“Sure.”
His anxiety rose as he heard Gabe’s name again. Were they showing the photos? His bare foot hanging out from under the tarp? A bloody letter jacket?
He made it out of the lobby and through the front doors and saw the taxi moving down the drive toward him. Raising his hand to catch its attention, he closed his eyes but couldn’t block out the image, the one they always showed. His son, smiling into the camera with his football jersey on—the one taken just eight weeks before he was killed.
CHAPTER 8
Nita Harden had expected her son to be skinny. Somehow, against all odds, her son had grown thicker. Now, as Scott sat in a wingback chair in the study, his white button-up shirt was snug against a chest dotted with small cigarette burns that were starting to scab over. Seated before him, Detective Erica Petts adjusted a dial on a voice recorder, then set it on her knees. She’d been the first to the house when Scott had disappeared and had listened to countless questions, tears, and complaints from George and Nita during the duration of his absence.
“If you get tired or need a break, just let me know. And take your time if you need to think over a question.” The detective leaned forward in her chair, her full attention on Scott.
“Yes, ma’am.” He was such a polite boy. That was one thing that George had done a great job of. Back in first grade, Scott was using please and thank you before he knew how to write. Nita’s pride swelled as she watched him rub the side of his handsome face.
“Okay, we’re recording this, just so we don’t miss anything.” The other cop settled into the third chair in the cluster. Detective Ed Harvey was a big, burly man with glasses. He’d always put off a clear “Get out of our way and let us do our job” vibe that had infuriated her. Now that Scott was home, Ed’s attitude had switched to one of suspicion, though she couldn’t figure out of whom.
Nita leaned against the wall, knotting her hands as she watched Ed offer Scott a soda. It was a brand he didn’t like, and she left the room and hurried to the kitchen. In the large double fridge, she found a can of root beer. Returning to the study, she crept forward and set it down next to him on the desk.
“Thanks, Mom.” He smiled at her.
Erica cleared her throat. “How are you, Scott?”
He gave a shy smile. “I’m good. Glad to be home.”
She gave a short laugh. “I bet you are. Got any big plans?”
“Well, my mom is fixing lasagna tonight. I’m pretty excited about that. Then we’re going to watch Die Hard.”
Nita had suggested a less violent movie, but Scott had rolled his eyes and cajoled George into siding with him. Not that it had taken much work. She couldn’t refuse him anything. Right now, her heart felt like it would burst every time she looked at him.
She couldn’t sleep at night out of the sheer relief and joy of having him back under their roof. She had broached the idea of bringing a cot into his room, but her husband had stopped that idea with a firm shake of his head.
“Great movie,” Ed interjected. “Love Bruce Willis.”
“Yeah.” Scott cracked the top of his root beer.
There was a pause, and Nita shifted her weight to her other foot.
“You were gone for forty-four days, Scott.” Erica clicked her pen into action. “How much do you remember about the day you were taken?”
“Everything. I mean . . . well, I remember everything leading up to when I blacked out. Then I remember being at the house.”
“Okay, so let’s go to the last thing you remember, before you blacked out.”
“Well, we had that football game, against Harvard-Westlake.” He scratched the back of his head. “And I, uh, showered after the game. A lot of the guys were talking about going to get food, so I grabbed my gear and headed to my truck.”
Scott’s truck had been his seventeenth-birthday present. A huge silver four-door with off-road tires and an engine that was too loud, but he loved it. When he was missing, she had climbed up into it and sat for hours, desperately inhaling the air, needing his scent.
“But you never made it to the truck?” Ed asked.
“No, I did. Next to my truck, someone was parked there. It was, um, the science teacher from school. Mr. Thompson.”
“This man?” Erica pulled a photo out from a folder on her lap. Nita eased around to get a better look at the image. It was a man in his late fifties, with a neat white beard, a receding hairline, and a kind smile. It was a staff photo in which he wore a lanyard and had a name tag clipped to a slightly crumpled white button-up. She stared at it. This was the monster who had taken her son. The man who had tortured and killed six others. The man whom she must have passed a dozen times at Beverly High and never noticed. Where had her motherly intuition been? How had it not screamed at her, with a giant glowing spotlight on his face?
“Yeah, that’s him.”
The problem was, she had grown lax. Assumed that because Scott was 170 pounds and practically an adult, he was safe. A stupid assumption, one she would never make again.
“So, what happened?” Ed asked.
“He needed help getting something out of his trunk. I bent over to help him, and he stuck something in my neck. Whatever it was, it knocked me out like that.” Scott snapped his fingers.
“Where were you when you woke up?” Erica asked.
He hesitated. Lifted his soda to his mouth and took a sip. Glanced at his mother. “Uh—in a room. On a bed. I was tied to it.”
Nita held eye contact with him until the moment he looked away. Her stomach cramped. During the weeks of Scott’s absence, as they grew certain the BH Killer was involved, the police had shared information with them about the other victims. The details about what the autopsies had shown . . . Nita let out an involuntary shudder.
Scott had always been a fairly innocent boy. No serious girlfriends, though he’d had plenty of crushes over the years. Before his disappearance, she would have put her hand on a Bible and sworn he was a virgin. Now, her gaze dropped to his bandaged wrists. They had been the first thing she took care of, after she fixed him a plate of food and helped him into a hot shower. She had called Erica while Scott had been in the bathroom, and the detective practically screamed at her to get him out in order to preserve evidence.
But Scott had been filthy. And he’d already known who took him, so why did evidence matter? It didn’t. What mattered was healing. The police needed to wrap up their questions and leave him alone so that he could return to being a normal teenager with his family.
“Do you know where this house was? Was it this one?” Ed produced a photo, which Scott glanced at.
“Maybe. When I left, I just ran. I didn’t look at the house.”
Nita watched him carefully, saw the moment he rubbed the side of his face with his forefinger. It was one of his tells, and she frowned, wondering what he was lying about.
“Were you in a bedroom? His bedroom?” Erica asked.
“No, I don’t think he lived there. I was drugged most of the time, so I’m not sure.”
The two detectives glanced at each other.
“You need to arrest him.” Nita spoke up. “Before he disappears, or before he comes here.”
“We have officers with Randall Thompson now.” Erica met her eyes. “We’re waiting on a warrant to search his home. Don’t worry. He won’t be out of our sight.”