All the Dangerous Things(52)

“Okay,” Chief Montgomery says. “And around what time was that?”

I shrug. “Nine?”

“Did you get out of bed for any reason? To go to the bathroom maybe, or get a drink of water?”

I glance at my dad again, then immediately back down to my lap. “No. I was asleep the whole night.”

“Okay,” he says, nodding. “Okay, and what about Margaret? Did you see her get out of bed?”

“No,” I say again. “I was sleeping.”

“Did you hear anything?”

“No.”

“Not even through that window?”

I look up at the man; he’s pointing at the wall, my window, facing the marsh.

“No,” I say again. “It was closed.”

“Why was it closed? It’s hot in here.” He pulls a handkerchief out of his pocket and wipes his head, like he wants to emphasize the fact that he’s sweating. Immediately, I see little beads of it squeeze back to the surface, like his scalp is made of mesh. “Surely you could have used some breeze, right? And if the window was open, maybe you might have heard something in the water? Splashing or yelling?”

“No,” I say again. “It wasn’t open. I … don’t like the smell.”

Chief Montgomery nods. “Okay,” he says, the sweat trickling down his neck now. “Okay. And about what time did you get up this morning?”

I want to look at my dad again, but something tells me I shouldn’t keep doing that. That I should keep my eyes straight ahead, trained on the man in front of me.

“Seven?”

“Are you always such an early bird?”

“I guess.”

“And was Margaret awake when you got up?”

“I’m not sure.”

He shifts on the mattress, crossing his legs, and I don’t like the way the movement is making me slide closer to him again. Our legs are touching, and I want to scoot back, but at the same time, I’m afraid to move.

“Isabelle, I’m gonna need your help on this, okay? I hear you and your sister were close.”

I nod—were—and before I can look away, I feel a tear escape, making its way down my cheek. I lift my arm and wipe it away with the back of my hand.

“What happened this morning after you woke up? Is there anything unusual that you can remember? Anything at all out of place?”

I think about getting up, unsteady and slow, the overwhelming smell of the marsh in my bedroom that has since aired out. The water on the carpet that squished between my toes, now close to dry. Running into the bathroom, finding towels on my floor; towels that my dad picked up and dropped into the washing machine, tidying up behind him. The fact that I was wearing a different nightgown from the one I fell asleep in, or the dried mud I felt smeared behind my ear. I lift my hand now and touch that same little patch of skin. It’s clean. Before the police got here, I had scrubbed it raw. Erased the fingermarks like I had tried to erase the footsteps on my carpet.

Like if I could just make them disappear, it would mean that they were never even there to begin with.

“No,” I say at last. “Nothing out of place. I went downstairs, into the kitchen, and found my parents. And that’s when … that’s when they told me about Margaret. That she had an accident.”

“Okay.” He nods. “Okay, sweetheart, that’s all I need. You did great.”

He pats my knee with his hand before standing up and walking back toward my father. Then they both smile in my direction before stepping into the hallway and shutting the door behind them.

I stay seated for a while, staring at the wall in front of me, my heart pounding in my chest. I’ve never liked to lie. It always makes me feel so wrong, so ashamed, but earlier this morning, when Dad was walking me through it, he had said that sometimes a lie can be a good thing if it’s done for the right reasons.

It reminded me of a lie I told for Margaret once, sometime last year, after she had broken my mother’s crystal vase. She knew not to touch it—it was an antique; like so many other things in this house, off-limits—but she did it anyway, standing on a barstool on her tiptoes, reaching for it with outstretched hands. She had just picked Mom some flowers from outside, but before she could display them, her right foot slipped, sending the thing crashing down onto the tile, shattering everywhere. Mom was angry, of course—furious—but I knew Margaret didn’t mean it. She didn’t mean to break anything. So right then, in the middle of her scolding, I stepped forward and took the blame.

Maybe this was like that, I reason. A good lie. Maybe Dad wants me to lie to protect Margaret. But somehow, deep down, I know that’s not right. I know it’s not Margaret he’s protecting.

Somehow, I know that it’s me.





CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR


NOW

I can’t keep watching these videos—not after that visit from Dozier. I feel rattled, restless, like my veins have morphed into live wires buzzing with electrical charge.

I’m having a hard time processing everything he just told me: that that comment could’ve been a figment of my own imagination; that Paul Hayes lives alone. I suppose it’s possible he had company—that maybe that old man on his porch was visiting for the week, someone completely harmless—but still. Why was he sitting out there in the middle of the night? Why had he ignored me? Had he even seen that I was there?