All the Dangerous Things(59)

My hand hovers over my open mouth, shock bolting me in place.

Suddenly, I hear a creak from the guest room and I jump, twisting around fast. I half expect Waylon to be standing behind me, watching me in the dark, but still, I’m alone. I hold my breath, my eyes on his closed door, imagining his unconscious body flipping over on the old mattress and sinking in deep, making the box spring groan.

Finally, after a few seconds, it feels safe enough turn back around.

I click out of the Research folder, ready to shut the laptop and leave it just as it was, until I decide to check one more thing. I launch a browser window and navigate to his Search History next, knowing I only have a few more minutes, and quickly skim down the list of his most recently viewed websites. Most of them are innocent—email, news—until I come across the same TrueCrimeCon article I had been reading last week.

I suppose it isn’t unbelievable that Waylon would be reading it—he is working on my case, after all, and he was there—but now, I think about that comment again.

He’s in a better place.

It disappeared just after our first meeting together: before our dinner at Framboise, it was there, but when I got home, it wasn’t. I file the thought away and keep skimming, getting ready to call it quits, when all of a sudden, I can feel the air exit my lungs.

This is it. This is the more I was looking for.

It’s an article from The Beaufort News, my hometown newspaper. Waylon was reading it recently, just yesterday, and my hands shake as I click on the link and watch as it loads. The article is old, scanned and archived from 1999, and I feel a prickle of tears as the headline appears.

DAUGHTER OF CONGRESSMAN HENRY RHETT

TRAGICALLY DROWNS IN MARSH





CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT


THEN

I hear the slam of a door and leap from my bed, run down the hall, and lean over the staircase. I can see them through the front door window: Dad and Chief Montgomery, huddled close on the porch, talking. Then I run back up the stairs, two at a time, and unlatch the window at the front of the house, pushing it open slowly.

“I appreciate you doing this, Henry. I know it wasn’t easy.”

A warm blast of early afternoon air hits me along with the chief’s slippery voice, traveling through the hall like oil on water. I crouch down low and listen.

“Yeah, sure, no problem,” Dad says, exhaling. I can’t see his face, but I imagine his thumb and forefinger rubbing the bridge of his noise, the way he does when he’s stressed out or deep in thought. “I know you’re just doing your job.”

“I’ll write up the official report later today,” he says. “Accidental drowning.”

“Thank you.”

“And Henry…” The chief stops, hesitates, like he’s not sure if he should continue. Like he’s overstepping some kind of boundary, blurring the lines between personal and professional. Finally, he exhales, decides to push forward. “I’m so sorry about all of this. Your family … you’re good people. All of you. You’ve been through hell.”

I hear my dad sniff as a little wet choke erupts from his throat. The sound makes me uncomfortable. I don’t think I’ve ever heard my dad cry before; he’s never even come close.

“Thank you,” he says again, clearing his throat.

“It’s not your fault,” the chief continues. “Over four hundred kids under the age of six drown in pools every year, mostly in June, July, and August. It’s hot, Henry. Hotter’n hell.”

My dad is quiet, but I can picture him nodding along, dabbing at his eyes with the handkerchief he keeps stuffed in his back pocket.

“Your air-conditioning is out. She probably just thought she’d take a dip, cool off. Outgoing tide could have swept her up quick.”

“Yeah,” my dad says. “Yeah, I know.”

I slide the window shut and walk slowly back to my bedroom, feeling a daze settle over me as I process what I just heard. It makes sense, their story. It is hot, Margaret was hot, complaining about it constantly. I remember her in the studio, the sweat dripping from her neck and her cheeks a fiery red. I remember her in that bath, ice water prickling her skin. She had asked to sleep outside, looked longingly out that window, ached for the wind whipping off the water to bring her some sense of comfort, of relief—but still, I know it’s a lie. I know Dad is lying, because Margaret never would have wandered out there alone: deciding to take to the marsh, submerge herself in the water until she was too deep to turn back. She would have never done that on her own.

But she would have done it with me.

I remember her coming into my bedroom that night: climbing into my arms, pushing herself close, even when she was afraid. Margaret followed me constantly; it didn’t matter when or where. She was a quiet little body trailing me around like a shadow—and shadows don’t move on their own.

I lift my hand to my neck, touch the area behind my ear that I had scrubbed clean. It stings. The skin feels red and raw like carpet burn, and I close my eyes, trying to think. Trying to talk to her, summon her, wherever she is. I need her to tell me what happened, what I should do, the way we did before: pinching our eyes shut, trying to recreate that feeling of prickling skin on your neck. Of knowing you’re not alone.

Even though it’s still sweltering, I feel a trail of goose bumps erupt down my spine.