he’ll squeeze it into a mash. It’s not like I put hours into it, it’s not a gourmet meal, but I’d hoped he’d like it. I want him to feel better, and try not to examine my feelings for him too closely.
I’m backing away, convinced he won’t say anything else, when I see something glint on the floor.
I bend and pick it up. It’s a silver chain with a delicate pendant. A swan? “What is this?”
I must have looked accusing because he glares at me. “I didn’t steal it, if that’s what you mean. I told you, it was my mom’s. They found it with her bones.”
Oh God. I’m so sorry. “Ross...”
He shakes his head. I hand over the pendant and he closes his fingers around it.
“Where is...?” I swallow. “Where is she buried?”
“She’s not. She’s evidence. I think her bones are in a morgue drawer somewhere.”
“I thought the case was closed.”
“They’re still looking into it, especially the other skeleton. They’re afraid...” He draws a shallow breath. “Afraid there might be more.”
“More bodies?”
He winces. “Yeah.” His voice is low and bitter, rasping like he’s smoked too much. He probably has. “The cops are still searching.”
Dear God. I don’t know what to say to that, what to feel. Horror at having lived so close to a disturbed, sick mind. Sorrow for Ross who was raised by the monster, by a man who took his mother away from him and tried to turn him into his own image.
He’s quiet too. When he shoves his hands into his pockets, something else falls out. He frowns down at it as if he doesn’t know what it is.
It’s a photo. Before he bends over to take it and thrust it back into his pocket, I get a brief impression of a woman with a child. His mouth seems to tremble.
“Who is that?” I whisper.
“None of your business,” he mutters, and I wince as if he’s pushed a rusty knife into my chest.
“Ross...”
“What else do you wanna see? Tell me. Wanna see where he kept his ax, the one he used to kill them?”
Is he serious?
He doesn’t wait for me to decide. He starts down the porch steps and cuts across the front garden.
I hurry after him. “Ross—”
“Wanted to see, huh? Maybe you wanna see the ax?” he asks roughly. “Maybe see the bones? Still thinking I stole that pendant?”
What’s gotten into him now? “I never thought you stole it. I didn’t know—”
“And now that you do know, what’s changed, huh? Once you’ve made up your mind about something, once you’ve believed it. Knowing the truth, can it change the past?”
The question throws me. It has so many layers. Is he asking me about our shared past, about himself? About his dad? Or am I reading too much into his words?
“Nothing to say?” He sneers a little, and I frown. He’s flushed, white lines of pain around his mouth. Why is he so angry?
I swallow hard as the shed comes into view. Evening is falling but it’s warm and sticky, insects buzzing in the rushes, mosquitos biting my bare shins. We’re at a bend of the Little River. In the distance, across the river, you can dimly see the Pagoda, a half-ruined mansion owned by a wealthy family who’s left it to fall apart, the Lesters.
Ross throws the door of the wooden shed open and I take a step back. No way am I going in there.
“Listen—” I start.
