A Flicker in the Dark(23)

“WHO ARE YOU?” I had screamed, my little fists balled up by my sides. I was so sick of our lives being put on display. Of people treating us like we weren’t human, weren’t real. He had swung around then, stared at me with wide eyes and hands raised, like he hadn’t even considered the fact that people still lived here. Turned out, he was just a kid, too. Barely even older than me.

“Nobody,” he had stammered. “I’m—I’m nobody.”

We had become so used to it—to intruders and prowlers and threatening phone calls—that when we heard the bell politely ring that morning, we were almost more afraid to know who was behind that thick slab of cedar, patiently waiting for us to invite them inside.

“Mom,” I had said, my eyes drifting from the door to her. She was sitting at the kitchen table, her hands woven between her thinning hair. “Are you gonna get that?”

She had looked at me, confused, as if my voice were something foreign, the words no longer intelligible. Every day, her appearance seemed to change. Wrinkles etching themselves deeper into her sagging skin, dark shadows smeared beneath her eyes, bloodshot and worn. Finally, she stood up wordlessly and peered out the small, circular window. The creak of the hinges; her soft, startled voice.

“Oh, Theo. Hi. Come in.”

Theodore Gates—my father’s defense attorney. I watched as he walked into our house with his slow, lumbering footsteps. I remember his shiny briefcase, the thick, gold band stretched across his wedding finger. He had smiled at me, sympathetic, but I had grimaced back. I didn’t understand how he could sleep at night, defending what my father had done.

“Can I get you some coffee?”

“Sure, Mona. Yeah, that would be great.”

My mother stumbled around the kitchen, clanking the ceramic mug against the tile counter. That coffee had been sitting in the pot for three straight days and I watched as she poured it, absentmindedly spinning a spoon in circles even though she hadn’t poured in any creamer to mix. Then she handed it to Mr. Gates. He took a small sip, clearing his throat, before placing it back down on the table and sliding it away with his pinkie.

“Listen, Mona. I have some news. I wanted you to hear it from me first.”

She was silent, staring out the small window situated above our kitchen sink, tinted green with mildew.

“I got your husband a plea deal. A good one. He’s going to take it.”

She had snapped her head up then, as though his words had clipped a rubber band that had been stretched tight down the back of her neck.

“Louisiana has the death penalty,” he said. “We cannot risk that.”

“Kids, upstairs.”

She looked at Cooper and me, still sitting on the living room rug, my finger picking at the burnt hole from where my father’s pipe had landed. We obeyed, standing up and skulking silently past the kitchen and up the stairs. But when we reached our bedroom doors, we closed them, loudly, before tiptoeing back toward the bannister, taking a seat on the top step. And then we listened.

“You can’t possibly think they’d give him death,” she had said, her voice a whisper. “There’s barely any evidence. No murder weapon, no bodies.”

“There is evidence,” he had said. “You know that. You’ve seen it.”

She sighed, the kitchen chair screeching as she pulled it back and took a seat herself.

“But you think that’s enough for … death? I mean, we’re talking the death penalty, Theo. That’s irreversible. They can’t be sure, beyond a reasonable doubt—”

“We’re talking six murdered girls, Mona. Six. Physical evidence found inside your home, eyewitness testimony confirming that Dick had been in contact with at least half of ’em in the days prior to their disappearance. And there are stories now, Mona. I’m sure you’ve heard them. About Lena not being the first one.”

“Those stories are total speculation,” she said. “There is no evidence to suggest that he was responsible for that other girl.”

“That other girl has a name,” he spat. “You should say it out loud. Tara King.”

“Tara King,” I had whispered, curious as to how it would feel on my lips. I had never heard of a Tara King before. Cooper’s hand shot out to the side, slapping my arm.

“Chloe.” My name hissed through his teeth. “Shut up.”

The kitchen was silent—my brother and I held our breath, waiting for my mother to appear at the base of the stairs. But instead, she kept talking. She must not have heard.

“Tara King was a runaway,” she said at last. “She told her parents she was leaving. She left a note almost a year before any of this started. It doesn’t fit the pattern.”

“That doesn’t matter, Mona. She’s still missing. Nobody has heard from her, and the jury is seething. They’re thinking with their emotions on this one.”

She was silent, refusing to respond. I couldn’t see into the room, but I could picture it—her, sitting there, her arms crossed tightly. Her gaze somewhere far away, and getting farther. We were losing my mother, and we were losing her fast.

“It’s tough, you know. With a case this sensationalized,” Theo said. “His face already plastered across the television. People have made up their minds, no matter what we argue.”