I pry open the lid. Bill’s eyes are two reflective circles in a swirling dark pool in the pit. The water is low, lapping around his waist. His arms tremble—whether it’s from the cold or the fatigue of being suspended above his head with a chain, I can’t guess. Maybe both. When the water table rises, pushing him up, at least his shoulders will be offered a reprieve.
“Oh, my God,” Hazel says from beside me. “Sir? Sir!”
Bill’s lips move and sounds come, but his words are chopped to syllables and single letters.
“Why are you doing this?” she demands of me. “What does Fate have to do with this man?”
“Fate didn’t choose him. He came here on his own. He interfered. He chose this. I won’t kill him. I keep him fed and watered. Fate keeps him alive, or she doesn’t. His life is in her hands now. If you want to see if you are chosen by Fate, you can see whether or not she keeps you alive.”
“How long are you going to make him stay in there?”
“Until my song is finished. If he lives that long, then he is meant to live. If he doesn’t, then his life’s purpose has already been fulfilled.”
“You’re crazy!”
I smile at her, doing my best to remember she’s basically still a child. “I am trying to spare you the fight of discovery. Fate has picked your path, and I am sweeping it clean for you, Hazel.”
She looks at me, our eyes meeting for a long moment. Then she turns back toward the pit, and she jumps.
MARTIN Chapter 54 | 3:30 PM, December 4, 2006 | Tarson, Georgia
MARTIN STEPPED OUT OF HIS car and onto Main Street, where wind whipped between the two rows of buildings. He stuffed his hands in his jacket pockets, having left his notebook in the passenger seat, and walked into the Music Box.
An older man stood to greet him from behind a desk. He was wearing wire-rim glasses, a button-down shirt, and a V-neck sweater vest. This man, Martin thought, couldn’t look more like a music nerd if he tried.
“Welcome,” the man said. An accent made his word rise at a faster clip. German or Swedish, if Martin had to guess.
“Thank you. I’m Detective Locklear.” He paused long enough to flash his badge. “Do you own this store?”
“Yes. I’m Bjorn Fleiss. I opened this store twelve years ago. I can show you my business license,” he answered, fumbling with a drawer.
“That won’t be necessary. I’m here to ask about Hazel Stevens,” Martin started. He wanted to shout Jonathon’s name, to search every photograph hanging in the building in hopes of finding his face, but Jonathon was clearly adept at hiding in plain sight, and if he felt any kind of pressure, he was likely to run far and long.
“Oh, that poor girl. Did they find her? I saw something on the news about her father.”
“Don’t believe everything you see,” Martin summarized. “I’m new to the Tarson PD. The captain has asked me to give a few cold cases a once-over with fresh eyes. I’m starting with this one.”
“She’s worth every effort,” Bjorn said.
“What can you tell me about the time she spent here?” Martin asked.
“She worked mostly on vocal training with my assistant, Jonathon Walks. She was very committed, very responsible.”
“I don’t remember reading anything about a Jonathon Walks in the original file. What can you tell me about him?” Martin asked, trying to sound as casual as possible.
“He worked at a recording studio in Atlanta for nearly a decade. He came in looking for a miniature piano and found a job instead.” The old man smiled to himself, smitten with the memory.
“Is Mr. Walks here now?”
“No, he’s taken a job in Dalton. He fills in for me when he can.”
“Do you think he would be willing to speak with me about his time with Hazel, give me any insight into her mental state?” Martin asked carefully.
“I’m sure he would. He took time off after her abduction. He helped with the search.”
“You called it an abduction,” Martin interjected. “She was ruled a runaway.”
“That girl would never run away. I don’t know how anyone who spent any time with her could think that was a possibility. Jonathon felt the same way. He was sure someone had taken her.”
“Is that so?” Martin tried not to look too interested.
“He would rant about it, fall to pieces. I had to send him home a couple of times.”
“Does he still live in town? I think he could really help me understand Hazel better,” Martin pressed.
The man shrugged. “He never mentioned moving.”
“Do you happen to have an address or a contact number?”
“I have his number,” the man said as he flipped through the pages of a three-ring binder. “I’ll write it down for you.”
“Do you also happen to have a picture of them together?” Martin asked, leaning over the counter to see if he could put eyes on a mailing address. But the ledger only had a phone number, a tally of hours worked, and corresponding payments—all even dollar amounts in increments of ten. Martin was almost sure from this information and its arrangement that Jonathon was paid in cash under the table.
“I don’t. I tried once, but Jonathon was uncomfortable with the idea. He said Mr. Stevens was already apprehensive of how close the two had become and that a picture may be misunderstood. I am certain there was no inappropriate behavior between the two of them, though. They were never together behind closed doors. I never even saw him touch her. Not once. If he wanted her to adjust her position, he would demonstrate the change on himself and have her copy him.”
“That’s good to know,” Martin said, handing him his card.
“If you’re looking at Jonathon for this, you’re wrong. I’ve never seen a man as devastated as he was after Hazel was taken—aside from her father, of course. I never would have guessed Mr. Stevens would shoot anyone, especially a woman. Everyone thought they had a happy little home, he and Hazel. But now… well, I don’t know what to think. Is that why you’re asking? Are the incidents related?”
“If we decide to connect them, I’m sure I’ll be back to speak to you about that aspect of the case. But right now, I’m more interested in any relationships Hazel Stevens had outside the home.”
“Yes, all right.” The shop owner blinked rapidly behind his glasses. “After Hazel was taken, Jonathon didn’t eat for weeks. It looked like he wasn’t sleeping, either—bags under his eyes. The new job has helped him, though. The last time I saw him, he seemed back to his old self. Maybe… maybe don’t bother him with this unless you have to,” the man said.
“That’s probably a good idea,” Martin said, backing toward the door. “Why don’t we keep the conversation between us?”
“Yes, I think that’s for the best.”
HAZEL Chapter 55 | December 25, 2005 | Tarson, Georgia
MICHAEL DROPS THE LID IN place. The darkness feels thicker than the water, and my sense of balance tilts. I flail my hands out, searching for the wall. I splash more than I want to and have to remind myself that there aren’t sharks circling my feet and that the only teeth to worry about are above me.