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Waits for me to concede
I’ve got this hunger in me now
Who knew poison could be so sweet?
Is this how it started for him?
I told myself I’d never be like him. Promised
The sins of fathers can never be paid
So long as their blood still flows in our veins
FUCJIFNSHAJSJSJSJAJAJA
Izzy. Izzy. Izzy. IZZY.
Living from one tomorrow to the next
I’ll be better
I’ll be better
Promises to keep
AGE 19, JULY
Wet gravel crunches and kicks out from under my feet when I jump out of Waylon’s car.
I slam the door shut before he can so much as shift into park, much less kill the engine.
“Hey, hold up!” he calls out in his scramble after me, followed by another slam of the door echoing into the eerily quiet evening. Not even crickets can be heard.
It’s no longer raining, like it was earlier, but the scent of it lingers on the air, mingling with the damp earth and something sweeter, something unnamable, something that thickens my throat and squeezes my chest.
I don’t slow my strides, and Waylon’s sneakers skid off the broken pavement as he jogs to catch up with me.
My heart pounds, the heavy sound of it filling my ears until it’s all I can hear.
Time slows down to a crawl as my gaze homes in and lingers on the unmarked black car with tinted windows parked parallel to the front porch. I can just make out a man in a suit in the passenger side when I round the hood. He’s on his phone, and lifts his head when he spots me. I don’t slow, and he doesn’t make any move to get out of the car, or so much as nod in acknowledgment.
He looks vaguely familiar. But honestly, all the detectives look the same to me.
Except for Morris. The lead investigator on the case, who we first met in Florida. And the reason Waylon and I dropped everything to get over here the second Jeremy sent me a single, three-worded text:
Morris is here
It’s been a while since he made a house call. Months, maybe even a year since I last actually saw the face belonging to the name that never fails to fill me with equal parts dread and hope when I hear it, or see it flash across my phone when returning my calls.
Not that he calls me back all that often…
And from what I’ve gathered when harassing Ray for updates, even his calls to the Montgomerys have been getting more and more infrequent as time goes on.
One year and ten months and five days.
That’s how long now Isobel Montgomery has been missing. And not a single clue or lead since.
No news means good news.
