Wolfhunter River (Stillhouse Lake #3)(6)

“Is this documentary finished?”

“It’s just beginning,” Miranda says, and turns her attention suddenly on me. The hatred in her eyes is just exactly the same intensity it was on the day she sat in the courtroom as I was acquitted and released. I haven’t seen her since then, but it’s like no time has passed at all.

This is all so monstrous that for a moment I can’t even quite believe what I’ve heard. I can’t move. I can’t think. I just stare at this woman, who seems otherwise so normal, and I can’t fathom how someone could be this . . . obsessed. For years. “You can’t do this,” I say. “You can’t tear my life, the lives of my children, apart like this. Again.”

“I’m not,” Miranda says. “I’m simply funding a documentary, which will be released to the internet and film festivals all over the world when we’re done. It’s . . . a labor of love, if you will. To honor your husband’s victims. Our children. And I look forward to hearing your opinion, Mrs. Royal. I think you’ll quite like the actress we have playing you in the dramatic re-creations.”

She wants a scene. She’s here to provoke one. To make me lose my shit and choke her right here on this stage, with Howie Hamlin and half the state of Tennessee as the horrified witnesses. I need to play this game, and play it well.

So I sit back. “I’ll look forward to it,” I say. “And I’ll be glad for the chance to put out my own statements correcting any inaccuracies. And as you probably know, not all the family members are on your side.”

“No,” Miranda agrees. “I’m afraid some of them believe in your particular brand of victimhood. It’s too bad, really.” She’s probably talking about Sam, but she’s being careful; the last thing she wants is to attempt to smear him right now. It would make her look a lot less legitimate, and a lot more vindictive.

“It’s too bad that you haven’t been able to find a positive way out of your own grief, Mrs. Tidewell,” I say, and I mean it. “I’m sorry for what happened to your daughter, and I wish you could find peace with the justice that was already served. Her killer is dead.”

“One of them,” she snaps. “One to go.” She recognizes that she’s stepped on the line, if not over it, and she makes a conscious effort to put tears in her eyes, and put a hand over her mouth. A perfectly overwhelmed grieving mother, if you’re not watching closely. “Forgive me, Mr. Hamlin. This is harder than I thought.”

“Are you all right, Mrs. Tidewell?” Howie asks, as if he cares; he has tissues at the ready, and she dabs lightly at her eyes, careful not to smudge. “If this is too hard for you, we can take a break.”

“What if it’s too hard for me?” I ask him. I’m aware I’m angry, but I can’t out-delicate Miranda Tidewell; she was born to manipulate, and I’ve never mastered that particular skill. “This woman spearheaded a movement to put my life and the lives of my children at risk from forces she has no hope of controlling, and she’s threatening to do it again!”

“I’m not threatening anything,” Miranda says. Her voice is even trembling.

What a brave woman, people at home will be thinking. While I look like an angry, coldly vindictive bitch.

“I’m just stating that we’re making a documentary about our lost loved ones, and investigating the full scope of the case.”

“Please bear in mind, ladies, that I’m not taking a side,” Howie says, and his tone reminds me of a greasy tub of used lard my grandmother used to keep on the stove.

I can’t help it. I snap.

“I don’t have a side! I have the truth!” I half shout it at him. I can’t keep it together anymore. “You brought me on this program to talk about the harassment of my family, and instead, you’ve given time and space to a woman who will do anything to destroy me and my kids. No, you don’t get to pretend that’s a side. That’s not why I came here.”

“Ms. Proctor—”

“No!” I stand up, unclip the microphone, yank it down my shirt, and throw the thing into the chair. I want to throw it in his face. “I’m done.”

The camera tracks me as I charge off the riser and out of the glare of the lights. I want to shove the computer-driven machine out of my way, but I’m sure that would mean fines or charges, so I dodge it and head straight for the greenroom. I slam the door open and look at my two kids—my two beautiful, wonderful children, who are staring at me openmouthed. There are three other people in the greenroom now too: an African American man and woman and a white woman, all dressed for camera appearances. The black couple looks distraught and not sure what to make of what just happened. Behind me, Howie Hamlin is apologizing to viewers, and promising to continue the interview as soon as Mrs. Tidewell feels able. He cuts to a commercial, leans back to peruse some notes, and says, “Awesome. Mrs. Tidewell, I’ll keep you for two more minutes; then we’ll go to the Whites. Erin, have them ready.”

The Whites. I remember his introduction at the beginning. These, then, must be the parents of Ellie White, the missing six-year-old. It’s been days since she disappeared, driven off by a fake chauffeur in what was evidently a well-planned and professional abduction.

“I’m sorry,” I tell them, and then wonder if they want anything from me, even sympathy. After that horror show, maybe not. They don’t answer. I don’t even know if they hear me, really.