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“Sylvia, I’m going to call 911. You’re going to be okay.”
Stroking her hair with one hand, I use the other to retrieve my cell phone and call the Thorncrest Police Station.
37
Rhett
Iam still cradling Sylvia when the cops arrive. It took them thirty minutes. Thirty damn minutes because they wouldn’t hike once they realized there was no vehicle access to the field. So, instead they called in two ATVs and stretcher.
I have mentally prepared myself to be thrown into handcuffs, tossed into the back of a squad car and taken to the station for questioning. It doesn’t happen. All eyes are on Sylvia as the male and female officers jog through the barn. They are covered in burrs and sweat, despite the cool temperature. A medic carrying a massive bag follows a second later.
The silence is shattered in an instant, replaced by rapid-fire questions and excited chatter between the first responders. Boots shuffle against the dirt, kicking hay into the air as they circle around Sylvia. Bags unzip. Someone gags at the dead carcass nearby. Flashlights bounce off the walls, intermittent beams of light flashing against Sylvia’s eyes.
Sylvia appears to become agitated at the sudden chaos. Her face squeezes as she shifts her body, grinding her tailbone into my lap. She won’t release me and luckily no one tries to take her from me.
“Miss Stone,” the medic says in a calm, soothing voice as he kneels next to her. He is a young kid, no more than thirty years old. Brown hair and a patchy beard on a boyish face. He visually scans her. Once satisfied that nothing needs immediate attention, he carefully tilts her head back and trickles water into her mouth. Sylvia grips the bottle and chugs the contents between spurting coughs and gags.
“That’s good. Let her drink,” the medic assures me when I attempt to reposition her into an upright position.
“Rhett Cohen, I assume?” The female officer squats next to me. She reminds me of a voluptuous 50’s pinup girl, with bleached blonde chin-length hair, a face caked in heavy makeup, and a look in her eye that suggests she doesn’t put up with shit.
I nod.
“I’m Officer Young, I understand you found her like this?”
“That’s right.”
“Okay, fill me in.”
The medic takes Sylvia from my lap, gently leans her up against the wall and begins taking her vitals. The young officer is taking pictures of the scene.
I open my mouth, but hesitate, not sure where to begin.
Just keep it simple,my former attorney’s voice whispers in my head. Simple is always best.
“The moment I heard Sylvia was missing,” I begin, “I went to her house, looking for her, to see if I could find anything that would help figure out where she was.” I decide it best to leave out the fact that I’d broken into her home using a hidden key I’d found under her plant. And so, by default, I also left out the disturbing discovery of Sylvia’s shrine to me in her nightstand.
“Find anything?” the officer asks.
“Yeah, actually. I checked her mailbox and found an envelope that looked like the ones she got weeks ago. Are you familiar with the case?”
“Slightly. Fill me in.”
“A few weeks ago, someone left four letters on Sylvia’s doorstep in the middle of the night. All of them are typed. The first three are of times that Sylvia believes corresponds with her mother’s death twenty years ago. The fourth letter contained one of her mom’s necklaces and a letter that read ‘you are next.’A threat, obviously. Officer Marino has the letters stored as evidence at the station and I understand Detective Stroud is lead on the case.”
Young nods, narrows her eyes. I can’t tell if she has realized that I am the man who was convicted of killing Sylvia’s mother.
“What did this fifth letter say?” she asks.
“It gave me coordinates to this location. That’s it.”
“Do you have it?”
“Yes, it’s in my truck.”
“Why didn’t you call the police when you found it?”
“I don’t trust them.”
