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I’ve been sitting in my bed all night, that image from the laptop branded into my mind: me, grabbing Mason out of his crib in the dark. Holding him tight against my chest as he wriggled and writhed, that little stuffed dinosaur still clutched in his fingers.
I’ve been thinking about that old man’s twitchy smile and cloudy eyes as he stared straight into mine, daring me to remember.
I creep out of my bedroom slowly, hesitantly, like a drunk emerging from slumber after a boisterous, bleary night.
“Morning,” Waylon says, tipping his mug at me. “Did you get some sleep?”
“Yeah,” I lie, avoiding his eyes. “Sorry about last night. Disturbing you.”
“Don’t be. Are you feeling better?”
I ignore him, grabbing the pot and pouring myself a mug, pushing my palms into the warmth so hard it hurts. Then I walk into the living room and join him on the couch, pulling my legs beneath me like a toddler.
“So, can we talk about it now?”
Waylon laughs, placing his mug on a coaster as he shakes his head slowly.
“Getting right to it, huh?”
“Well, that is why you’re here, isn’t it? To help me find my son?”
There’s a flutter of something behind his expression: that millisecond of preparation that always presents itself just before someone steels themselves to lie. It’s easy to spot, as long as you know where to look: the tension in the jaw, the hardening of the eyes. It disappears just as quickly as it came, but still. It was there.
“Of course it is,” he says, leaning back and picking up his mug again, fidgeting. “I just thought you’d want a second to wake up first.”
“I’m just curious, is all. It seems like you’ve had more luck with Dozier in a week than I have in a year.”
“Sometimes fresh blood helps.”
“I see that.”
Waylon looks at me, his fingers pulling at a fraying thread on the couch.
“He told me he’d be open to letting me listen to some interview recordings, maybe use a few for the show,” he says at last. “I’ve read the transcripts, anyway.”
He takes a sip of his coffee and smacks his lips, clearly satisfied with his answer. And that much is true, I suppose—only he’s omitting the fact that he already has them.
“Which interviews?” I ask. My cup is still untouched, steaming in my hands.
“I’m not sure yet. There are days of footage to sift through. I’m going to swing by later. Pick them up.”
I nod, remembering those entire afternoons spent in the police station. The empty water bottles at my feet and my tired reflection in the mirror on the wall, feeling the eyes of all the people behind it, watching. Remembering my voice from last night, leaking through the headphones like marsh water rushing through a cracked window. An open mouth.
“Can I come with you?” I ask.
“I’m not sure that would be a good idea.”
“Why not?”
Waylon exhales, pushing coffee-scented breath out through his lips.
“Look,” he says at last, crossing one leg over the other. “I really appreciate everything you’ve done here… letting me stay at your place, how cooperative you’ve been. It’s been above and beyond.”
“But?”
“But,”he repeats, steeling himself, “I don’t want the integrity of the podcast to be at risk.”
“Theintegrity—”
