Page 67 of You'll Be Sorry

“I like to read. I read…a lot.”

The boy nodded thoughtfully. “My mom reads a lot, too. And sometimes, when she’s close to the end, she uses her not-so-nice voice cuz she HAS TO finish her chapter RIGHT NOW. You don’t wanna hear my mom’s not-so-nice voice.”

He gave me a serious look. I returned it.

“I…um, your parents aren’t here,” I managed at last. “I should go.”

“You can leave a note,” he offered helpfully.

“I’ll just try again later.”

“And bring your dog? What’s its name?”

“Lovey.”

“My dog is named Dog. Mostly cuz we couldn’t agree on anything else. But he likes being Dog, don’t you, boy?”

Another pat on the head, the dog now gazing up at him worshipfully. I did my best not to roll my eyes at the display.

“Still gotta pee,” the boy said.

“Oh, yes. Right. Um, I’ll see myself out.”

He and the dog pivoted toward the stairs. I exited, feeling slightly dazed and confused. Fortunately, the porch and front yard remained clear. In a manner of seconds, I melted back into the woods, breathing a sigh of relief at being invisible once more.

I returned later that day. And the day after that and the day after that. It took a week, and then I was finally rewarded: Janet Dixon, sitting in her favorite chair, moldering journal in hand.

I had a moment of guilt. But mostly, intense curiosity.

After all this time, finally…What would happen next?

You might not believe me, but later that evening, when the entire family came out to roast marshmallows, I gazed at them with something akin to affection. Especially the little boy and his three chattering siblings. I allowed myself to see them, and only them. No past. No future. Just this present, where two indulgent parents enjoyed a beautiful night under the starlit sky with their four rambunctious children.

I should’ve walked away then.

I could’ve.

Maybe that would’ve made all the difference in what happened next.

But here’s the thing, from one local to another: When you go looking to kill a witch, you’d better make sure you get the job done.

22

Objectively speaking, Mandy understood she wasn’t objective. What did she truly know about her father thirty years ago? She’d been five when the Dixons had disappeared. Too young to understand much of anything, not to mention shut out from the ensuing blizzard of adult conversations. Her parents behind closed doors, again and again. Her father and someone or another sequestered away, night after night.

But her father, Chief Ian Grady, involved in the Dixons’ disappearance? No way. Her father purposefully contaminating a crime scene? Absolutely not. He’d spent the rest of his life genuinely obsessed with what happened that night. Reviewing the details, poring over his notes, chasing down fresh leads. Whatever the lab report said, whatever Adams believed—no, just no, no, and hell no.

Which was making for a very awkward end to her and Samuel Adams’s conversation.

“What are you going to do?” she finally demanded, pacing her office.

“What do you mean?”

“With this. This new information.” She paused long enough to glare at Adams. “Leak it to the media, blab about it all over town? It’s not fair, you know. My father’s not even alive to defend himself!”

“What do you think happened?” Adams asked patiently, hands inhis pockets. “Any scenario you can picture that would explain your father’s DNA being present in the bloody footprints?”

“Of course not!”