The Hollows(56)

The woman beside me shut her mouth.

‘I do hope,’ Connie said, ‘that when you hear the name Everett Miller you also think of Eric Daniels and Sally Fredericks.’

A murmur rippled through the audience.

‘Their lives were snuffed out right here, less than half a mile from where we sit. A little more than twenty years ago, they ate their last meal, smiled their final smile. They breathed their last breath. Who knows what they might have achieved, or what they’d be doing now, if they hadn’t attracted the attention of Everett Miller?’ She paused, letting the emotion swell through the tent like she was conducting an orchestra.

‘Tonight, we are going to honour one of those victims in particular. Sally Fredericks.’

I noticed there was a large screen behind Connie. Sally’s face appeared on it.

‘And we have a man who is going to tell us about her. The man who knew her better than anyone else.’ She paused again. ‘Ladies and gentlemen, please welcome to the stage Sally’s widowed husband, Neal Fredericks.’

Neal walked on to the stage, his pink scalp shining beneath the lights. Connie gave him a hug while the audience applauded, then he shuffled up to the microphone. He held a sheet of paper in his hands and was clearly nervous. The applause died down and I wondered if the people here were disappointed. The victim’s husband? The man Sally had been cheating on when she was killed? A lot of the audience shifted uncomfortably in their seats. This was the big surprise? Maybe he had some new information to share. Once again, I failed to understand why he, the cuckolded husband, would want to put himself through this.

He said something that got lost before it left the stage.

‘Talk into the microphone,’ yelled the grey-haired lady in front of me.

‘Sorry.’ His voice finally became audible. ‘Is that better?’

‘Yes, honey.’

‘This isn’t easy,’ he said, clearing his throat. ‘Coming to the place where my wife – where my darling Sally was killed. When it happened, I couldn’t bring myself to visit this place. I didn’t want to see it. And I can imagine what some of you must be thinking. It must have been extra hard knowing she was cheating.’ He cleared his throat again. The crowd was hushed. ‘I’m not gonna lie. It was difficult to cope with for a long time. To lose the person you love most in the world and then discover she was in the arms of another man when it happened . . . Yeah, it was hard.’

This was agonising to watch.

‘But then I realised something. I was being selfish. Thinking only about myself. Of course, no man likes to think of his wife being made happy by another man, but wasn’t her happiness the most important thing? Some people said if she hadn’t been screwing around – pardon my French – she’d still be alive today. And yeah, maybe that’s true. But I realised something else. To be able to mourn her, I needed to forgive her. Once I did that, I was able to miss my wife. The woman I’d hoped to have children with. This place took my Sally from me. But tonight I’m here to celebrate her life.’

There followed a slideshow of pictures of Sally and Neal, with him narrating, describing the photos, telling stories about their time together. There were photos of Sally holding her baby nephew. Pictures from their wedding day. At first it was awkward and fumbling, but after a few minutes Neal hit his stride. Soon he had the audience both eating out of his hand and crying into their Kleenex. It was weirdly moving – and effective. I realised what he was doing. Not only turning her into a flesh-and-blood woman in front of this audience of dark tourists, but reclaiming her. She wasn’t Eric Daniels’ lover. Nor was she Everett Miller’s victim. She was Neal’s wife and also her own person. All around me people sniffled, including the woman who’d mouthed the serial killers’ names and the older lady who’d yelled at Neal to talk into the mic.

I watched Connie. She had a peculiar look on her face throughout Neal’s talk. Almost smug. And I understood why this was such a big deal for her, why she and David had arranged this. True-crime podcasters like her were often criticised for fixating on the puzzle and glorifying the dark crimes they talked about, forgetting about the victims. I’d had the same prejudices myself. By inviting Neal along, she was forcing her audience to think about Sally and Eric and their families, and I guessed that was why he’d agreed to do it.

Neal finished talking, and in the silence I heard someone say, ‘Dad.’

I looked around. It was Frankie, beckoning to me. She was near the exit. Her eyes were wide and she looked a little sick.

I stood up. The show was over and the people in the row behind me weren’t so grumpy about pulling back their chairs so I could get by. I ran over to Frankie.

‘What are you doing here?’ I asked. ‘I told you to stay at the cabin.’

She gave me a look of defiance. ‘You said you were going to fetch Ryan but you didn’t. So I came looking for you.’

‘Frankie! What the hell?’

‘It’s fine. There are loads of people around.’

I sighed. The path to the exit had cleared a little, so I motioned for Frankie to leave the tent.

‘Come on,’ I said once we were outside. ‘Let’s get you back to the cabin. I’ve given up trying to get David and Connie to listen to me.’

‘No. I need to show you something first.’