“Maybe he is back,” Derrick said. “And he’s been hiding out or moving around all these years.”
“Which means there may be other victims buried across the state.” Ellie’s heart hammered.
Dear God. How many more girls had he murdered?
SEVENTY-SEVEN
Brambletown High
Kat settled in her homeroom class grateful she’d finished her homework the day before so she could read more of her mother’s journal. She pulled her mama’s computer from her backpack, booted it up and located the entries she’d bookmarked the night before.
She scrolled to the next entry and began to read:
Hetty had bruises on her arm yesterday. She was working with Daddy at the graveyard all afternoon, turning the ground for old Mr. Jenkins’ burial on Saturday, and when I asked what happened she said it was an accident. That she tripped and fell over a shovel.
But I could tell she was lying. She’s been acting weird lately, real quiet and moody and in gym class today, she ducked into a stall to change instead of changing in the locker room. She’s always been shy but not with me, and I got the feeling she was hiding something. I’ve seen bruises on her arms before and she usually wears long sleeved shirts to cover them up. The other day her shirt rode up when shewent to lift a sack of fertilizer and there were bruises on her back, too. I wish I had a mama to tell but she left when I was a baby.
When she came in from the graveyard, Hetty was covered in dirt and smelled like fertilizer so she took a bath. Then she put on her long-sleeved flannel gown and knee socks and refused to come to the supper table. I snuck her a piece of fried chicken and a biscuit, but she said she wasn’t hungry and I heard her crying into her pillow.
I punched mine as I crawled in bed, hating the ugly thoughts I had about Daddy. That Earl Bramble was every bit as mean as people in town gossiped about. Maybe even meaner.
I was just about to fall asleep when a noise outside startled me. For a minute I lay there thinking it was a storm brewing, but I didn’t hear thunder and I didn’t see lightning.
It was New Year’s Eve though and I figured there were fireworks. I wanted to go to a party tonight, but Daddy never lets me do anything. He always says nothing good happens to girls who go out at night.
But then… a scream pierced the air. This one so shrill I thought the bedroom window might shatter.
A shiver started deep inside me and wouldn’t let go. Hetty rolled over in bed and jerked up, then startled awake.
She heard it, too.
Shivering, I eased aside the covers and planted my feet on the cold wood floor, then tiptoed toward the window. The curtain was flapping in the January wind that seeped through the cracks, an icy chill sweeping through the already chilly room.
Hetty tiptoed up behind me and clenched my arm. Her whisper came out in a puff, her eyes enormous in her pale thin face. “What was that?”
I had a bad feeling I knew. That this was real, not a figment of my imagination.
I caught the fluttering curtain and held it aside just enough to see out. Hetty stared over my shoulder, her bony body trembling against my back. The half-moon was barely visible through the winter clouds, leaving the woods and graveyard dark and filled with ominous shadows and sounds.
A curse echoed from the bushes and I squinted through the branches of the oaks, my stomach churning.
“Oh, God…” Hetty’s voice rattled out.
My fingers dug into the windowsill as I saw a body being dragged from the bushes toward the deserted section of dead land bordering the graveyard.
Suddenly the figure in the dark coat and ski hat turned and stared at the house. At the window.
I grabbed Hetty’s arm and pulled her down to hide. Did he see us?
Hetty hunkered into a ball and I curved my arms around her as if I could protect her.
Oh, God. I knew who that figure was. Daddy.
So did Hetty.
But if we tried to stop him, we’d end up in the ground just like that girl was going to.
SEVENTY-EIGHT
