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“The case was going on thirty years,” he continues after a prolonged silence. “The family hadnoanswers. I mean, none. No clue what happened. But we were able to find out.”
“And what happened?”
He looks at me, finally, an apology in his eyes.
“She died,” he says in matter-of-fact numbness. “She was taken by a town crossing guard. Kept in his basement for a few months before he killed her and buried her in the woods.”
I swallow, my eyes darting over to the window, in the direction of my neighbor’s house.
“How did you find him?”
“We found a witness,” Waylon says, pouring himself a glass now, too. “Another kid who actually saw her get taken. He was terrified at the time—he was, like, seven—so he never came forward. I talked to everybody in that town,everybody, and finally, I found him.”
“So, what, the cops just believed the thirty-year-old testimony of a second-grader?”
“No,” he says, sighing. “But I gave them the tip, and they wereable to get a warrant. They searched his house—Guy Rooney, was his name. He’d been living in the same place his entire adult life, ever since he got divorced in the seventies, and they found some of her…things… in his basement. Things he was keeping.”
I nod, chewing on the inside of my cheek, still staring out the window. The sky is beginning to morph colors now, a slathering of black and blue, like a juicy bruise.
“He confessed on the spot,” Waylon continues. “Brought the cops to the woods, almost like he was relieved to get caught. Get it off his chest. All those years later, he remembered exactly where she was. Where he buried her.”
“And nobody had any idea?” I ask. “That that was going on in his house?”
“None at all,” Waylon says. “That’s what’s so terrifying. He and his ex were on great terms, co-parented their kids. She evens remembers being over there once and noticing that the basement door was padlocked. The girl was probably still down there… but, you know, she never thought anything of it.”
I shudder, trying not to wonder what would be worse: no resolution to Mason’s case, or a resolution like that. The story makes me even more curious about my neighbor and that man on his porch; there has to be a reason why he seemed so guarded this morning. Why he didn’t want me going near his house. Why they both refused to speak to me, and why he was at the vigil on Monday, watching from a distance.
“But that’s enough about that,” Waylon continues, changing the subject. “Let’s eat first. I hope you like chicken marsala. It’s my specialty.”
“You have a specialty?” I ask, finally tipping my glass back and taking a drink. I’m still trying to figure out how to introduce the topic of my neighbor; I know that without any concrete evidence, a spot on the registry, or even a name, it’s really nothing more than a feeling at this point. An instinct. “Don’t ask me to cook for you,then. My specialty is spaghetti. Chicken nuggets when I’m feeling fancy.”
Waylon looks at me and smiles, but it’s a sad kind of smile. He’s thinking of Mason, I’m sure. The types of dinners I used to make for him: cut-up hot dogs and Kraft macaroni and cheese, tiny little finger foods served on plastic trays with cubby holes meant to keep them from touching.
“Family recipe, I should say,” he continues. “I can’t take too much credit. I’m Italian.”
“Italian,” I repeat, fidgeting with the glass. “I’m not quite sure what I am, to be honest. Southern? Does that count?”
“I think it does.” He grabs a skillet and shakes it around a bit, filling the kitchen with the aroma of garlic and olive oil, oregano and shallots and salt. “Your family has always been from around here, then?”
I look up at him. Every time he mentions my past, my family, it’s in such a casual manner—like he doesn’t care about getting to know the story, but instead, he just cares about getting to know me. I can’t tell if it’s genuine yet, if hereallydoesn’t know, or if he’s just good at faking. I’d like to find out.
“Yeah,” I say. “Though I’m sure you already knew that.”
He looks thrown off, like he’s about to apologize, but before he can, I let out a laugh and take another sip.
“I’m teasing. Yes, born and raised in Beaufort. My dad, too, and his dad, and his dad. As far back as it can go, I think. The Rhetts were like royalty in that town.”
I’m sure he catches thewere,the intentional use of past tense, but he doesn’t ask.
“What brought you to Savannah?”
“I came because of a job,” I say, sinking deeper into my chair. I’m getting comfortable now, the easy back-and-forth of conversation in my own home something that has felt so far gone lately, so foreign. I’ve missed it. “But I stayed because of a boy, as stupid as that sounds.”
“Ben?”
“Yes, Ben.”
“How did you two get together?”
