AFTERNOON
Milo Drake is an insane person. It might not be a nice thing to say, but we all know this. We just don’t know what type of insane person.
This morning, the sheriff held a press conference to discuss the case. Dad taped it, because he wants to keep a record of everything. Now I’m watching it for, like, the fifth time and writing down what the sheriff said.
Milo Drake is no longer considered a suspect. We have ruled him out in both the disappearances of Fiona Loomis and Charlie Dwyer. There is indisputable evidence that he could not have been involved in either occurrence. He was nowhere near the victims at the time periods in question. In addition, the bones recovered from his yard are animals’ bones. Mostly deer and raccoons, though there are cats, foxes, and a few dogs as well. It appears that no crimes have been committed in relation to these bones, but we will continue our discussions with Mr. Drake. I will not be taking questions at this time, but should new information come to light, we will share it with the public. We encourage various news outlets to be judicious in their reporting. Thank you.
“Judicious in their reporting.” That means don’t print every insane person’s confession! That means you, Sutton Bulletin! My parents had canceled their subscription to you a while ago and only recently renewed so they could know what their neighbors were reading about the Loomises, the Dwyers, and us. I’m pretty sure they’re regretting that decision. I know I am.
Last night’s relief transformed into something new this morning. Fear. Heavy, heavy terror. I’ve been scared for weeks. For Fiona. For Charlie. For Alistair. For myself. I’ve been scared about the how and the what. How do we find them? What are we going to do to help Alistair … and me? But this morning was when I really started worrying about the why. Why so many lies? Why so many stories? I realized that I don’t understand what motivates people. Somehow, that scares me the most.
“Why would a guy confess to something he didn’t do?” I asked Mom as she drove me to the mall in Sutton to buy Christmas presents, which she had insisted on doing even though it’s something I know she hates doing.
Mom paused when I asked her. I could almost hear her saying, Isn’t this a better question for your father? But that’s not what she said. Because I think we both knew why I asked her. I didn’t want the professional answer. I wanted the mom answer.
“Well,” she said, “people feel guilty about a lot of things. Sometimes all they want is to be punished. So they confess, to almost anything.”
Is that what Milo Drake wanted? Is that what Kyle wanted? Is that what Alistair wanted?
“Why were there so many animals buried in his backyard?” I asked.
This pause was longer. She was either speculating or wondering if she should share the truth. I couldn’t tell. “He wanted to give them a proper burial.”
“Because he killed them?”
“Because he found them,” she said. “They were roadkill.”
As Mom said this, I spied a dead squirrel on the side of the road. A coincidence, sure, but only a small one. Streets around here are covered in death. From deer all the way down to baby birds.
Baby birds. Baby birds.
At the stoplight next to the memorial tree, I was still staring out of the window, trying to conjure the image of the dead hummingbird from a couple of weeks ago, trying to make it seem real again, trying to reassure myself it was real.
“Everything okay?” Mom asked.
“What are coincidences?” I replied.
“Sorry? What do you mean?”
“I mean … if there are all these coincidences piling up in your life … where do they come from? What do they mean?”
Mom turned her eyes from the road for a second, which is a big no-no when driving, but I think she wanted to say this to me face-to-face. “I haven’t the first damn clue.”
That’s not what you expect from your mom. I wanted her to tell me that coincidences were signs that good things would happen. Or a sign that bad things would happen. Anything but what she said, which was basically, Why don’t you tell me, because I’d like to know myself.
Mom turned her eyes back to the road, loosened her grip on the steering wheel, and stretched the fingers on her right hand. It almost seemed like she was preparing to make a fist so she could punch the dashboard or the windshield.
But she didn’t. She put the hand back on the wheel and she began to cry.
What do you do when your mom cries? Well, I know what you’d do, Stella. Something comforting, like hug her and tell her you’re there for her, right? Well, I’m not you, Stella. I’m me. And what I did was this: I stared out the window some more, hoping that if I kept staring then when I finally turned back, her tears would be gone.
Mom turned on the radio. A song crept into the car. The lyrics were all about how birds suddenly appear whenever the singer’s boyfriend is around. It’s a love song, but it didn’t feel like one to me. It felt icky, eerie, wrong.
Mom started humming along, which I thought meant she wasn’t crying anymore, so I turned back. She still had a few tears on her face, but she seemed almost content. I guess she likes the song. I’ve heard it before, but I never gave the lyrics much thought until that moment.
Seriously, why do birds suddenly appear?
Baby birds. Baby birds. Baby birds.