“I was at Elliott’s all day. I came home and Mrs.—Becca’s car was here, so I assumed she was home. Elliott walked me to the door, kissed me goodbye, then I walked across the living room, the dining room, and switched on the light. That’s when I saw the . . . all the . . .”
The detective nodded, scribbling in his notepad.
Mr. Mason cleared his throat again. “Looks like the whole police force is here.”
“Pretty much,” Thompson said, still scribbling.
“Who’s out looking for her?” Mr. Mason asked.
Thompson’s head popped up. “Pardon?”
“The paramedic said she’s not in the house. Who’s out searching for my wife?”
Thompson narrowed his eyes. “No one. No one’s looking for her.”
“Why the hell not?” Mr. Mason said. For the first time, I heard anger in his voice. He still loved her. “If she’s not here, then she’s out there somewhere. Why aren’t you out there looking for her?”
“We need to get some information first, Mr. Mason, and then we can get started. Catherine, about what time did you leave the Masons’ home for the Youngbloods’?”
I shrugged. “I’m not sure. Ten thirty maybe?”
“This morning?”
“Yes.”
“And you were at the Youngbloods’ all day? Until what time?”
“Tonight. An hour ago maybe.”
“And where was Elliott today?”
“With me.”
“All day?”
“Yes. He came to the Masons’ this morning. She went to the grocery store, I left her a note, and we left for his house.”
“You left a note? Where?”
“On the kitchen counter.”
He scribbled. “At any point did Elliott leave?”
“No! Why don’t you find Mrs. Mason instead of trying to pin this on Elliott? It wasn’t him!” I yelled.
Mr. Mason pointed down the road. “Kirk, put down your damn notepad and go find my wife!”
Thompson frowned. “Were there children in the home at any time today?”
“What?” I asked.
“Lauren’s kids,” Mr. Mason said. “They visit every Christmas Eve. They open presents and have dinner.”
“Who’s Lauren?” Thompson asked.
“Becca’s sister. Why?”
“There are drawings in the garage. A child’s drawings. In the blood.”
I swallowed.
Mr. Mason immediately fished his phone from his pocket and dialed. “Lauren? You home? I’m sorry for waking you. Are the kids home? Yes, I know, but can you check for me? Just do it!” He waited, his knee bobbing. “What?” He held the phone to his chest and closed his eyes, relieved. He spoke quietly to Thompson. “They’re there. In bed.”
The detective nodded.
“I’m sorry, Lauren. No, no. It’s . . . Becca. I’m not sure. It looks bad. The police are here at the house. She’s not here. Did she say anything to you? No, they’ll come to you. I don’t know, Lauren. I’m sorry.”
As Mr. Mason spoke to his sister-in-law, Detective Thompson gestured for me to follow him outside of the ambulance into the yard.
“What else can you tell me?” he asked.
“That’s it. That’s all I know,” I said, pulling the blanket tighter around me.
“You’re sure?”
I nodded.
Thompson stared at the house. “It’s lucky Elliott was with you all day. This matches Presley’s disappearance.”
“What? How?”
“The child’s drawings. Same thing all over Presley’s bedroom walls. We kept that quiet while we did our investigating. We told Presley’s parents to keep it confidential, too.”
“In blood?”
Thompson nodded.
I covered my mouth and closed my eyes.
Thompson left me to return to the Masons’ home. I could hear Mr. Mason trying to calm Lauren down. Before I could stop myself, I dropped the blanket and ran. Down the Masons’ street, for blocks and then miles, until I felt like my fingers were frozen and my lungs would burst. I didn’t stop until I was standing at the end of the dark road in front of the Juniper. The lights were still broken, the stars snuffed out by cloud cover.
The gate creaked as I pushed through, my feet stumbling over the uneven sidewalk. I climbed the steps of the porch and stopped at the front door. “Go in, Catherine. You’re a warrior, not a princess,” I said aloud.
I reached for the knob and pushed, startled when it popped open. The Juniper was dark, creaking and breathing like it always had.
“Mama?” I called, leaning against the door until it closed behind me. I struggled to catch my breath, my hands screaming in pain as the blood returned to my fingertips. It wasn’t much warmer in the Juniper than outside, but at least I was protected from the freezing wind.
Many voices filtered up from the basement, arguing, crying, whining, and yelling, and then they stopped, making way for the Juniper to stretch and breathe. Beyond the groaning and howling of the walls was a muffled whimper. I walked down the hall, past the dining room and kitchen, to reach the basement door, and then held my ear against the cold wood. Another whimper, another deep voice scolding whoever was downstairs.
Duke.
I opened the door, trying my best to be quiet, but Duke wasn’t paying attention, too intent on venting his anger. I inched down the steps, Duke’s voice getting louder the deeper I descended.
“I told you,” Duke growled. “I warned you, didn’t I?”
“Daddy, stop! You’re scaring her!” Poppy cried.
I peeked around the corner, seeing Duke standing in front of Mrs. Mason. She was sitting in a chair in her bare feet and cotton nightgown, her hands tied behind her back, gagged by a dirty sock, secured by a piece of cloth that was pulled across her mouth and tied at the nape of her neck. Her right eye was purple and swollen, blood dried and matted to a spot just above her right temple. Her torso was soaked in blood. Her face was dirty, tears creating tracks down her face.
Mrs. Mason spotted me, her left eye widened, and she shook her head.
Duke started to turn. Mrs. Mason made a ruckus, pushing off with her feet and banging the chair against the floor as she screamed through the cloth she was gagged with.
“Shut up!” Duke spat. “You just couldn’t stand it, could you? You had to stick your nose in where it didn’t belong. We told you to stay away from her, didn’t we?”
Mrs. Mason’s face crumpled, and she began to cry again. “Please,” she managed to say around the gag.
A door upstairs slammed, and Elliott’s voice bellowed through the house.
“Catherine!” he screamed. “Catherine, can you hear me?”
Mrs. Mason froze, the whites of her eyes showing her surprise. She began bouncing up and down, banging the legs of the chair against the concrete floor and yelling what sounded like help and I’m down here.
Duke’s eyes danced toward the ceiling, and then he looked at Mrs. Mason, raising his bat.
I flattened myself against the wall, closed my eyes, and then stepped out in full view of Duke.
“Enough,” I said, hoping my voice sounded braver than I felt.
“C-Catherine?” Duke said, surprised. The underarms of his short-sleeved button-down were soaked with sweat, the rest of his shirt smeared and spattered in blood. Mrs. Mason had fought, evident by the scratches on his cheek. He was holding my dad’s wooden baseball bat in one hand, a roll of twine in the other. “What are you doing here?”
“The detective said he saw a child’s drawing in Becca’s blood. I knew it was Poppy’s,” I said.
Poppy whimpered. “It wasn’t my fault. I want to go to bed.”
“You can,” I said, reaching out for her.
Duke showed his teeth and growled. “You’re not supposed to be here! Get out and take that boy with you!”
My eyes drifted to Mrs. Mason, dirty, cold, and afraid. “And her.”
“No!” He pointed a
t her. “She’s ruined everything! Do you have any idea what your mother’s been through?”
“Where is she? I want to talk to her.”
Duke shook his head. “No! No, you can’t.”
“I know she misses me. Is she here?”
“No!” he seethed.
Elliott’s footsteps barreled down the steps, and I held up one finger to Duke. “Don’t talk.”
Duke opened his mouth, but I pointed at him. “You say one word, and I will never come back!”
Elliott froze at the bottom of the stairs, his eyes dancing between Mrs. Mason, Duke, and me. “Holy . . . are you okay?” he asked, taking a step.
Duke raised his weapon and took a step toward Elliott. I held up both hands to stop him, then looked to Elliott, making sure not to turn my back on the man with the bat.
“You need to go. Take Mrs. Mason with you. She needs an ambulance. Elliott?”
“Yeah?” he said, unable to look away from Duke.
“Get your cell phone. Call nine-one-one.”
Elliott pulled his phone from his back pocket and dialed the numbers.
I walked around Mrs. Mason’s chair slowly, sure to maintain plenty of distance between Duke and me. Sweat dripped from his hairline as his eyes danced between Elliott speaking quietly to the emergency operator and me circling Mrs. Mason’s chair. He was breathing hard, tired, and slow. By the purple half moons under his eyes, I decided he hadn’t slept, and it would be easy to confuse him, outmaneuver him if necessary.
Keeping my eyes on Duke, I leaned down to untie Mrs. Mason’s bloody wrists and then reached for her ankles, pulling on the twine. Her body was trembling from the cold. Even if she wasn’t already suffering from hypothermia, the blood loss was enough to be dangerous.
Duke took a quick step forward, but so did Elliott, drawing his attention.
“Don’t,” I warned Duke. “She’s freezing, and she’s lost a lot of blood. I’m taking her to a doctor. Did you call?” I asked Elliott.
He nodded, pointing with his free hand to the phone at his ear. “The mansion on Juniper. I’m not sure of the address. The Calhouns’. Please hurry.” Elliott hung up without warning, shoving the phone back into his pocket.
After struggling with the knot, I finally freed Mrs. Mason’s ankles. She fell to the floor and crawled to Elliott. He helped her to her feet.
“Catherine, come on,” she said, shivering and struggling to see. She reached out for me, her entire body shuddering with fear. “Come . . . c’mon.”
“Elliott, she needs a doctor,” I said. “Take her.”
“I’m not leaving,” Elliott said, his voice breaking.
Mrs. Mason pushed Elliott to the side and limped one step forward, standing tall in defiance of Duke. “Come with us, Catherine. Right now.”
I took off Elliott’s hoodie and my boots.
“What are you doing?” Duke barked.
I held my finger to my mouth and tossed them all to Elliott. Duke took another step, and I stood between them. “No,” I said firmly, the way Dad use to speak to our dog.
Elliott gave Mrs. Mason the sweatshirt and my boots, leaning down to help her slide her bloody bare feet inside each one. He stood when she swayed, keeping her on her feet.
“Catherine,” she began, holding the hoodie to her chest.
“Put it on,” I commanded.
She did as I asked and then reached for me again. “Catherine, please.”
“Shut up!” Duke barked.
“I told you not to speak!” I screamed, my body shaking with anger.
Duke dropped the twine, took two steps, and raised the bat with both hands. I turned and closed my eyes, waiting for the blow, but nothing happened.
My eyes popped open, and I stood upright, seeing that Elliott was holding Duke’s wrist, glowering at my assailant. Elliott’s voice was low and menacing. “Don’t you touch her.”
Chapter Thirty-Six
Elliott
Mavis’s eyes softened as she looked at my fingers curled tightly around her squishy wrist. She tried to swing the bat at me, but I caught it, ripping it from her fingers. Seconds before, she had been stronger, more like my uncle John.
“Put it down!” I growled.
Mavis pulled her wrist from my grip, holding the hand I’d restrained to her chest.
“How dare you. Get out! Get out of my home!” Mavis said, taking a few steps back.
Catherine held out her hands as if she were trying to calm a wild animal. “Mama? It’s okay.”
Mavis sat on her haunches in the corner of the room, grabbing her knees, rocking and whimpering.
Catherine knelt in front of her mother and swept Mavis’s tightly wound curls from her face. “It’s going to be okay.”
“I wanna go to bed,” Mavis said in a child’s voice.
“Shhh,” Catherine said. “I’ll take you to bed. It’s okay.”
“Oh my God,” Mrs. Mason whispered from behind me. “How many are there?”
“How many of what?” I asked, feeling more confused by the second.
“Seven,” Catherine said, helping Mavis to her feet. “Mrs. Mason, this is . . . this is Poppy. She’s Duke’s daughter, and she’s five.”
“He didn’t mean it,” Mavis said, wiping her cheek. “He just gets mad sometimes, but he doesn’t mean it.”
“Hi, Poppy,” Mrs. Mason said, attempting to smile while she hugged her middle. My sweatshirt swallowed her, and even with the added layer and the boots, she still shivered. Her face was paling by the minute. “Oh.” She leaned against me, and I held her against my side. “I’m dizzy . . . and nauseous. I think I’m going into shock.”
“You’re not looking so good,” I said.
Mavis began brushing off her dirty shirt.
“My goodness,” Catherine’s mom said in a different voice, “I have been doing laundry all day, and would you look at me.” She smiled at us, embarrassed. “I’m a fright.” She looked to Catherine. “I told that man not to. I begged him. Duke doesn’t listen. Doesn’t listen at all.”
“It’s okay, Althea,” Catherine said.
What I was seeing didn’t make sense. It was as if Catherine and her mom were playing a prank, with Mavis speaking in different voices and Catherine acting like it was normal was real. I watched it all in disbelief.
“Catherine?” I said, taking a step.
Mavis dropped to the floor and crawled toward me on all fours like a dog, but her movements were rigid and unnatural. I stopped and stepped back, feeling Mrs. Mason’s nails claw into my shoulders.
“What the . . . ,” I said, leaning back.
Catherine ran to stand between me and her mom. “Mama!” she cried, her voice desperate. “I need you! I need you right now!”
Mavis stopped at Catherine’s feet, drew her knees to her chest, and curled into a ball. She rocked, and the basement got silent as she hummed the same tune from Catherine’s music box, then giggled.
“Elliott,” Mrs. Mason whispered. “We should go.”
She tugged on my arm, but I couldn’t take my eyes off Catherine. She tended to her mother, waiting for Mavis to speak, waiting to hear who she was talking to.
“There are no guests, are there?” I asked.
Catherine looked up at me, her eyes wet. She shook her head.
“That’s the secret,” I said.
“Catherine, come with me,” Mrs. Mason said, reaching for her. She paused, reacting to the sound of sirens in the distance.
Mavis lunged for Mrs. Mason’s arm, grabbing it with both hands and biting down.
Mrs. Mason screamed.
“Stop! Stop!” Catherine yelled.
I grabbed Mavis’s jaw and squeezed. She groaned, growled, and then whimpered, releasing Mrs. Mason’s arm and crawling away. She sat and then began to laugh uncontrollably, throwing her head back.
Mrs. Mason held her arm out and yanked up the arm of my hoodie, pressing her fingers into her skin just above the wound. Six holes in a perfect
crescent shape oozed crimson.
“Did you . . .” Catherine swallowed, looking nauseous. “Did you take Presley?”
Mavis’s expression changed. “We saw her sleeping in her room. She was so peaceful, like she hadn’t just tried to leave you stranded. So Duke wrapped his fist around all the pretty blonde hair, and we yanked her out her window. No one keeps their windows locked in this town.”
“Chicago,” I said, recognizing the voice. The same one that had come to Catherine’s bedroom door and tried to come in. “That’s Willow.”
“Where is she?” Catherine asked. Her body was stiff, waiting for the answer.
“No one came for her.” Willow smirked. “I don’t know what happened. But I know Duke buried her in the dirt plot next door with the others.”
“The Fentons’?” Catherine asked, tears streaming down her cheeks.
“That’s right,” Willow said. She turned, walking to the chair Mrs. Mason had been tied to. “That little bitch sat in her own shit for days. Right here.”
Catherine’s expression crumpled. “Mama,” she cried. “I can’t follow you here.”
“Go, baby,” Mavis said, a tear streaming down her cheek. She sounded like Althea again. “Hurry.”
Catherine pushed me backward. “Go,” she whispered, speaking through her teeth.
“Not without you,” I said, trying to keep my voice calm.
“I’m going! Go!”
I scooped Mrs. Mason into my arms and walked up the stairs backward, making sure Catherine was following.
The laughing stopped, and a man’s voice growled. Loud footsteps stomped up the stairs, and Catherine ran.
“Go! Run!” she pleaded.
At the top of the stairs, Catherine closed the door behind her. She locked it, touching her forehead to the wood. She sniffed a few times and then looked at Mrs. Mason, exhaustion in her red-rimmed eyes. “She’s not down there.”
“Who?” I asked.
“Mama. How do I explain that it wasn’t her? That it’s not her fault that they killed Presley?” She rubbed her head back and forth against the wood.
“Catherine?” Mavis called in her little-girl voice. “Catherine, I’m scared!”
Catherine sniffed, her eyes wet. She petted the door. “I’m here, Poppy. I’m right here.”
Mrs. Mason shook her head, her brunette hair stained with blood and dirt. “Don’t let her out.”
All the Little Lights Page 36