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“It’s no problem,” Waylon says, kneeling down to let him sniff his fingers. Once he stands back up and steps inside, I watch as he glances around, taking everything in.
“Beautiful home.”
“Thank you.”
“Is this where you’ve always lived?”
I know what he’s asking, masking it in polite formalities. He wants to know if this is where it happened, where Mason was taken.
“We moved here about seven years ago.”
I see him drink in the living room again, his eyes searching for any evidence ofwe. Men’s shoes kicked off by the doormat, maybe, or a baseball cap resting on the island. Family photos of the happy couple, Mason nestled snugly between us.
He doesn’t find anything.
“My husband moved out,” I say, clenching my fists. I’m not wearing my ring, either. I was when we met that day on the plane, but Ididn’t think about it this time. After all, a podcast is only audio. “This whole thing is hard, you know, on a relationship.”
Waylon gives me a sad smile, like he’s trying to understand. “I’m sorry.”
“Would you like some coffee?”
I take off into the kitchen because I don’t know what else to do. Without the mask of the dim restaurant lights or the three glasses of wine to further dull my senses, I feel suddenly exposed here in my home. Like Waylon is not only looking at me, but through me, seeing all the dark and dangerous things coiled up on the inside.
“No, I’m fine,” he calls out from the living room. I’m already topping off my own cup, hands shaking. “I’ve had a few today. Any more and I won’t be able to sleep.”
I stifle a snort. If only he knew.
“You can put your things down over there.” I gesture to the dining room, where I’ve cleared off the usual clutter from the table. “There’s an outlet if you need to plug in your equipment.”
“Do you mind if I poke around first?” he asks. “With podcasts, description is important since the listeners can’t actually see what I’m talking about.”
I stare at him, my hands pushed hard into my mug. He wants to see Mason’s room. He wants togo insideMason’s room.
“Or we can just get started,” he continues, sensing my hesitation. “Why don’t we do that?”
I smile, nod, and make my way over to the dining room table. Waylon follows, and I can almost feel the intake of air as he turns the corner, silently processing what’s staring back.
“Wow,” he says at last, standing before that wall of pictures. His eyes are wide, like he’s admiring some abstract work of art. “You did all this yourself?”
I shoot him a self-conscious smile. “I have a lot of time on my hands.”
He nods, letting himself stare for another few seconds before settingdown his case and opening the latches, his eyes occasionally darting back over to the mess of articles and pictures as he pulls out his equipment: two microphones with attachable pop screens, two pairs of headphones. A miniature stereo, battery pack, various coils and cables that he proceeds to untangle and plug into different-colored outlets. Within minutes, there’s an entire sound studio set up in my dining room.
“I know it seems intimidating, but I promise, it’s not,” Waylon says. He hands me a pair of headphones, and I take them from him, surprised at their unexpected weight. “It’s just for sound quality. It removes background noise like the air-conditioning, cars honking. Dogs barking.”
He smiles at me and winks, and I smile back, disarmed a little, before putting the headphones on until the padded leather is snug around my ears. Waylon puts on his own and leans into the microphone.
“Check, check.”
His voice is crystal clear, like he’s speaking to me through a tunnel. The sound is amplified and crisp, and I can’t help but be surprised.
“That makes a big difference,” I say, speaking into mine.
“Sure does.” He flicks a switch on the stereo, and I notice now that there’s a green light blinking. “So, Isabelle Drake, thank you for having me in your home today.”
“You’re welcome,” I say again, aware now that the conversation has officially started. That whatever was saidbefore, when this light wasn’t blinking, wasn’t being recorded—so, therefore, didn’t count.
“I’m sure all of you know Isabelle’s story,” Waylon says, leaning into the microphone, that familiar voice taking on a more official tone. “But for those uninformed few, here it is: Isabelle’s son, Mason, was taken from his nursery in the middle of the night exactly one year ago. His case is still unsolved.”
