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Who?
A crazy thought enters my head—
Is Sylvia protectingme? I recall her first words to the responding officers:“He didn’t do this.”Sylvia went on to repeat this proclamation many times over the course of her treatment.
I look to the staircase that leads to her bedroom, where a shrine to me lays hidden in her nightstand.
Have I missed something?
41
Rhett
It is 8:47 p.m., the coldest night of the season so far.
Sylvia has slept for over twenty-four hours, waking only a handful of times to eat, drink, and take her pain pills.
Sometimes I wonder if she is actually awake, only pretending to sleep.
The story has exploded. The daughter of the brutally slain Marjorie Stone is recovering from being kidnapped in the arms of the man convicted of killing her mother—the same man she, herself, testified against during the trial.
You can’t turn on the television without seeing my face.
It’s a real-life soap opera and the entire nation is drinking it up.
The crowd outside Sylvia’s home has doubled, despite Thorncrest PD’s occasional drive-bys. I feel like I’m trapped in a fish bowl, prying eyes watching my every move from all angles.
I don’t dare leave. I will be followed, and besides, where would I go? Also, if I’m being honest, I know that staying by Sylvia’s side looks good on me. Appearance is everything, after all—why would I have kidnapped her in a quest for revenge, then stay by her side and nurse her back to health? Makes no sense, right?
Then again, at this point, nothing does. Especially why Detective Stroudstillhasn’t shown up to interview Sylvia about her kidnapping.
I am growing increasingly uneasy, that feeling right before a severe thunderstorm hits. Like something building, soon to erupt.
I am peering at the crowd through a slit in the window when my cell phone buzzes from the fireplace mantel. I’d almost forgotten I had it.
“Hello?”
“Rhett, it’s Billy. How’re you holding up?”
“Holding up’s about it.”
“I heard the crowd outside her house has doubled since last night. You still there?”
“Yeah.”
“You’re welcome to come to my house if you need to, or come back to the shop and hang out in the office if you just need to get away.”
“Thanks but I’m alright. What’s up?”
“Gossip. Dr. Harris Taylor is awake.”
“Is he talking?”
“Oh yeah. Says he didn’t fall, claims he was pushed down the stairs—and get this: Says he didn’t see the guy’s face but remembers seeing a glimpse of a Celtic cross on the guy’s arm who pushed him.”
My jaw drops. “Detective Stroud.”
“Yep. Here’s the deal though: Chief Hernandez isn’t going to arrest Stroud on that alone. Lots of people have cross tattoos and what’s to say Harris’s memory is correct. My thoughts? I don’t think the chief will even question Stroud. Those two are thick as thieves.”
