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I’m betting that the cut to the center of my foot is not a clean one. Under normal circumstances, there is no doubt this would warrant a trip to the ER. But with Eve locked in that room, and our houseguest God knows where, I don’t want to chance leaving her alone. That, and it’s my driving foot. Even if I could manage, it is one more variable I don’t need.
I take a deep breath in and hold it. Then I peel back the dish towel to take a peek at the damage.
Instantly I wish I hadn’t.
I can see bone. Trying to assess the depth, I poke around a little bit. The flesh looks like raw meat, red and angry. Unfortunately, I was right: it’s a jagged cut. Eve likes to go for the bread knives. With six attempted suicides under her belt, she’s hardly a novice.
They were supposed to be locked away and hidden, but I’m guessing she managed to sneak one past Joni yesterday as she prepared lunch.
It’s not so bad, I tell myself, opening and closing the slit down the center of my foot. I pull the skin together taut, until it meets and hold it in place. I’ll just grab my fishing kit, down a couple of drinks, and hope for the best. With a little luck, it’ll turn out like any other night.
After rewrapping my foot and securing the bandage in place, I hobble around the counter and flip on the monitor in Eve’s room. She walks in circles, fingers trailing the walls. When she reaches the door, she presses her ear to it and then jiggles the handle. Obviously, she knows it’s locked. Still, there is defeat written on her face.
As I survey the mess, I comb the cabinets in search of the alcohol. I’m going to have to clean the wound and wrap it, temporarily, before stitching it up, just until I can get this place cleaned and restored to normal. Once the drinks start, anything goes, and the last thing I want is for Joni to walk into this tomorrow morning. She’s seen a few things in her time, for sure, but nothing to this extent.
The following morning the doorbell rings early. Early enough that Joni hasn’t arrived, early enough that I haven’t even made it out of bed, much less downstairs. Liam’s car is parked in front of the cottage. He got back late; it was nearly 1:00 a.m. when his headlights pulled through the gate. I was still scrubbing the kitchen.
I can’t imagine he’d be coming over to borrow milk at this hour, nor is his work ethic favorable to such an early start, which is how I come to the conclusion that it isn’t him.
I’m not expecting anyone in particular, but I’m surely not expecting to open my front door to see uniformed officers staring back at me. Good God, what now?
They look like Harry and Moe from The Three Stooges. The scene would be almost comical if it weren’t so early and I weren’t as hung over as I am. I can see on their faces that I am not what they were expecting either.
“Morning, Mr. Dawson,” the shorter of the two says. He leans forward and balances on his toes before falling back on his heels.
Pulling my robe around me tightly, I tie it in place. I’m sore all over, like I’ve been hit by a freight train as opposed to my five foot two inch wife. I’d hardly managed to pull the robe around my shoulders when I swung the door open. Aside from it being haphazardly thrown over me, I’m shirtless and in boxer briefs. My hair stands on end, and my busted lip is caked in dry blood. If the officers take offense to my appearance, they’re good at not showing it. “We wanted to speak with you about a boy who has gone missing.”
“Goddamn it,” I say, looking past them, over their shoulders, out at the road. My mind flits to the kid with the dandelion. To his crooked smile and broken-down home. “Is he dead?”
The two exchange a glance.
“Why do you ask?”
I shake my head. “I just assumed that’s why you’re here.”
“Well, actually, we were hoping any information you can provide might help us determine his whereabouts.”
I should have done something when I had the chance. I shouldn’t have taken the kid back there. “Have you checked with his father?”
“We have. He shared with us that the boy had been upset over something you said.”
“Huh?”
“His father said there was some sort of misunderstanding…a joke or something that was made when you gave a talk at his school?”
Rubbing at my temples, I exhale. He continues. “His parents said he seemed to perk up not long after the incident. Other than that—”
“Other witnesses,” the tall cop pipes in, “have confirmed that you warned him he should be careful. Something about serial killers and whatnot.” He turns and looks around the yard. He clears this throat before turning back to me. “His father said the boy threatened to pay you a visit, he was that bothered.”
“Really?” I swallow hard. This is the last thing I need right now. I say a dozen Hail Marys and then silently pray that I’m still fast asleep in my bed upstairs and that this is all a dream. It’s the only thing that comes close to making any sense. In front of me stand two cops inquiring about a missing kid. And here I am assuming I know who they are talking about, because it would take both my hands to count the number of times I’ve found him on the highway and have taken him home, only to realize we aren’t even talking about the same kid.
The short guy looks at me all funny-like. “Mind if we come in?”
“Actually, yes.” I glance over my shoulder. “My wife is still asleep and, as you can see, I’m not dressed.”
The tall one fishes a card from his pocket. “Give me a call. We can set up a better time to chat.”
With a nod, I take the card from his hand. I’ve written enough crime fiction to know better than to say anything more than what has to be said.
