Catherine
Elliott put the Chrysler in park, the engine idling in Mrs. Mason’s driveway. Her car could be seen through the small square windows of the garage door, and although the lights were out, it was comforting to know she was inside waiting for me.
Elliott slid his fingers between mine and then lifted my hand to his lips.
“Thank you for today. And for this,” I said, tapping the box with the frame inside.
“You like it?” he asked.
I nodded. “You don’t get yours until tomorrow.”
“Fair enough.”
“It’s not much.”
“You didn’t have to get me anything. When can I see you?”
“Around noon? Oh God.”
“What?”
“I didn’t get Mrs. Mason anything.”
“She won’t care, Catherine.”
“But they got me presents.”
“They?”
“Mr. Mason brought some by. Oh my God. I’m awful. I should have done something for them today.”
Elliott chuckled. “It’s fine. If you want, we can find something tomorrow, and you can give it to them then.”
“Like what?”
He narrowed his eyes. “I don’t know. We’ll sleep on it.”
I leaned over to peck his lips, but he grabbed my arm.
“What?” I asked, still smiling.
Elliott’s grin faded. “I still have a bad feeling. I’m going to walk you to the door. I can do that now, right?”
I nodded.
Elliott left the motor running, and we walked hand in hand to the door. I turned the knob and pushed, the alarm beeping at me, so I entered my code and pressed disarm.
“See? All good,” I whispered.
“I guess my bad feeling is just about dropping you off.”
“Merry Christmas,” I said, rising on the balls of my feet. I pecked his lips and then waved, watching him walk to his car. The Christmas tree was lit, the soft glow lighting my way to the kitchen. I paused for a moment, feeling something sticky under my feet, and then continued over the tile floor to the light switch. I heard the Chrysler back out of the drive and pull away, and I flipped on the light.
My mouth fell open, and my stomach instantly felt sick as I traced the bright red spatters and smears along the countertops, the refrigerator door, and the floor. Someone had been dragged across the kitchen, four small streaks from fingers left behind as whoever it was futilely clawed at the tile. The body was dragged through the utility room and out the garage door.
I swallowed back the bile rising in my throat, my trembling hand covering my mouth. The blood told a violent story, and whoever had left it behind didn’t have much more to spare.
“Becca?” I called, my voice small. I cleared my throat. “Becca?”
Slick crimson made my hand slip over the knob as I tried to turn it, finally getting some traction long enough to get the door open. “Becca?” The light flickered when I flipped the light switch, the fluorescent rectangle above igniting one tube at a time. My stomach sank. Blood on the floor had been marked in and then used to write scribbles on the wall. Tears fell down my cheeks. “B-becca?”
I backed out of the garage door and the kitchen, then fumbled through the dark to the hallway, unable to recall where to find the next light switch. I reached around a doorway and swept my hand against the wall, finally lighting the way. I looked to the left. My bedroom door was open. To the right, one side was smeared with crimson, leading from Mrs. Mason’s bedroom.
My entire body shook, every hair standing on end as I forced myself to take a step toward Mrs. Mason’s end of the hall. The door was standing wide open, and I called for my guardian into the dark.
“Mrs. Mason?” I asked, my voice refusing to rise above a whisper. I reached for the wall, the light exposing more of the bloody mess.
Mrs. Mason’s purse was on her dresser, and I ran past it, checking the bathroom. “Becca?” I said, my voice shrill. I scrambled for her purse, dumping it out onto the bed. Change, a wallet, and makeup fell out, along with her phone. I swiped it from the bedspread and dialed the first number in her recent calls list.
“Hello?” Mr. Mason answered, sounding confused.
“It’s um . . . it’s me, Mr. Mason. It’s Catherine.”
“Catherine? You okay? What’s going on?”
“I just got home. I’m”—I ran across the room to shut and lock Mrs. Mason’s door—“I’m in the house.”
“Okay. Catherine . . . let me speak to Becca.”
“She’s not here,” I whispered. Even my voice was shaking. “There’s blood. There’s blood everywhere,” I choked out, feeling hot tears stream down my face.
“Blood? Catherine, let me talk to Becca. Right now.”
“She’s not here! She’s not here, and there’s blood trailing from her bedroom to the garage!”
“I’m hanging up, Catherine. I’m going to call the police. You sit tight.”
“No, don’t hang up! I’m afraid!”
“I’ll call the police, and then I’ll call you right back. I’m getting in the car. I’ll be there in five minutes.”
The phone went silent, and I held it against my cheek, keeping my eyes shut tight to block out the gruesome scene in the bedroom.
I didn’t know what else to do, so I counted. I counted to ten, and then twenty, and then a hundred, and then five hundred. At 506, the front door crashed against the Christmas tree, the ornaments and lights dancing with the branches.
“Catherine?” Mr. Mason bellowed, police sirens sounding in the distance.
I scrambled to my feet, sprinting down the hallway and into Mr. Mason’s arms, sobbing.
He hugged me, nearly panting. “Are you okay?” he asked, holding me at bay. “Becca?” he called.
I shook my head, unable to form a single word.
Mr. Mason trudged into the kitchen and saw the mess for himself. He ran into the garage and then the yard, calling for his wife. He came back inside, slipping and then falling to his knees. He looked at the blood on his hands. “What happened?” he cried. “Where is she?”
“I don’t . . . I . . .” I shook my head and then covered my mouth with my hand.
Two police cars parked in front of Mrs. Mason’s house. Their blue and red lights flickered in the front room, drowning out the soft white light of the Christmas tree.
A police officer knelt beside me. “Are you all right, miss?”
I nodded.
A second officer froze in the dining room. “We need to search the house, sir. I need you to step outside.”
Mr. Mason stood, turned on his heel, and made a beeline for the door, grabbing my arm and tugging me along with him. An ambulance pulled into the driveway, and paramedics jumped out. After a short search and seizure in the back, one brought two blankets while the other ran into the house.
“What did you see?” Mr. Mason asked, draping the blanket around my shoulders.
“I . . . nothing. I just got here.”
“From where?”
“Elliott brought me from—”
“Elliott was here?” he asked.
“He dropped me off. He walked me to the door, but he didn’t come in.”
“Where is he now?”
“He left. He was gone before I turned the light on and saw . . . Do you . . . do you think that’s her blood?”
He hugged me, and his words stuck in his throat for a moment. “Christ, I hope not.”
We stood by one of the police cars, huddled and shivering. One by one, the neighbors stepped out to watch the officers and paramedics travel in and out. More police arrived, and then Detective Thompson.
He eyed me as he walked across the front yard to the house, the police cruiser’s lights casting shadows on his face.
“Why don’t you two sit in the back of the ambulance, where it’s warm?” one of the paramedics said.
“Did you find her?” Mr. Mason asked in a daze.
The man shook his head, pressing his lips together in a hard line. “Doesn’t look like she’s in there.”
Mr. Mason took a deep breath, and I followed him into the ambulance.
“If she’s not in there and they took her, maybe she’s still alive,” Mr. Mason said.
“Her fingers . . . there were marks on the floor. Like she was trying to hang on to something,” I said.
“To stay. She fought. Of course she did.” His bottom lip trembled, and then he pinched the bridge of his nose, choking out a cry.
I touched his shoulder. “She’s going to be okay. They’ll find her.”
He nodded and held out his phone. “Do you, uh . . .” He cleared his throat. “Do you want to call Elliott?”
I shrugged, my bottom lip trembling. “I don’t know his number.”
Mr. Mason wiped his eyes with the sleeve of his coat. “You were with him all day?”
“His mom is in town. He was home all day, I swear.”
“He’s a good kid.” He ran his hand over his hair. “I need to call Lauren, but Christ . . .”
“Lauren’s her sister?”
“Yeah.”
The door opened, and Detective Thompson climbed in, sitting next to me. He pulled out a notebook and a pen. “Catherine.”
I nodded.
“Can you tell me what happened tonight?”
“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.
“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 at 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.”