chapter twenty-eight-2

"Okay," Detective Marsh said. "Did you ever consider calling the police when he broke in and attacked you?" When I shook my head slowly, feeling sort of ashamed and embarrassed to admit this to a detective, he nodded gently. "How come?" "Everyone loved Griffin. My parents did, the school did, I even thought I did. I thought if I did something like call the police, then maybe nothing would happen. I mean, I've watched those news stories about politicians and old comedians. Everyone just thinks the girls are lying for attention. And then Griffin would know I'd called the police and maybe he'd get back at me for it." "Clara, did you know I have a daughter about your age? Maybe a little younger," he said, and I shook my head, not totally sure where he was going with this. "Whenever I'm working a case with a young girl involved, I think to myself, If this were my daughter, what would I want the detectives to do? How seriously would I want them to treat this case? And I know I'm not the only officer here who thinks that way. Now I can't speak for other departments or people, or whatever. But we don't ignore cases because, what, it's Griffin Tomlin? Everybody likes him?" He shook his head, making a dismissive face and waving his hand through the air. "That means nothing. That's just a name." I nodded, although I wasn't entirely convinced. "Why do you think she killed Elizabeth Monner? It's, like, I can't even understand. It makes literally no sense." Detective Marsh considered this for a moment before leaning back in his chair. "There were other text messages between Emily and Griffin. It seemed as if your sister thought killing Ms. Monner would strengthen their bond, so to speak." "Their bond?" "They shared a common interest. Sexual torture and manipulation. It was like a grand romantic gesture to Griffin in Emily's mind. But things didn't go quite according to her plan. Griffin was only focused on you and he was scared of actually killing." I thought back to what Aniston had told me before. "So he wasn't on his way to becoming a serial killer?" Detective Marsh guffawed at this. "I mean, it's hard to say one way or another what a dead eighteen-year-old kid would've done decades later. And whether he had some set of morals deep down or just didn't want to get his hands dirty, it doesn't really matter." He leaned forward, his voice lowering to a whisper. "I don't like the guy." I smiled. "Are you always allowed to talk about homicide victims like that?" He feigned innocence. "Like what? I didn't say nothing." Then he winked, like he'd used the double negative on purpose. When I stood up to leave a few minutes later, I remembered something that made me hesitate. I was still really upset with her, but I felt I owed her this. "Detective Marsh?" I asked tentatively from his doorframe, watching as he looked up from his computer. "Do you think maybe you could look into Santino Hernandez's murder? It happened around four years ago. It's never been solved." "Do you think it has something to do with Griffin and Emily?" I shook my head. "No. I just—I know his daughter. And it would mean a lot to her if she could find out what happened to him." "I'll see what I can do." I smiled. "Thank you." ~ The sputtering sound of an engine echoed through the air as a van parked on the shoulder of the road outside my house. The sunlight was dimming and turned the snow on the lawn a glittering peach hue. A few minutes later, I walked outside to see Wilson leaning against the bumper, his hands shoved into the pocket of his hoodie, and I hesitated just as he looked up. The long strands of greasy blond hair that had hovered close to his shoulders were gone, cut shorter and exposing the back of his neck. It made him look different. Not like the Wilson Westbrooke I'd known before, the one my sister let me know, but maybe more like the Wilson Westbrooke I had got to know over the past couple of weeks. When he saw me, he smiled faintly and then looked down, somewhat uncomfortably. "Your dad's not home, right?" "I don't really think this is his home anymore, but no. He isn't here." He laughed, nodding, before blurting out, "Wanna come with?" His voice tried to exude confidence, but a sense of sheepishness lingered beneath it. "Where?" I asked, my arms wrapped around my chest. "The police station," was all he said before he turned around, the color of his ashen cheeks beginning to tinge a soft pink, and headed back for the driver's side of his van. I stood there, dumbfounded for a moment until he reached for the keys that dangled from the ignition and gave them a twist, the engine coughing and rumbling beside me. When I realized that was all he was planning on telling me, I climbed into the passenger seat. As the glow from the dashboard became the only source of light in the vehicle, I turned in my seat to look at him. "Is Bex going to be there?" "She knows some stuff," he responded finally, his foot slowly easing on the gas as we approached a yellow light. "But not everything, and I don't really want her to either. I don't want her to . . . think about that stuff." I glanced away from him, feeling as if the seat belt strapped against my chest was starting to tighten around me, constricting me to the duct-taped leather of the seat. I thought of Kolby, because I knew what Wilson wasn't saying was that knowing everything, all of it, would change everything for them. She would start seeing the Wilson Westbrooke that had existed a year ago, not the one who stood in front of her now. She would look where Emily had hurt him and that would be all she could see. He would become a souvenir of someone's darkest moment instead of a boy with blue eyes and, now, short blond hair and a beat-up van. "Can I ask you something?" I said tentatively, focusing on the tail-lights of the car in front of us. He nodded, easily and nonchalantly. "Why did you ask me to come?" "Bex doesn't really get it," he admitted, almost embarrassed. "She tries, I mean. She tries really hard. But she doesn't. She can't." And then, for the first time since he'd pulled up in front of my house, he turned to look at me, really look at me. He held my gaze, his eyes flicking to the road every few seconds, before shrugging, as if it were easy, obvious, and clear. "You do." He pulled into the parking lot of the police station, retracting the key from the ignition but not making a move to get out of the car or even unbuckle his seat belt. "Come on," I told him, unbuckling it for him and popping open the passenger-side door. "They're not going to ignore what you tell them. They're going to listen and take you seriously." "That's what they did for you. You're this," he said, stammering as if he couldn't quite get the words out, his hands vaguely gesturing in the air, "pretty blond girl. You've got this trustworthy, innocent face. Have you seen my face?" I nodded. "Yeah, it's pretty too. You're also blond, so you're two for three." He laughed, looking down at his hands on his lap. "Regardless of your face, I know at least one detective who'll listen to you. But he can't if you don't get out of the car." He nodded, a little too quickly. "Okay," he breathed, glancing at me for a fraction of a second before he reached for the door handle.