And I want her to know I’m still here, even if her curtains never open and school feels empty without her.

93

When Jane finally comes, it’s not how we expected. She doesn’t look angry. She looks calm. Until her words give her away.

“What did you do?” she whispers.

“What do you mean?” I ask, stepping back and hoping she follows.

Jane thinks she knows this house better than anyone.

She feels safe here. But she shouldn’t. “You know full well.”

My heart’s racing, and I can feel the sweat under my arms as I try desperately to stay cool. Jane needs to be the one who breaks, not me.

“Where is he?” she asks.

Her eyes dart all over the place, her fingers pull at her clothes, and I know it’s worked. All she needs is to say it.

“I said, where is he?”

She’s still whispering, but something is rumbling below the surface, and I take another step back.

“Do you mean Jay?” I ask.

Jane says, “Where’s my son?” The last word is the quietest and the sharpest.

I glance at the painting above the fireplace where Jay fitted one of the hidden cameras the day after we met Amy in the woods. There are three in total: one filming the front door, the second that I just checked and a third with Jane front and center. This is how to be certain that, when the time’s right, you can trap a monster.

Upstairs, Jay can switch between the cameras on his laptop or have all three on a multiscreen like security guards looking for thieves.

“I won’t ask again,” Jane says, trying to push past.

“I don’t know who you mean.”

“You know damn well what I’m talking about. You went to the woods and you dug up…”

She stops and looks over my shoulder. Then she shakes her head and mumbles something I can’t make out. She’s furious, but her tears are coming hard now, and she looks scared as well.

“Give him to me!” Jane screams.

She moves so fast that I don’t realize she’s scratched me until I feel the sting. I touch my cheek and my finger comes away red. She lunges again, and I step away this time.

“Why would you dig up my son?” she snarls.

I try to keep my voice strong, but it cracks at the end. “What do you mean?”

Jane clenches her fists, and I brace myself, but she doesn’t move.

Instead, she takes a long breath out. “You think you’re so clever, but you’re not. My son died six years ago, and no one has any fucking idea.”

“I do,” I reply.

Jane laughs. “‘I do.’”

She’s mocking me because I’m scared, and she thinks she’s the reason. But I’m terrified she’ll leave without saying everything.