by S. E. Green
“You know, sometimes I look at kids and wonder what they’ll grow up to be.” Daisy nods to one digging at his armpit. “Dermatologist.”
She points to one who just sneezed chocolate milk. “Science teacher.”
She nods to another who is re-tying his shoe. “Garbage collector.”
I cut her an amused look. “Why is that one a garbage collector?”
Daisy shrugs. “No reason. Someone needed to be.”
I study each one of them, and my eyes fall on the quietest one in the group. Watching, listening, but not really participating, and I wonder if he’s really part of the group or if his parents made him come. That one, the quiet one, would have been me. I should note that kid’s name and a couple of years from now check up on him. I’d be curious to see who he becomes.
Children are our future, but right now staring at these boys, I don’t really see it. Well, except for that quiet one. I could see him being any number of things, I think. “What about the quiet one?” I ask Daisy.
“Serial killer, for sure.”
9
I’M FEELING OFF, and I know it has everything to do with killing Scott Butler. Ted Lowman may have originally gotten off on some mishandling-of-evidence technicality, but with the D.A. now personally involved, every “t” will be crossed and every “i” dotted. Count on it.
I have to get to Teddy before the D.A. and her crew does. I was at that party, and the recently strangled girl was there, too, sitting right by Teddy. It won’t be long before the cops link her to him, and everyone else who was there, including me. Which is why I need to find and take care of Teddy. Because as soon as he’s officially off the radar, the D.A. will have her justice and will move on.
This burner phone Teddy dropped has to cough up something. It has to.
Someone knocks on my bedroom door, and I recognize the soft rap of knuckles as Victor. When Daisy knocks it’s all bony and staccato. When Justin knocks it’s a smack of the palm. Mom used to knock with her nails.
I stash Teddy’s burner phone under my mattress. “Come in.”
Victor cracks open the door and peeks around the corner. “You’ve heard of District Attorney Butler, right?”
I blink. “Of course. Didn’t you date her in high school?”
Now it’s Victor’s turn to blink. “You remember that?”
“Yes.”
He chuckles. “It was only a few dates. Anyway, she recently lost one of her boys.”
“I know. I heard. It was in the news.”
“Yes, of course. Anyway, I’m going over to her house later. Was wondering if you could watch Justin?”
Hm, District Attorney Butler’s home. Now that’s a place I wouldn’t mind seeing. Maybe snooping around a bit. See if I can get to know the person I killed a little better. See if I can talk to the little brother again. He did intrigue me.
“Actually, you mind if I go with you? I met the younger brother and wouldn’t mind seeing how he’s doing.”
“You met Adam?” Victor blinks again, this time surprised.
Adam. So that’s the younger brother’s name. “I did.”
“Oh, okay. I’ll get Daisy to watch Justin.” He checks his watch. “How about in an hour?”
And just like that, I’m about to step foot in the Butler home.
10
VICTOR PULLS THROUGH the open white gate and up the driveway to park in a circular entrance. District Attorney Butler lives in a McMansion in Great Falls, and as I get out of Victor’s car, my gaze roams over the sprawling stone and brick multi-level home. This place has to be upwards of seven thousand square feet, not to mention the nearly three acres of manicured land it sits on.
From the backseat, he grabs the lasagna he made and together we climb the three wide steps up to the porch. I’ve never understood why people feel the need to bring food when someone dies. After Mom died, our kitchen was inundated with casseroles and cookies. I’m fairly confident I can go the rest of my life without ever seeing another covered dish.
At least Victor made lasagna and not some chicken cream thing that seemed to be the theme of what everyone brought us.
He presses the doorbell and even it sounds rich as it gongs slowly and melodically. A few seconds later, the deep burgundy door swings open and there stands District Attorney Butler dressed casually in jeans, a polo, and platform sandals. And where before she wore her chic short hair smoothed back, now she wears it more tousled and funky.
She doesn’t even glance at me as she smiles gently and welcomes Victor with a familiar hug. It makes me wonder when exactly they saw each other last. It can’t be high school because that hug seemed too easy and warm.
Pulling back, Victor turns to me. “This is my daughter, Lane.”
Ms. Butler recognizes me immediately from the crime scene and surprise flicks across her eyes when she does.
So I decide to take the lead, holding out my hand. “It’s very nice to meet you. I talked briefly with your younger son and didn’t get a chance to formally introduce myself.” There, that way she doesn’t think I’m hiding something.
I redirect the conversation. “You have a beautiful home.”
“Thank you.” With that, Ms. Butler steps aside and lets us in.
Where usually people have their houses too warm, the Butlers keep theirs crisp and cold, and I fall immediately in love. My core temperature runs hot and more than half the time I’m uncomfortably warm.
The entry spans over oak floors into a bright and open first story. Taking the lasagna from Victor, Ms. Butler leads the way down a wide hall in the direction of—I’m assuming—the kitchen. As she does, I trail behind, my gaze popping in and out of the rooms. A living room over to the right. A formal dining room to the left. A den right beside it.
A den where Adam just happens to be. I catch sight of his curly head slouched down on a couch, earbuds in, as he stares at whatever’s on his laptop screen. He doesn’t glance up, and I doubt he even knows we’re here.
Ms. Butler treads into the kitchen, placing the lasagna on the marble island next to a row of covered dishes others have brought by. She takes a second, closing her eyes, breathing, clearly trying to get herself in control, and I take that as my cue to leave.
“Dad,” I whisper. “I saw Adam in the other room. I’m going to go say hi.”
Victor nods, and as I leave, I see him stepping forward, his hand out, ready to console her. I don’t know if there is a Mr. Butler, and frankly, I don’t care. If Victor and the D.A. want to bond over this, more power to them.
Backtracking my steps, I make my way into the den done with soft yellow leather couches and a flat screen T.V. that takes up the whole wall. Adam doesn’t notice my entrance so captivated by whatever is on his laptop, and so I use the available moment to snoop.
I wander over to a floor-to-ceiling bookcase and note an entire collection of Encyclopedias. Who the hell has actual Encyclopedias these days? But what my eyes fixate on are the myriad of framed photos.
Hm. I move in for a better look.
There are dozens of them mixed and matched, old and new, casual and formal. There’s one of a man I assume must be the father. Unlike my family and all our mixtures of hair and eye color, this family—with their dark hair and pale skin—definitely looks related.
“That’s my father,” comes a voice from behind me. “He was a drunk and pretty much an entire waste of a life.”
I catch the “was” in that sentence and don’t ask. Instead, I turn and look into the familiar face of the boy from yesterday. He’s still sitting on the couch, looking over his shoulder at me.
“I’m Lane. I hear your name is Adam. Our parents know each other.”
He cocks his head. “Is that why you were there yesterday?”
“Yes.” That and the fact I accidentally killed your brother.
Pulling his earbuds out, Adam lays the laptop aside and pushes up from the couch. His gaze drifts back over to the father’s picture. “A drunk and an abus
ive bastard. Scott got the worst of it. Took the hits for me, too.”
I’m surprised he’s so share-y with the details. “Sounds like your brother was a stand-up guy.”
Adam nods. “He was. Last conversation I had with him was about Dad.”
“Oh?”
“My brother worried way too much about the whole nature versus nurture thing. He wondered all the time how much of Dad was in him.” Adam lets out a half-hearted chuckle. “I suppose he’s in me, too, right?”
I don’t know what to say because this hits way too close to home, and again I’m surprised Adam is sharing so much information. “Yes, he’s in both of you, but you are your own person and you decide what to do with that.”
Adam moves across the oak floor, coming to stand beside me. “I like that.”
Now that I know the dad is a mean one, I turn from Adam to study the dad’s face. In one of the family photos, they’re standing on a ledge overlooking the Grand Canyon. Adam looks young, maybe five, and Scott around fifteen or so. Though they’re all standing close, none of them are touching, and all of them have barely-there smiles like they know they’re supposed to smile but they don’t want to.
“Mom keeps reassuring me they’ll find the guy who did it.” Adam picks up a photo of him and Scott on four-wheelers, and with a sigh, studies it. “I hate when she reassures me.”
“Why is that?”
“Because I feel like she’s just trying to make me feel better versus telling me the truth. I’d rather she be straight with me.”
This boy has quite the insight. “How old are you?” I ask.
“Sixteen.”
“You think your mom’s going to find Ted Lowman?”
Adam scoffs. “If anything to get her shot in court.”
He does a lot of scoffing when it comes to his mom.
Adam puts the framed photo back on the shelf. “I’d rather see him die a violent death.”
O-kay. Interesting. “And how are you going to accomplish that?”
Folding his arms, he props his shoulder on the bookshelf and looks at me. “I have my ways of doing just about anything.”
I mirror his posture, propping my shoulder, too, facing him. “I take it your mom doesn’t know about these ‘ways’.”
He shrugs. “My mom doesn’t know anything about me.”
Yeah, this boy has definitely piqued my interest, and I’m wondering if Adam’s “ways” may lead him to Teddy before I can get to him. As soon I get out of here, I’m going to check that burner phone again.
Adam pushes off the bookcase and treads back over to the couch. He grabs his laptop and slides it back onto his lap. “You said you lost your mom. How long until it doesn’t hurt?”
“Mom will always be in my memory,” I truthfully say, though the world is better off without her. The question is—is the world better off without Scott?
Adam obviously loves his older brother, and I am the reason why Adam is now an only child. Whichever way this goes, I owe this boy something, yet I’m not quite sure what.
“Ready?” Victor asks, peeking his head in the open door.
“Yes,” I say because I need to find Teddy. ASAP.
11
“BABY, YOU OKAY? I heard something horrible happened at your Granny’s house. If you need a place to stay, don’t forget about Uncle Chuck’s cabin out at River Hall. It’s number eight and there’s always a spare key under that ceramic frog thingy of his. I’m going to call your other number, too. Mommy loves you!”
This is the message Ted Lowman’s “mommy” leaves on the disposable phone he dropped in his haste to evacuate Granny’s house.
It’s been one day since I spoke with Adam. One day of incessantly checking the burner phone. Before I would have just called my whiz of a friend, Reggie, to find some leads on Teddy, but after our fall out, I still don’t know where Reggie and I stand. So this burner phone is it for me, and just when I thought it would be a dead end, that voicemail came in and my luck officially changed.
So here I am in my Jeep, smiling, and if I did listen to music, right now Lollipop would be a great song to match my cheery mood. Nothing like a good lead and an even better hunt to lift my spirits. Except I promised Victor I would be back in a couple of hours. As soon as I start college and move out, I won’t have to deal with this lack of freedom anymore. I’ll have the luxury of staying out all night if I want.
For now, though, my living arrangements are full of pros and cons. The biggest pro being Justin’s smile, and the biggest con—making promises I don’t necessarily want to keep. Yes, things won’t be so complicated once I’m on my own.
Or so I tell myself.
For now, though, I’ll check out Uncle Chuck’s cabin and see what there is to see. I have to hope Adam and/or the case detectives haven’t been effective in following leads. With the burner phone and Mommy’s message, I have to hope I’m ahead of them on this.
If things would’ve gone as planned, Scott might still be alive, I wouldn’t be on the Butler’s radar, Adam would be playing his video games and none the wiser, and I wouldn’t be chasing a clock trying to beat the D.A. and her team in finding Teddy.
If things would have gone as planned…
I only have a couple of hours to check out Uncle Chuck’s place. And checking out is all I intend to do. If he’s there I’ll come back later after everyone is asleep.
…don’t forget about Uncle Chuck’s cabin out at River Hall. It’s number eight.
A quick search of River Hall delivered me back one hit—a hunting camp in Loudoun County. According to the Internet, it’s nestled within the woods with thirty secluded cabins that provide individual privacy and escape from the rigors of the city.
Perfect.
I pull off the county road, following the signs for River Hall and wind my way down a gravel road. My headlights cut through the early evening darkness, and I nearly miss the wood sign with white painted RIVER HALL lettering. I cut my lights to dim and pull through the open chain link gate.
One lone yellow light illuminates a building off to the left and I read OFFICE painted on the wood door. The gravel road forks, one narrow lane going right and the other left, merging all the way in the back. From my internet search, I know number eight is located to the right. But I go left. I want to see the lay of the land.
Cutting my lights all the way, I navigate by the yellow lamps attached intermittently to the trees. Thick vegetation swallows each cabin and my tires softly crunch over the gravel as I inch my way along.
I pass number thirty, twenty-nine, twenty-eight, and the cabins keep going down in number, all empty. When I make it to nineteen, I spy a dirt bike sitting in front of the log cabin and one lone pale white light coming from inside. I can’t see who is there but with the dirt bike, I’m assuming only one person.
I keep going—cabin number eighteen, seventeen, and sixteen sit empty, too.
I don’t know a whole lot about hunting but I’m guessing maybe summer isn’t really a good time for the sport. Or perhaps the place is empty because it’s a weekday.
Eight comes into view and like all the others, it sits dark inside. I keep driving, crawling along the gravel, my tires chomping quietly beneath me. Cabin six, five, four… all empty.
I finish the circular tour, coming to a stop back at the office. Checking my phone, I see I still have time to spare, so with my lights still out, I turn my Jeep around and backtrack to number five, parking in its vacant and dark spot, tucking my Jeep as far into the trees as possible.
Uncle Chuck’s cabin is three over from me, and Teddy’s not in there. Other than the one cabin at the other side of the hunting camp, the entire area sits empty.
I don’t bother donning my disguise or grabbing my gear. I do slip gloves on though, in case I decide to prowl around inside, and I grab my lockpicks. Climbing from my Jeep, I quietly click the door closed and take off in a light jog through the trees.
A few seconds later I come upon number eight and
crouch in the shadows to give it a good study. Heavy curtains cover the windows, making everything dark. Built of dark wood slats with a tiny screened in front porch, the place can’t be more than five or six hundred square feet.
Yes, from the outside it looks like it’s been empty for a while, but once I’m inside I’ll be able to tell if Teddy’s been here.
I emerge from my cover and slip down the side around to the back, and as I’d hoped, there’s a back door. Three wood steps lead up to it, and I first try the handle, not surprised to find it locked. With my picks, it doesn’t take but a few seconds to pop it open.
The door opens into a kitchen, and my eyes fall on one single dirty bowl in the sink. Someone has definitely been here.
I move quietly across the worn linoleum, my senses tuned. A wood panel, foldable door separates the kitchen from what I assume must be the living room. The panel sits open several inches, wide enough for a slender person to slip through sideways.
Beyond the gap in the door, a dim light flickers, like a nightlight holding on to its last bit of juice.
Turning sideways, I slink through the door and out the other side, coming to an immediate stop. Teddy is most definitely here, lying sprawled on his back, his wide unseeing eyes staring at the ceiling and a butcher knife sticking out of his chest.
But what really halts my movement is the person kneeling beside him—Adam Butler. With blood smeared on his gloved hands and glasses slid to the end of his nose, he’s very quiet and still as he stares down at the knife. I don’t want to jump to conclusions here. Adam may not have done this. He may have found Teddy like this.
The question is, did Adam follow Teddy here? He must have.
I study the blood beneath Teddy’s body, no longer creeping out and more thick and coagulated on the striped area rug stretched beneath him. I’m no expert in blood patterns, but I would estimate Teddy’s been that way a while, which would explain Adam’s calm demeanor. He’s had a chance to ride the nerves and is now coming down off the high.
