Mike Omer - In the Darkness

“Which way?” Victor asked Foster.

“Probably west.” Agent Gray pointed.

Victor began to lead Shelley, letting her sniff occasionally. She stopped to pee near a cactus, then kept walking. And then, all of the sudden, she led Victor and not the other way around. Pulling hard against her leash, her body tense, nose close to the ground. She led him five yards away from the railroad, behind a small knoll, then paused, sniffing around attentively. She scratched the ground a couple of times and gave a tiny whine.

Foster and Agent Gray showed up a few seconds later.

“Something here,” Victor said.

“A body?” Foster asked.

Victor shrugged. “A cadaver. Could be a dead hyena or goat. Could be the girl you’re looking for.”

Foster sighed heavily. “Let’s start digging.”

Victor realized that up to that moment, they’d been hoping he’d fail. They’d been hoping the girl might still be alive.

He crouched by Shelley and scratched her neck and behind her left ear. “Good girl. You’re a good girl.”

Shelley gave him her canine grin, tongue lolling. It would have been nice if someone occasionally scratched behind Victor’s ear and told him he was a good cop.

Delia sat at the station by one of the desks, staring at the screen. They’d stopped trying to make her leave after she’s nearly clawed one of the detective’s eyes out. Instead they’d given her a place to sit and placed a cup of water on the desk. The video was muted, and Delia didn’t try to turn on the sound. She just stared at her daughter’s face.

They’d told her they were searching for Maribel but wouldn’t tell her anything else. That Bentley woman spoke in hushed whispers with Detective Lyons, but neither of them had said anything to Delia.

She’d never seen her daughter so frightened in her life. Maribel had always been a ferocious kid, even when she was a tiny toddler. Part of Delia’s issues with her stemmed from the fact that Maribel was never worried about the repercussions of anything she did. She never cared about punishments or anything else. For Delia, who’d spent her entire childhood terrified of her father’s temper, it was incomprehensible.

But Maribel was terrified now. And it tore Delia’s heart to see it.

Behind her, she heard a phone ring.

“Hey, Tatum,” Zoe Bentley said. “Any news?”

Delia turned around, looking at her. Bentley’s body was tense, her expression focused. Delia tried to read the woman’s face. It was like trying to interpret a marble statue. Bentley listened, occasionally emitting one of those vague words that were scattered throughout a conversation. “Okay,” “Yes,” “I see,” “Uh-huh.” And then finally, “I’ll tell her.” Bentley’s stare met Delia’s. She hung up her phone and cleared her throat.

“Mrs. Howe, I’m sorry. They just found your daughter’s body.”

Delia gaped at her, confused, then glanced back at the screen. Maribel still lay there in the darkness, her lips moving slightly, eyes blinking. “But . . . this video . . .”

“The video isn’t from today,” Bentley’s voice had no softness in it. “We don’t know when it was taken, but it’s likely that it was soon after your daughter disappeared.”

Delia turned her focus to Lyons, as if hoping the detective would talk sense into this woman, but the detective just watched Bentley, mouth slightly ajar.

“Are you sure?” Delia asked. “There was a girl in Maribel’s school that looked almost like her. Maybe it’s her . . . you can’t stop searching just because—”

“The clothes on the body match the clothing in the video, and the shirt is the one she wore on the day she disappeared,” Bentley said. “We might need you to identify her later. But it’s her.”

She bent across Delia, switching off the screen. Delia gasped and reached out to turn the screen back on. To her surprise, Bentley grabbed her arm, holding her firmly. She was strong, considering her delicate body.

Delia tore her wrist away and let out a dismayed sob. Bentley stepped back and folded her arms, her gaze on Delia.

“Maribel is gone,” Bentley said again. “Watching this video of her suffering won’t bring her back. All it can do is cause you pain, the same as burning your wrist on your gas stove.”

“If she hadn’t left . . . if she’d only have listened and stayed here, this wouldn’t have happened,” Delia mumbled, looking away.

“She didn’t die because she left home or because she didn’t listen. She also didn’t die because of anything that you did.”

Delia flinched, praying the woman would leave her alone, let her be.

“She died because someone killed her. A man who didn’t care about you or her. Do you understand that?” Bentley knelt by her side. “If you want to see your daughter’s face, I suggest you look at her pictures. Not at the video that her murderer made.”

Delia ignored her, shut her eyes. Bentley talked some more. Then Lyons said something. After a while, they helped her to her feet. She didn’t struggle. Someone asked her if she had someone to be with, if she needed a ride home. She muttered she was fine, that she had a car. She could get home by herself. They let her.

The gas stove in her kitchen was only a short drive away.

His favorite table in the school cafeteria was at the far corner, where he had a perfect line of sight.

He sat there on his own, as always, sketch pad in hand, scribbling fast, his attention consumed completely. The Tater Tots, milk, chicken nuggets, and green Jell-O all sat untouched on his tray, forgotten.

Debra Miller was the only person he could see.

She sat at her regular table with her friends, five forgettable girls whose names he didn’t know. At the moment she was laughing, palm over her mouth, eyes sparkling, her blonde curls tumbling hypnotically on her shoulders. Her shirt was wide, letting one shoulder peek from it slightly. He was well familiar with that shirt, that shoulder, and her beautiful neck. He sat behind her in math class, mesmerized for the entire lesson by her every movement.

His pencil scraped as he drew her hair, those endless waves of curls, as he imagined running his hand through them. He didn’t even have to watch her to get it right anymore. Later, at home, he would page through his sketchbook, make corrections, add some color. Debra was on his mind from the moment he woke up until the minute he fell asleep.

And often she’d appear in his dreams.

He hardly noticed the noise, the three boys who were chasing each other between the tables, laughing. One of them, a boy named Allen, swerved just by his table, colliding with him, knocking the sketch pad from his hand.

“Sorry,” Allen apologized breathlessly. “I didn’t see you.”

He didn’t answer, his eyes fixed on the sketch pad that lay by Allen’s feet.

Allen crouched and picked it up, glancing at the sketch. “Oh, that’s really good. You drew that?”

He cleared his throat and held out his hand for the pad. “Yes,” he said, his voice barely a whisper.

“You drawing the girls?” Allen asked playfully as he paged through it with his dirty hands. “You . . .”

His voice faded as he took in the images. He flipped a page—and another and another. His happy smile twisted into a grimace; the spark in his eyes disappeared. His whole expression morphed, overflowing with disgust and horror as if looking through the sketches, he’d been exposed to something he could never unsee.

Allen tossed the sketch pad on the floor and leaned forward.

“Listen to me, you freak.” Allen’s voice trembled. “If I ever catch you near any of the girls in this school . . . if you even accidentally bump into one, I’ll kick the living shit out of you. You got that?”