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I creep over to it, easing myself into a chair in the dark. Then I lean over and grab his briefcase, hoisting it onto my lap. Thankfully, it isn’t the kind that locks, so I open the flap and peer inside. There’s a notebook; a few folders full of papers. I grab his wallet and flip it open, eying his driver’s license.
At least he wasn’t lying about his name. I had Googled him, of course, but the proof is right here—Waylon Spencer—along with his picture and an Atlanta address.
I flip the wallet closed, toss it back into the briefcase, and grab a handful of folders next. I open the first one and realize it’s the case file I gave him just last week. Everything seems to be there—undisturbed, untouched—so I move on to the next one, flip it open, and freeze.
It’s another copy of Mason’s case file. But this one looks much, much older.
I pull the file out and place it on the table, my fingers tracing their way down the fraying edges. There are pen marks and coffee stains;notes scribbled in the margins and sections highlighted with dried-out markers. There’s theMISSINGposter and the interview transcripts; the sex offender registry and crime scene photos. It’s obvious that he’s pored over it; read every word—not only once, but multiple times. I continue to flick through the pages, my eyes scanning all the same things Waylon had seen that first day in my dining room, acting as if he were taking it all in for the very first time.
Suddenly, I remember the way he had tried to hand it back to me, like he didn’t even need it.
“Keep it,”I had said. “I have my own copy.”
Apparently, so did he.
“Why does he have this?” I whisper, feeling the worn paper between my fingers. Why would he have his own copy? I suppose it’s notimpossible—journalists can always get their hands on these things—but why wouldn’t he tell me? Why would he pretend?
I think back to that first recorded conversation again—how I had repeated myself, telling him things he already knew, and the way he had been so convincing. Asking the exact same questions with feigned curiosity; nodding his head, eyebrows bunched, like he didn’t already know the answers I was about to repeat.
He’s a good liar, just like me.
I close the folder and stuff it back into his briefcase, placing it on the floor in the same spot as before. Then I pick up the headphones and place them snug over my ears. I can hear my heartbeat pounding loudly, my breath heavy and hoarse. I look down at the stereo and pressPlay, starting whatever recording he was just listening to in the exact spot where he left it.
“That seems hard for me to fathom.”
I feel a punch in my gut—I know that voice. It’s Detective Dozier, and already, I know whose voice I’m going to hear next.
“Well, it’s the truth.”
It’s mine.
This isn’t my conversation with Waylon. He isn’t editing anythingwe’ve worked on together. This is an interview recording from the police station. This is one of the early ones; one of the very first when they had separated Ben and me.
When I had been questioned—no,interrogated—alone.
“All right, let’s go over this one more time.”Dozier’s voice leaks through the speakers and into my ears, sending a familiar chill down my spine. I can still picture his eyes—those eyes that were so calloused and hard. So disbelieving. I can still see the way he was leaning against the table between us, drumming his fingers across the wood in a calm, steady rhythm. Like he had all the time in the world.“You woke up at six o’clock.”
“Yes, that’s correct.”
“And you didn’t think to check on your son until after eight?”
“I… I thought he was still sleeping. I didn’t want to disturb him.”
“Does he always sleep until eight?”
“No… no, usually he wakes up earlier.”
I flinch at the sound of my own voice. I can hear it shaking, a little tremble in my throat.
“What time does he usually wake up?”
“Around six thirty.”
“And you didn’t think it was strange that you didn’t hear a peep from his room at all? Almost two hours after he’s normally up?”
“I was just hoping, I guess, that maybe he was sleeping in.”
“And why were you hoping he was sleeping in?”
