All the Dangerous Things(57)

I told Waylon I had a stomach bug. That was my excuse for missing lunch—and my excuse for locking myself in my bedroom all day, pretending to sleep it off.

I want to talk to him, I do. I need to hear his lie about visiting Dozier at the police station, try to work out what it is that he’s doing here. What he wants. But I need to figure out my strategy first. I need to figure out how I’m going to respond; if I’m going to confront him, demand answers, or simply play dumb, keep up the charade, and see where it takes me.

I grabbed my laptop as soon as I got home, slipping quietly into my room and crawling into bed, biding my time. Listening to the sound of him tiptoeing around the house on his own: the flush of the toilet, a cleared throat. I could sense him outside my bedroom door on occasion, hovering; I pictured his hand floating above my doorknob, considering whether or not he should knock before deciding, finally, to pull it back and walk away. I can’t help but wonder what he’s been doing with free rein of my home: sifting through my mail, maybe, or poking around in the trash. Trying to steal an intimate look into my life by analyzing which brand of condiments I buy or what appointments I have scrawled in my calendar.

People tend to stash their dirtiest secrets in the most common of places.

All the while, I’ve been watching more recordings from Mason’s baby monitor, methodically working my way through each day. I’ve seen myself a few more times, moseying into his nursery in the middle of the night: stopping, staring. But that’s it. I don’t move any closer than mid-room; I don’t do anything other than just stand there, swaying a little, until at some point, I turn around and walk back out.

It’s around two in the morning in the video I’m watching now, and there I am again: standing in a pair of waffle-knit pajamas, arms rigid at my sides, long hair flowing over my shoulders like snarled seaweed. It’s unsettling, seeing me there. My sleepwalking caught on camera. But so far, I haven’t done anything alarming. Every time I see myself walk inside, I feel my stomach clench; but then, every time I turn around and walk back out, it relaxes again, like a muscle being pricked with a needle.

Eventually, I start to wonder if maybe they’re right. All of them. Detective Dozier accusing me of inventing clues where they don’t exist; Dr. Harris saying it’s normal. I’m normal.

I start to wonder if maybe this is perfectly harmless. Maybe I have nothing to worry about after all.

I hear a sound from the living room and hit Pause, my body on screen frozen in time. It’s the creak of the couch as Waylon stands up, turns off the TV, and tosses the remote onto the cushions. It’s late now, well after midnight, and I hear him walk down the hall, past my bedroom and into the guest room, shutting the door behind him.

I hold my breath, listening. Hearing the shuffle of his feet next door, the flick of the light switch. The squeak of the springs as he climbs into bed. I imagine him pulling the covers over his chest, his body growing heavy, relaxing into the mattress.

And then I wait.

After twenty minutes, I slide out of bed and pad across the room toward the door. Roscoe perks up, and I hold out my hand, silencing him before he can make a noise. Then I push my ear to the wood, listening some more. I hear no signs of life; no noises coming from his room.

Only then do I decide that it’s safe.

I open my door and creep into the hallway, the house completely dark. Roscoe jumps from the bed and we walk into the kitchen together. Everything looks normal—there’s a single bowl hanging upside down in the drying rack, traces of Waylon’s solitary dinner; the vague scent of citrus from my dish soap lingering in the air—until I glance into the dining room, my eyes landing on the table. Waylon’s laptop and recording equipment are set up the way they were before; just beneath it, his briefcase leans up against the wooden table leg.

My eyes dart over to my closed guest room door, then back to the table.

I creep over to it, easing myself into a chair in the dark. Then I lean over and grab his briefcase, hoisting it onto my lap. Thankfully, it isn’t the kind that locks, so I open the flap and peer inside. There’s a notebook; a few folders full of papers. I grab his wallet and flip it open, eying his driver’s license.

At least he wasn’t lying about his name. I had Googled him, of course, but the proof is right here—Waylon Spencer—along with his picture and an Atlanta address.

I flip the wallet closed, toss it back into the briefcase, and grab a handful of folders next. I open the first one and realize it’s the case file I gave him just last week. Everything seems to be there—undisturbed, untouched—so I move on to the next one, flip it open, and freeze.

It’s another copy of Mason’s case file. But this one looks much, much older.

I pull the file out and place it on the table, my fingers tracing their way down the fraying edges. There are pen marks and coffee stains; notes scribbled in the margins and sections highlighted with dried-out markers. There’s the MISSING poster and the interview transcripts; the sex offender registry and crime scene photos. It’s obvious that he’s pored over it; read every word—not only once, but multiple times. I continue to flick through the pages, my eyes scanning all the same things Waylon had seen that first day in my dining room, acting as if he were taking it all in for the very first time.

Suddenly, I remember the way he had tried to hand it back to me, like he didn’t even need it.