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I slide the door shut behind us and take a deep breath, trying to steady the shaking in my hands. It’s muggy out tonight, a stifling damp in the air that hints at impending rain. Roscoe sniffs around, his senses in overdrive after an entire day stuck indoors, and I guess mine are, too, because everything seems to be somehow intensified tonight, like I’m looking at the world through a microscope. I canhear the unified croak of the toads in the marsh a few blocks east; the cicadas, nature’s white noise, suddenly deafening in my ears.
I pace around a bit, my eyes adjusting to the dark, and think.
Waylon is looking into Mason’s case, that much is the truth, but it seems like he’s been looking into it for far longer than I thought—and more than that, it seems like he’s looking intome. The case file and recordings are one thing, but the pictures and article seem to be something else entirely. It seems more personal, more targeted.
All I know is I can’t trust him anymore. I can’t trust him to help.
I need to start finding some answers on my own now, without him, and suddenly, my neck snaps up. I have an idea.
I walk over to Mason’s window and move a little to the right, to the exact spot that I had seen peeking out between the trees as I sat in that rocking chair just four days ago. I realize now that if Paul Hayes can see into my backyard from his porch, then that means, standing in the right spot, I should be able to see his porch from here, too. I look across my backyard, past the fence, through the gap in the foliage, and squint. It’s dark outside, but I have the light from the moon, the stars glowing bright against a cloudless sky. There’s a streetlight near his house, the one that shines almost directly onto his porch, and that’s when I see it: a subtle alteration in the air like the shifting of a shadow or the gentle sway of a rocking chair.
He’s there.
Moving quickly, I let Roscoe inside and shut him in my bedroom, grabbing my cell phone and leaving again through the front door. Then I walk around the block, making my way toward 1742 Catty Lane.
I approach the house, my heart beating hard in my chest, and think about Dr. Harris’s words.
Hallucinations, delusions.
I think about what Detective Dozier told me just this morning: that Paul Hayes lives alone. I think about that comment I had seen—that IthoughtI had seen—and how, suddenly, it was no longer there. But was it even there to begin with? Honestly, I’m not sure anymore. I’m not sure about anything ever since I saw myself on that laptop screen, standing over Mason’s crib in the dark. I don’t know what I’ll do if I get to Paul’s house and find that the porch is empty; if that rocking chair is just moving on its own, being pushed by the phantom legs of the breeze. I can’t really stand to think about it. But the closer I get, the more confident I feel: He’s there. I can see him so clearly, staring straight into the void. That same weathered face, old, like leather left out in the sun; bulging eyes like cloudy marbles.
This man, whoever he is, feels like my best shot right now. My only shot.
I slow down once I reach the porch, casting Dozier’s warning to stay away into the recesses of my mind. Then I turn to face him, clearing my throat.
“Hi,” I begin, suddenly unsure of what to say next. “We met on Wednesday night, when I was walking my dog. Do you remember?”
The man continues to stare, still in that same bathrobe, his hands clenching the armrests. They are so boney, so frail. I’m about to open my mouth again, prod him some more, when slowly, his gaze turns toward mine.
“Oh, yes,” he says, his voice soft and wet. “I remember.”
I exhale, smiling weakly. I knew this man was real. Iknewhe was. Suddenly, I feel ridiculous for even doubting it.
“I hope you don’t mind. I know it’s late, but I just wanted to ask you a few questions. I tried stopping by during the day on Friday, but—”
“We didn’t meet on Wednesday,” he says. His voice is so fragile, so quiet, I have to take a few steps forward, straining to hear. “You seem to be the one who doesn’t remember. Or maybe you’d just like me to forget.”
I take another step forward, confusion settling over me.
“I’m sorry… have we met?” I ask. “I can’t seem to place you—”
The man continues to rock, his eyes back on the street again. I catch a quick twitch in his lips, and I wonder if maybe he’s senile.
“Lots of times,” he says, and although his voice is soft, it seems entirely lucid. He doesn’t seem confused. “You’re Isabelle Drake.”
The shock of hearing my name on his lips, myfullname, causes me to stumble a bit, as if the words themselves had reached out and shoved my shoulders back. It is entirely possible that he knows who I am—after all, the whole town knows who I am—but this seems to be more than that.
The way he says it feels like I should know who he is, too.
“When have we met?” I ask now, eying him carefully. “I really don’t think we have.”
“Couple years ago,” he says. “You used to walk by at night.”
I can feel my eyes widen as I try to make sense of what he’s saying. I never used to take Roscoe for walks at night; that just started recently, after Mason was taken. After Ben moved out. After I stopped sleeping.
“I’m sorry, I think you’re mistaken—”
“No, I’m not.” He shakes his head before letting out a low, wet cough. “You live right there.” He nods his head in the direction of my house, then looks back at me. “I may be old, girl, but I’m not crazy.”
