Chapter 27
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
A couple of days later—yes, it took me that long to make up my mind—I got up very early and drove to the Municipal Center. They weren’t open yet. I sat in the Escalade until I saw a crumbling blue Subaru wagon pull into the parking lot. I climbed out of the Escalade and walked over.
Detective Lehmann rolled down his window and said, “Go away.”
“I know who did it.”
“So, do I. I arrested Donny Hyslip last night.”
The name sounded familiar, but I couldn’t place it.
“You arrested who?”
“High school senior. We found the paperweight from Hessel’s desk in his room. Along with a bloody shirt.”
Oh my God. He was the boy who’d raped Bekah Springer.
And then I knew what had happened. Sue Langtree had put the paperweight in his room.
But what about the—she’d been wearing a man’s shirt when I went to see her.
One of her husband’s. She must have been wearing one when she killed Reverend Hessel. And she put it—
“How did you know to look for those things?”
“Girl at school turned him in. Said he bragged to her about it.”
“Bekah Springer?”
“How did you know that?”
“Bekah’s the only high school student I’ve met up here. It was a lucky guess.”
He still looked at me suspiciously.
“The Hyslips are trying to say the evidence was planted. Apparently, they leave their doors open. But then, everyone up here does,” he said.
“Yeah, people need to stop doing that.”
What exactly is a good person? And, more importantly, is it worth being one? Sue Langtree thought she was a good person. Donny Hyslip was definitely a bad person. But Sue was guilty and Donny was innocent—at least of the crime he was in jail for. I guess it was justice of a sort.
Honestly, I needed to get out of Wyandot County.
It was time for me to go home, my real home.
That was the only answer. I decided it didn’t matter if I bought a car.
In fact, I should just collect my money from my grandmother, get a plane ticket, and leave.
I could get a semi decent used car when I got to Los Angeles.
When I got home—I mean, when I got to my grandmother’s—it wasn’t my home I reminded myself—I found her sitting in the kitchen waiting for me.
“Where have you been?”
“I went to see Detective Lehmann. They’ve arrested Donny Hyslip for Reverend Hessel’s murder.”
“Donny Hyslip? He’s just a boy.”
“Teenager.”
“Oh. Drugs, wasn’t it?”
“Um, sure… I guess.”
“And now you want your money.”
“Yes, I do.”
“I’ve been talking to your mother about your hospital bill,” she began. “Her friend found out that if you’re poor and without insurance in California you don’t have to pay more than Medicaid rates. He spoke to the hospital and got your bill reduced to fourteen hundred dollars.”
Then she held out a check. I grabbed it. Even though the handwriting was that of an emotionally disturbed child, I could still clearly read that it was for five hundred forty-one dollars and thirty-eight cents. My mother had managed to not pay a dime and my grandmother—
“I paid the bill for you.”
“This isn’t what we agreed to. You were going to give me two thousand dollars. Not some hospital.”
“No, but I think it’s close enough.” She watched me carefully for a moment. “Doesn’t it feel good to be out of debt?”
“But I’m not out of debt. I still have a student loan in default and credit cards that are maxed, not to mention another hospital bill from when I got run off the road. That hasn’t even arrived yet.”
“Well, maybe you’ll get lucky and someone else will die,” she said with a bitter smile.
“You’re better. You can take care of yourself. It’s time for me to go back to California.”
“You really think that’s a good idea?”
“I do. I never wanted to be here in the first place.”
“I know you’re still taking those pills. I can get you help. If you want it.”
Jesus Christ. That’s twice in what, a week or so? Twice that someone’s offered to get me help. But I wasn’t—or was I? Had I accidentally gotten addicted? Was I not just having fun anymore? And how was I supposed to figure it out?
Well, obviously, I should just stop. I didn’t need to take pills. It wouldn’t be that hard. All I had to do was not take them anymore. Simple.
Then she said the oddest thing. “I’m going to leave you the farm. Your mother doesn’t want it. I think, well I think you’re smarter than you know. You could do very well for yourself.”
As a farmer? She couldn’t possibly—
“But if you go back to L.A. you won’t stop with the pills. And you’ll die.”
“That’s not true.”
For a bit, she didn’t say anything else. The room was very still. She stared at me, her eyes so brown, like my mothers, like mine. After taking a deep breath, she said, “While I still have the chance, I want to say thank you for the things you’ve done for me, taking care of me the way you have.”
“I’m not very good at it.”
“Well, I won’t fight you on that, but you stayed and you did what was needed. That’s what’s important. So, thank you.” She got up, leaning on her cane, then added, “I think it’s time for a little nap in front of the TV.” And she wobbled out of the room.
What the—I’m sure I was standing there with my mouth open. It was all too much to take in. I needed to go upstairs and take—But that’s what an addict would do. Take a pill and make it all go away.
And in that moment, it was the only thing in the world I truly wanted.
Crap.