Chapter 28 Nickel and Dimed
No one had asked Lindsay Underwood to come home. She was supposed to be starting a summer internship that week, but she needed to be with her mom. The shit had hit the fan in Troy—and splattered across the entire country. The reporters camped out in her parents’ yard weren’t just from Atlanta stations. All the major cable news channels were there as well, along with every freelance journalist, Reddit detective, and TikTok content creator looking for a new spin on the story. Logan Walsh had been plotting a massacre at the time of his death. The Wright-Wainwright reunion—a newsworthy event on its own—had been the target.
Lindsay parked several blocks down the street and cut through a dozen backyards until she reached the one with the wooden swing that her father had built when she was five and her mother still couldn’t bear to cut down. The plan was to slip in unseen through the back door. Like all of Lindsay’s plans these days, this one went terribly wrong.
“Lindsay!” A reporter popped out from behind the oak, where she’d been waiting to ambush anyone sneaking into the house. She waved at her prey like they were BFFs and it wasn’t at all weird she’d been stalking her. “Do you have a sec to chat? Do you have any comment on the death of Logan Walsh?”
She flinched when she got a good look at Lindsay, who’d cried the whole drive down to Troy. “Oh my God. Are you okay?”
The answer was obvious, so Lindsay ignored the question. “Sure, I’ll give you a quote,” she said. “When I was in elementary school, I used to get bullied because I wasn’t like other kids. Logan Walsh was three grades ahead. On several occasions, he stepped in and stood up for me when no one else would. I’m not saying that as proof that Logan was a good person or deserves any sympathy. I think we know how he turned out. I’m saying that all of us should be doing a whole lot of soul-searching these days. What turned a kid who would stick up for an outcast into a man who was planning to kill half of this town—my own mother included? And what are we going to do to stop other disturbed young men from turning into monsters? Even if you don’t give a damn about them as people, your safety—all of our safety—depends on the answer.”
Lindsay turned her back on the reporter, who clearly hadn’t been expecting that kind of answer, and marched into the Underwood home. When the door was closed and locked behind her, she stood inside the mudroom and tried to breathe. According to the Journal-Constitution, Logan Walsh had turned a hand-drawn outline of Jackson Square into a tactical battle map. He’d loaded two bags with long rifles and ammunition. He was composing a manifesto on his laptop. Although it remained unfinished, it left no doubt what had been done to him as a child—and what he’d had planned for Jackson Square. And sitting right there on his desk, along with two Nazi flags and a half-full beer, was a copy of TheCatcher in the Rye, the discarded jacket of Manhood folded up beneath it. Logan Walsh had borrowed one of the books that she had left in Lula Dean’s library.
Lindsay had fucked up the night she restocked those shelves. She’d kicked over a rock that had long sat undisturbed. Then she’d left town before all the horrible creatures crawled out. Nazis, rapists, and killers—not to mention hypocrites and opportunists. For a while, it felt good to see them exposed. But she should have stepped in when Bella Cummings got hurt. Maybe there would have been time to keep that book out of Logan’s hands.
Books don’t turn people into murderers. Lindsay knew that. She believed it with all of her heart. But what if Logan had found The Catcher in the Rye and remembered that it had been linked to at least three famous shootings? What if that memory had planted the thought of murder in his mind? And what if his plans had succeeded? What if he’d killed the Wright family and her mother and father and God knows how many others? Wouldn’t she be at least somewhat responsible?
Lindsay thought of the Logan she knew when they were little. Why hadn’t anyone helped him like he’d helped her? How much responsibility did she bear for his death? Or for the pain and suffering of the postman and the veterinarian who’d watched Logan blow his head off?
It was time to come clean. That’s why Lindsay had returned to Troy. She’d almost been relieved when she’d driven past Lula’s house and seen the crowd outside. Her ruse had been discovered. She was going to confess. But first she needed to apologize to her mother.
Beverly Underwood was sitting on the living room sofa, surrounded by the entire Wright family. A man with a notepad appeared to be interviewing them as a photographer snapped pictures. Lindsay had almost forgotten the reunion was only ten days away.
“Lindsay!” Beverly cried out. “What on earth? You didn’t say you were coming!”
Lindsay tried her best to smile. “I thought I’d surprise you.”
“Everybody, this is my wonderful daughter. Lindsay, these are our cousins, the Wrights, and this gentleman is from the Journal-Constitution.”
Lindsay offered the guests an awkward wave, and they responded in kind.
“Give us a couple minutes, sweetheart. We’re just finishing up here. Everything okay?”
“Yeah, Mom,” Lindsay assured her. Then she stepped out into the hall and ordered herself to keep it together until the visitors were gone.
“Beverly, when you discovered the connection between the Wainwrights and the Wrights—” she heard the reporter in the living room start to say. Lindsay’s mother stopped him.
“Oh no, I didn’t discover the connection. Isaac did. He’s the reason we’re sitting here today.”
“Isaac, when you discovered the connection, did you ever worry for the safety of your family?”
There was a pause, then Lindsay heard an older man speak.
“If you don’t mind, I’ll answer that question,” said James Wright.
“Please, by all means,” the reporter said.
“Isaac discovered the connection on his own. Apparently one of my brothers let the truth slip a while back. I’ve known since I was a young boy, but I didn’t tell my sons and I had no intention of doing so. When I was growing up, there was nothing we could do with the information. There was no DNA testing back then, so we had no way to prove it. But that was okay, because we didn’t want to talk about it. Not just because it was horrible, which it was. We knew that telling our story could get us killed. I hear people saying we live in more enlightened times now. Do we? After everything that’s happened over the past few days, can anyone look me in the eye and tell me things are all that different?”
“There is one thing that’s different.” Lindsay peeked around the corner and saw it was the younger boy, Elijah.
“What’s that?” James Wright asked.
“There are a whole lot more of us now.”
The tilt of Mr. Wright’s head suggested he hadn’t considered that fact. Then, unable to argue, he nodded.
“That’s right,” said the reporter, who sounded thrilled to move on. “I’ve been told that dozens of potential family members have contacted you about the reunion.”
“Logan Walsh’s suicide has brought a great deal of attention to our cause,” Beverly said.
“The Lord works in mysterious ways,” Betsy Wright added.
There was a knock at the front door just a few feet from where Lindsay stood. She looked through the peephole, expecting to see people with cameras and microphones. Standing on her mother’s custom welcome mat were the county sheriff and two deputies.
“Morning, Miss Underwood,” Sheriff Bradley said when she opened the door. “May I speak with your parents, please?”
She assumed it was something to do with Logan Walsh. “My father isn’t home and Mom is giving an interview right now. Is there something I can do for you?”
“I’m afraid there isn’t,” said the sheriff. “I’ll need to speak to your mother right away.”
“Lindsay? Honey? Everything okay?” Beverly Underwood had stepped into the hallway to see what was happening.
“Ma’am, I have a warrant to search the premises.” The sheriff held out a sheet of paper while his deputies moved forward into the house. The man kept a straight face, but there was no hiding the fact that he was enjoying his duties.
Lindsay’s mother took the page and scanned it. “I don’t understand. You’re looking for books?”
“Yes, ma’am,” the sheriff told her. “I think we’re all aware by now that someone removed the books from Mrs. Lula Dean’s library and replaced them with titles from the banned books list.”
“And you honestly think it was me?” Her mother was still smiling. Lindsay could barely hear the conversation over the pounding of her own heart.
“You took the banned books that were removed from the town’s libraries and stored them in your home, is that correct?” the sheriff asked.
“Yes, of course. They’re still in my basement.”
The sheriff gestured for his two men to head down to the basement. “The books have never been in anyone else’s possession?”
“Not that I know of,” Lindsay’s mother said.
“Then you were the only one who could have swapped the titles.”
Lindsay’s mother stole a glance at her. The look lasted a split second, but it told Lindsay that her mom now knew exactly what had happened. “Even if I was, I don’t know how that could possibly be a crime—”
The sheriff cut her off. “Mrs. Dean’s library was on her property. The books inside were stolen.”
“Stolen?” Lindsay’s mom scoffed. “She left them there for people to borrow.”
“But they weren’t borrowed, ma’am. They were replaced with other titles. Whoever took them had no intention of ever bringing them back.”
They heard the sound of footsteps coming up from the basement. The deputies appeared, their arms loaded with books.
“We got Buffy Halliday Goes to Europe!,Chicken Soup for the Soul, and 101 Cakes to Bake for Your Family,” said one.
“We also found a bunch of dust jackets,” said the other. “They’re all from banned books that were removed from the libraries.”
“Beverly? You need some help?” Betsy Wright was standing in the doorway to the living room. The reporter who was there for the interview was recording the encounter on his smartphone.
The sheriff kept his eyes focused on Lindsay’s mother. “Mrs. Underwood, I’m going to need you to come down to the station.”
“It was me.” Lindsay finally stepped forward. “I was here a few weeks ago when the library opened. The very first night, I took the books out of Lula’s library and switched them. My mother had nothing to do with it.”
“That’s not true!” Beverly argued. “My daughter is making it all up. I was the one who did it!”
Lindsay pointed at the dust jackets one of the deputies was holding. “Ask my mother to name three of the books that those jackets were taken from.”
All eyes turned to Beverly Underwood, who’d clearly drawn a blank.
“Lindsay Underwood, you are under arrest for stealing Lula Dean’s little library.” The sheriff took Lindsay by the elbow and guided her toward the door.
“What are you talking about?” Beverly gasped. “This is insane!”
Lindsay was walked outside, where two patrol cars were waiting in the drive. Lula Dean watched from the sidewalk with a smug smile while her little white dog finished taking a poop on the Underwoods’ lawn. When Winky stood up, Lula offered a little wave, then turned her back to the scene and sashayed away.
When the Underwood family returned home from the station three hours later, they found a tall, scrawny young man in a Metallica T-shirt waiting for them on the front steps. He rose to his feet as Lindsay and her parents approached and took off his Piggly Wiggly hat. “Afternoon,” he told Trip and Beverly. “You might not remember me. My name’s Ronnie Childers.”
“Of course we remember you,” Lindsay’s mother said, though her husband didn’t look quite so certain. “We never forget Lindsay’s friends.”
“Are you the kid who made the fountain in Jackson Square spray blood?” Trip’s eyes lit up momentarily. “That was clever. Wish I’d thought of it myself when I was twelve.”
“Thank you, sir,” Ronnie said. “I consider that my shining moment. Listen, I’m sorry for ambushing y’all. I just heard about the arrest, and I wanted to come offer my help.”
“No!” Lindsay barked. Her cheeks were tearstained, her fingertips black with ink, and her record sullied. “Absolutely not.”
She saw her parents exchange surprised looks. “That’s very sweet, Ronnie,” Beverly said. “But I’m not sure what you could do.”
“I was there the night the books were switched,” Ronnie said. “My fingerprints are all over them. I’m going to take responsibility.”
“You most certainly are not!” Lindsay could have kicked him in the shin. “It was all my idea and you know it. I just hauled you along for the ride.”
“I don’t understand,” Beverly told Ronnie. “Why on earth would you want to get yourself in trouble?”
Ronnie seemed surprised that anyone had to ask. “Because Lindsay has her whole life in front of her. Mine is already ruined.”
“Ruined?” Trip asked.
“Yessir. Felony possession of a schedule-one substance,” Ronnie informed him.
“Psychedelic mushrooms,” Lindsay told her parents. “The same kind that are totally legal in Oregon.” She turned back to Ronnie. “I thought we talked about this. Your life isn’t ruined. You can go out west and learn how to help people.”
Ronnie offered the kind of indulgent smile that’s usually reserved for small children. “That was just talk. I can barely pay my rent as it is. I’ve been saving up for a PS5 for nine months and I’m still nowhere close. There’s no way I could ever get to Oregon. I might as well plan a trip to Mars. But that’s fine, because you’re the one who’s going to help people. My good deed will be helping you. So let me take the hit for the books. I doubt they’ll give me much jail time at all.”
For the first time in her existence, Lindsay found herself standing at the edge of despair. She recognized it at once as the deep, dark pit of hopelessness that had almost sucked Ronnie in. She knew there was no way out—and nowhere to go if she ever escaped. Lindsay had cried on the ride down to Troy and again in the police station. But now she broke down and sobbed for Ronnie and Logan and for all the other kids who’d fallen into traps towns like Troy always set for them.
Her father held Lindsay up while he guided her up the stairs and into the house.
“I’m so sorry, Ronnie,” she heard her mother say. “Lindsay’s having a rough time today. Please don’t go to the police. Stop by the house tomorrow if you don’t mind. We can talk about all this then.”