Chapter 6 - The Confession on the Ridge
The sun didn't come up over the north ridge that morning; it just kind of leaked over the top of the timberline like dirty dishwater spilled across a gray linoleum floor.
By ten o'clock, two state police cruisers and a forensic van with the state lab logo on the side were parked haphazardly along the gravel driveway of the old house on North Ridge Road. The rusted pickup truck with the flat tires was still sitting in the weeds near the front porch, looking even more pathetic in the daylight than it had in the dark.
I stood near the edge of the timber, hands shoved deep into my jacket pockets, watching two men in white biohazard suits carry a heavy metal bolt and a crowbar out through the front door of the house.
They had found the crowbar wedged behind the water heater in the basement—the same crowbar Thomas had used to rip the lock off the cellar door eight months ago, right before he packed his suitcase and drove down County Road 9 into the dark.
Reena wasn't screaming. She wasn't crying. When Supervisor Miller and two state troopers had led her out of the hospital room three hours earlier, she had walked with her head held high, her blonde ponytail swinging against her coat, her face set in that same stubborn, unyielding mask she had worn when she looked down at Drew on my porch.
She hadn't asked about Sissy. She hadn't looked back at Drew. To Reena, losing control of the narrative wasn't a tragedy; it was just a tactical error she hadn't planned for.
"Julian."
I turned around.
Deputy Henderson was walking up the gravel path from his cruiser, holding a clipboard in one hand and a styrofoam cup of coffee in the other. He looked like he hadn't slept in three days, his campaign hat pushed back on his forehead, revealing a damp patch of graying hair.
"How are the kids?" I asked before he could speak.
"Social services placed them in a temporary emergency foster home over in the county seat," Henderson said, stopping a few feet away and blowing across the surface of his coffee. "A licensed couple—retired teachers. The little girl is eating pancakes like she hasn't seen food in a week, and the boy is resting. The doctor says his leg is going to heal clean, but it’s going to take eight weeks in the cast."
I let out a long breath I felt like I’d been holding since yesterday afternoon when I first heard that scraping sound on my porch. "Thank God."
"Yeah," Henderson muttered, staring at the weather-beaten siding of the farmhouse. "State police lab boys are finishing up inside the cellar now. They found old handprints on the door frame—smaller ones, at different heights. And they found the other notebook in the floor joists where she thought nobody would look."
"What was in it?"
Henderson looked at me, his eyes tired and flat. "Details, Julian. Details about how she managed the truck on County Road 9. She didn't sabotage the brakes—she didn't have to. She just waited until he was driving back from the late shift at the mill, called his cell phone pretending she heard someone breaking into the shed, and told him to hurry home. Thomas was driving eighty down that gravel stretch because he thought his kids were in danger."
The cold air in my lungs turned to ice.
"He didn't see the curve," Henderson continued softly, "because the headlights on his truck had been disconnected at the battery terminal twenty minutes before he left the house."
I closed my eyes for a second, feeling the terrible, heavy weight of my brother’s last hours pressing down on my chest. He hadn't been angry when he died. He hadn't been reckless. He had been terrified for his kids, rushing home through the dark to save them from a monster he thought he knew.
"Where is she now?" I asked.
"State police barracks in Jefferson City," Henderson said, tossing his empty coffee cup into the back of his cruiser. "She's not talking to the local deputies, but the state investigators are flying in a special interrogation team from the capital this afternoon. She'll be arraigned by morning on three counts of felony child endangerment, tampering with evidence, and first-degree murder."
He put his hand on my shoulder, giving it a heavy, grounding squeeze.
"You're going to need to talk to family court next week, Julian," Henderson added. "The state’s going to push for permanent wardship, but with your blood relation and the clean record you've got down at the print shop... well, let's just say you've got a very strong case for custody if you want it."
I looked back toward the house.
May you like
Through the warped glass of the front window, I could see the empty living room—the brown vinyl sofa, the television playing to an empty room, the small plastic toys scattered near the baseboard heater.
"I don't have a choice, Henderson," I said quietly. "Those kids don't have anybody else."
