When did he get so old? Why was everything so difficult? When he closes his eyes, Thomas still pictures himself as the strong young man who could heft kegs from the cooler with ease. He could work eighteen hours at the bar, sleep for six and then start all over again. Where had that man gone?
The stairs down to the basement are rickety at best and Thomas decides the search for a screwdriver isn’t worth a second broken hip in the family. Instead he limps across the kitchen and pulls open the wide, deep cabinet drawer that holds an olio of odds and ends.
His fingers rummage past a crescent wrench, a few wayward screws, a large whisk, tongs and ladles. He finally locates a screwdriver and turns to make the trek back up the stairs to Jordyn’s room but swivels back to the drawer. He stares down at the jumble. Some items are missing, though he can’t quite put his finger on what. He pushes the drawer closed and, at a much slower speed, begins the journey back upstairs.
By the time Thomas reaches the top of the steps, perspiration stains have bloomed beneath his armpits and at his neckline. His hand slick with sweat loses his grip on the screwdriver and it tumbles down the stairs, landing on the hardwood floor with a clatter.
Frustration erupts in his chest and it’s enough to propel him forward. “Jordyn Ann Petit,” he hollers, his fist pounding against the wooden door frame, “you open this door right this minute!”
The door slowly opens and Thomas expects to see a stone-faced, defiant Jordyn standing in front of him. Instead his granddaughter wears an expression of intense fear.
My God, Thomas thinks, she’s terrified of me. Thomas is immediately contrite, ready to apologize. He never, ever wants Jordyn to be afraid of him. A healthy amount of respect would be nice, but never fear.
“Grandpa,” Jordyn says, her face crumpling as she throws herself against Thomas, her arms barely reaching around his wide waist. Thomas stands there momentarily dumbfounded, arms extended out to his sides as if unexpectedly struck by a wave of cold water.
“What is it?” Thomas asks, finally lowering his arms and returning Jordyn’s fierce embrace. “What’s the matter?” Thomas is expecting Jordyn to say that she’s sorry for going out in the middle of the night without permission, to express remorse for saying that she didn’t want to go and to want to check on how Violet and Cora were doing, to apologize for locking herself away in her room for hours.
Jordyn weeps into his neck. This isn’t a spat-with-friends, sorry-for-being-naughty kind of cry. These are bone-deep sorrow-filled cries.
“No one was supposed to get hurt, Grandpa. It was all just a stupid game,” she croaks.
It takes a moment for Jordyn’s words to register with Thomas but still they make little sense. What kind of game would lead to two girls being hospitalized? He thinks of Jordyn’s earlier confession that they had taken some beer from the bar. Had alcohol played a role? The train yard was filled with old junk; maybe after drinking the girls had been horsing around.
“I never meant for something bad to happen,” Jordyn cries. Thomas awkwardly pats Jordyn’s head, his mind racing. She pulls away from the hug and holds her phone out to him. “We didn’t do anything. I promise. It’s not us.”
Thomas takes the phone from Jordyn and examines the screen. It’s a horrible picture of Jordyn and Violet holding knives and covered in blood. “It’s not us. It’s fake, but people are sending it around to everyone and saying we hurt Cora,” Jordyn says, leaning into him, her shoulders rising and falling with each sob.
Thomas squints at the image on the screen and upon a closer look he can tell the photo has been doctored. He has so many questions but he starts with a simple, “What happened?”
“We snuck out to go look for Joseph Wither.” Jordyn sniffles. Thomas knows this game. The boys did the same thing when they were kids. They would creep from the house and run down to the railroad tracks searching between boxcars.
“I took the beer from the cooler.” She looks up at her grandfather. “I know I shouldn’t have. It tasted gross. We were telling ghost stories and going to hunt for Wither. I was going to run into the field and hide and then jump out and scare them but we didn’t get that far.
“Just before we got to the train yard we thought we heard someone else coming. We got scared and ran off in different directions. After a few minutes I started going back to see if I could find Violet and Cora but then I heard the screaming and the train coming and I ran home. I know I should have gone back to help. I thought at first maybe one of them got hit by the train and I couldn’t stand the thought of it.” Jordyn screws her eyes shut and shakes her head from side to side. “I couldn’t stand the thought of seeing it.”
“But Cora wasn’t hit by a train, Jordyn,” Thomas says patiently. “Someone stabbed her and beat her. Badly. What do you think happened? And don’t tell me it was Joseph Wither. He isn’t real.”
“I know, I never thought he would show up. It was a game but I think Cora and Violet really believed it. They talked about it all the time. I’m so sorry.”
“So you have no idea what happened? What were you going to do when you found him?” Thomas tries one more time. Jordyn hesitates a second too long. “What? You need to tell me,” he says firmly.
“We were just trying to protect ourselves,” Jordyn says. “We brought the knife thingy.”
“Protect yourself? How?” When Jordyn doesn’t answer he knows. “You brought a weapon?” Thomas asks.
Jordyn nods. “The knife thingy from the kitchen drawer.”
Thomas thinks of Cora—the stab wounds, her damaged face. “Jordyn, where’s the knife?”
“I don’t know. I think Violet was carrying it last. But she would never hurt Cora,” Jordyn adds in a rush.
A wave of nausea sweeps over him. This can’t be happening. “Jordyn,” he says, cupping her chin so she is forced to look at him. “Is there anything else? Anything at all that I need to know?” Thomas asks, praying that there isn’t.
Jordyn shakes her head. “No, I promise.” Thomas releases her chin and again Jordyn collapses into him. “What should I do?” she asks, her voice muffled against the nubby fabric of Thomas’s sweater.
“Nothing for now,” Thomas whispers into her ear. “Don’t worry, we’ll clear it all up.” Jordyn lifts her head and looks up at Thomas for further reassurance. “You look tired,” Thomas observes but he really just needs to be alone for a minute and think about what Jordyn has just told him. “Go and lie down, close your eyes for a bit.”
Jordyn is hesitant but allows Thomas to guide her back into the bedroom and into her bed. Thomas pulls the quilt up around Jordyn’s shoulders and reaches over to the bedside lamp to turn off the light and the room dims to a hushed gray.
Thomas sits on the edge of the bed and listens as Jordyn’s sniffling slowly subsides. He watches as Jordyn’s eyes grow heavier and heavier until they remain shut. He waits until he is sure that Jordyn is fast asleep and then carefully rises from the bed, reaches down and retrieves Jordyn’s book bag from the floor.
He riffles through the laundry basket of clean clothes until he finds the fleece jacket and the other clothes that Jordyn was wearing yesterday and shoves them into the backpack. Beneath a small wooden desk where Jordyn sits to do her homework are her tennis shoes. Thomas bends down and picks them up and examines the soles. The microscopic dark specks could be blood or could just be mud. He thinks of the picture on Jordyn’s phone and her bloodstained jacket.
Knowing that Jordyn will most likely sleep only for a few hours or so, he needs to get going. He has work to do.
Case #92-10945
Direct message dated November 21, 2017,
via DarkestDoor.com
JW44:
HI, CORAREEF12, I’M SORRY I DIDN’T RESPOND TO YOU THE OTHER DAY. I DON’T THINK IT’S A GOOD IDEA THAT WE TALK IN THE PUBLIC CHAT ROOM—4LEAFCLOVER IS SO ANNOYING.
Coraree
f12:
That’s okay. She was pretty nosy.
JW44:
HOW DO YOU EVEN KNOW SHE’S A GIRL? YOU SHOULD BE CAREFUL ONLINE. I MEAN, 4LEAFCLOVER IS PROBABLY A DIRTY OLD MAN LOOKING FOR A SWEET KID LIKE YOU.
Corareef12:
Ha! I don’t think so.
JW44:
JUST BE CAREFUL. DO YOU STILL WANT THE ANSWERS TO THOSE QUESTIONS YOU ASKED?
Corareef12:
Yes! If you are really Joseph Wither, how old are you? Wouldn’t you be like 90?
JW44:
I WOULD BE IF I WAS LIKE EVERYONE ELSE. BUT I’M NOT. I’M SEVENTEEN AND ALWAYS WILL BE.
Corareef12:
Yeah, right. Then where did you go after you left Pitch? Where do you live now?
JW44:
I NEVER STAY IN ONE PLACE TOO LONG BUT I ALWAYS END UP COMING BACK TO PITCH.
Corareef12:
I wouldn’t come back here. It’s so boring.
JW44:
I’VE BEEN ALL OVER THE WORLD. PITCH ISN’T SO BAD.
Corareef12:
Have you been to New York?
JW44:
YES, AND I’VE BEEN TO LONDON AND PARIS, TOO.
Corareef12:
I’ve always wanted to go to Paris.
JW44:
YOU SHOULD GO SOME DAY. IT’S AMAZING.
Corareef12:
What does the 44 stand for?
JW44:
THAT’S THE NUMBER OF GIRLS I TOOK OVER THE YEARS.
JW44:
HA HA. JUST KIDDING—1944 WAS THE YEAR I TURNED 17. DO YOU HAVE ANY OTHER QUESTIONS?
Corareef12:
I can’t think of anything right now.
JW44:
YOU DON’T BELIEVE THAT I’M WITHER, DO YOU?
Corareef12:
No. I think you’re just messing with me.
JW44:
I’M OFFENDED, CORAREEF12. IF YOU CHANGE YOUR MIND, JUST LET ME KNOW.
Corareef12:
Okay.
JW44:
HEY, I HAVEN’T BEEN TO PITCH IN A WHILE. IS THE SUSIE Q STILL THERE? I USED TO GET GREEN RIVERS.
Corareef12:
It’s still here. What’s a green river?
JW44:
7UP WITH LIME IN IT. DON’T TELL ME YOU’VE NEVER HAD ONE!
Corareef12:
Sounds gross.
JW44:
YOU SHOULD TRY IT. LET ME KNOW WHAT YOU THINK.
Corareef12:
Maybe.
JW44:
I KISSED MY FIRST GIRL AFTER WE SHARED A GREEN RIVER. HAVE YOU EVER BEEN KISSED?
Corareef12:
I don’t think I want to say.
JW44:
WHY?
JW44:
COME ON, YOU CAN TELL ME. WHO AM I GOING TO TELL?
Corareef12:
It’s embarrassing. My friend Jordyn says she’s kissed a bunch of guys. Even Violet said she had a boyfriend back in New Mexico.
JW44:
DON’T BE EMBARRASSED.
Corareef12:
There is one boy who I think likes me, but I don’t think he’s going to kiss me anytime soon.
JW44:
YOUR FIRST KISS SHOULD BE SPECIAL. WITH SOMEONE WHO IS AS SPECIAL AS YOU ARE.
Corareef12:
Now you sound like a dad or something.
JW44:
BELIEVE ME, I’M NO ONE’S DAD.
Beth Crow
Tuesday, April 17, 2018
Max took off right after Officer Grady dropped us at the house yesterday and didn’t come home for about three hours. I’d hoped he didn’t go after Clint but thought it was more likely that he went to go see Nikki. I wanted to ask where he had been and what he knew about Joseph Wither but he didn’t say a word all afternoon, just went into his bedroom and closed the door.
Last night I tucked Violet and Boomer into her bed and laid down beside her until she fell asleep. I dozed a bit but kept waking up, worried about Violet, worried about Max and worried about the attacker. What if he knew where we lived? What if he was outside our house watching, waiting?
Below me I hear a voice. Then nothing. As I move down the steps, careful not to make a sound, I hear another voice coming from Max’s room. A girl’s voice. Nikki. How could Max sneak his girlfriend into the house at a time like this? So selfish, I think angrily. I want to bang on the door, order her out of my home, forbid Max from seeing her anymore, but instead I lower myself to sitting position on the stairs and try to force myself to take a breath before I say something I regret.
The bedroom door opens and Nikki and Max come out holding hands, Boomer following on his stubby legs, and my anger immediately disappears. They don’t look like two teenagers trying to get away with something; they both just look sad, worried and very tired—exactly how I feel. They look at me at the same time and drop hands as if burned. “Mom,” Max begins. “We were just talking, I promise.”
I believe him and suddenly I’m grateful to this girl with smudged eye makeup and badly dyed hair who was willing to face the wrath of two mothers to come and see my son in the middle of the night. The weight of what’s happening with Violet has to be hard for Max. He’s already lost his best friend in the whole mess, though I know I’m not going to shed any tears over having Clint out of our lives. I nod wearily. “You guys want something to eat?” I ask. “I can throw a pizza in the oven.”
Max’s face relaxes and Nikki lets out a long stream of breath in relief. “No thanks,” she says. “I should get home.”
“You’re driving her, right?” I ask Max.
“Yeah, if you don’t mind me taking the car,” he says.
“They’re on the kitchen counter,” I say and he hurries to the kitchen to grab the keys. To Nikki I ask, “Will you get in a lot of trouble for being out so late?”
She wrinkles her nose and shrugs. “I might be able to get back inside without my mom knowing. She can sleep through just about anything.”
“I’m sure she just worries about you, Nikki, the way I worry about Max and Violet,” I tell her as Max comes back, keys in hand.
“Ready?” he says, opening the front door. “I’ll be back in a few minutes, Mom.”
“Nikki, please come back during the daylight hours,” I say and she gives me an embarrassed smile before the two step out into the dark.
I shut the door behind them and then hear Max’s voice. “What the hell? Mom!” he calls out.
I fling open the door. “What is it?” I ask, scanning the yard and street in front of us, searching for any sign of trouble. Max and Nikki stay facing me and that’s when I realize I’m looking in the wrong direction. I turn and though it’s still dark out the porch lamp casts a weak light that illuminates slashes of red paint across the aluminum siding. I have to take a few steps backward to take in the full measure of what I’m seeing. Murderer—U R Next. And below these words, the message is signed, Wither.
“I’m going to kill Clint,” Max says, his face set in determination, making me believe that he means it.
“You have to ignore him.” Nikki pulls on his arm. “He’s trying to get to you.”
“How can I ignore this?” Max asks, gesturing toward the front of the house. “He’s such an asshole.”
“Max,” I warn. “You do not go over to Clint’s. Do you understand? The last thing I need right now is for you to get arrested. Besides, you don’t know he did it. It could be the person who attacked Cora. This is just crazy! Come back inside.”
“I really have to get home,” Nikki says, glancing anxiously over at Max. “I’m going to get into a lot of trouble if I don’t get back before my mom wakes up.”
“Mom, we’ll be fine,” Max insists. “I promise I won’t
go over to Clint’s. But if I catch him in our yard ever again, I’m going to beat his ass.”
Once they pull away I examine the graffiti more closely. Definitely spray paint and already dry to the touch. I scan the dark street, wondering if the vandals are hiding in the shadows. Did a group of bratty kids do this? Or maybe it’s a genuine threat on Violet’s life. I shiver.
Boomer sniffs around the yard and focuses his attention on an object lying in the grass. I walk over to take a look at what he’s found. A can of spray paint. I leave it on the ground where it sits and go inside to call the police.
An officer shows up within minutes and takes my statement. He knows all about what happened in the train yard so I don’t have to go over those details but I do fill him in on how Clint Phelps acted at the police station earlier in the day.
I watch as the officer slips on gloves and places the spray can in a plastic bag and then takes a few pictures of the front of the house. The words, sprayed in sharp red slashes across the house, make me feel dirty, guilty. I don’t want the neighbors to see them.
“Do you think you could help me cover it up?” I ask the officer. He agrees and I run back inside and find two old bedsheets and some tape. Together, we begin to cover the graffiti and by the time we’re pressing the final corners into place Max is pulling up in front of the house.
The officer gives me an encouraging smile and hands me the roll of duct tape. “I’ll drive around the neighborhood and then swing by the Phelps place to see if anything suspicious is going on,” he says. “In the meantime, make sure you lock your doors and call us if you need anything at all.”
I thank the officer and say goodbye as Max joins me by the door. By the look on Max’s face I’m sure that Nikki’s mom has given him hell. “What’s the matter, Max?” I ask. “Did something happen?”
He waits until the police car pulls away and then tilts his phone toward me. “Look what’s going around.” A horrific image looks up at me from the screen. Someone has Photoshopped Violet’s and Jordyn’s faces on two blood-splattered figures wielding knives, and the number of likes on Instagram is nearing three hundred. I feel sick.
Before She Was Found Page 12
