Hitch’s voice seemed impossibly distant, farther away than she knew the back wall could allow. “There are some things that are meant to be left buried. Sometimes nature itself turns the earth, opens chasms, all to swallow something that should not be. But Man knows better, doesn’t he? There is something in us that needs to bring these things back into the light. And for what? A little less flooding, as if we know better than the river? A place for our speedboats and Jet Skis, as if everything below the water’s surface is supposed to accept the havoc we wreak?”
“What do you think they found?” Kris asked. She was relieved to hear that her voice was steady, showing no trace of her growing unease. “What could this possibly have to do with—”
“It is all connected, don’t you see that?” Hitch’s voice was suddenly shrill, the cultivated ease of his usual tone gone in an instant. Footsteps clomped as he rushed up behind her, once again reaching over her shoulder. His long, slender fingers flipped the pages, faster and faster, Kris’s eyes hurrying to catch all of the information as it flashed by.
A new chapter: No Evidence of Foul Play, containing a list of ways to kill someone without leaving any trace. Another chapter: Young Girl and Child, followed by a list of childhood mental disorders, as well as an article from Psychology Today entitled “Pedophilia and the Traits of the Psychopath.” The chapter entitled Only Child was a strange combination of causes of infertility, the psychology of the only child and reports of infertility in Midwestern communities, caused by tainted groundwater and air pollution.
With each new page, Kris felt herself falling further and further into the mind of a madman. This was not “research.” This was obsession.
By the time Hitch reached the final chapter—Gone—Kris’s heart was thudding in her chest and a layer of warm, sticky sweat clung to her forehead.
“We take and take and never think about what we must give in return. But a debt requires payment. And we oblige so that we may live in the illusion of prosperity.”
The spine of the scrapbook groaned as he forced the last page over. His fingertip slammed down on photos and headlines from the state’s bloody past, his voice bellowing their names like a preacher at a revival.
“1863. Innocent boys massacred alongside their fathers as Quantrill burned Lawrence to the ground. 1872. Mary Ann Longcor, buried alive with the corpse of her father by the Bender Family in Cherryvale. 1974. Two sweet children slaughtered along with their parents near Wichita by the man who called himself BTK. Six years ago. Charles Carpenter snatched a child just a few miles from here …
The voice of Camilla Azuara joined in, her words echoing to Kris from that day at Patty’s Plate: Charles What’s His Name … Charles something … who took a girl from her front yard in Yates Center …
“They say he did it when he knew the parents were home. To maximize their pain. Just as he did to three other girls near Kansas City, girls who were never seen again. And he walked free because the law failed us.”
Kris shook her head. “This doesn’t make sense. These things have nothing to do with each other.”
“If you choose to be ignorant to the connection, then you will not see it,” Hitch said. “But there is a line to draw between these things. The line is that of our burden. If we accept that our happiness has been on loan, then we will know when it comes time to pay the debt. Or we can let our ignorance—our arrogance—blind us. Just as it did that day when the men dug into the earth, and the water rushed up to reclaim what it once owned.”
The air around them was completely still, the sunlight warming it until the room was an oven. A bead of sweat sprang from Kris’s hairline and streamed down the side of her cheek.
“That’s enough. I’ve seen enough,” she said. She attempted to push away from the desk, but Hitch planted the toe of his shoe against the chair leg, holding her in place.
“But you asked about the girls, didn’t you? You wanted to know what happened to our angels.”
Hitch turned the final page, and Kris’s breath caught in her throat.
Tucked lovingly under contact paper was a series of Polaroid photos of houses, first from the street, then from inside, including shots of four different bedrooms. The bedrooms of young girls. Kris knew if she studied them long enough, she would see details that would link each photo to Ruby, Sarah, Megan, and Poppy.
“They paid our debt with their lives.” Hitch’s voice was so close, she could feel hot breath on the back of her neck.
Once again, Kris tried to shove away from the desk. This time, she found that the chair slid freely backward. She nearly tripped over her feet as she stood and spun around.
Hitch was standing less than a yard away, his eyes dancing in those yellow frames.
“Where did you get those?” Kris asked.
Hitch appeared genuinely confused. “Get … I assure you, all of that research is the product of hard work and my own valuable time—”
Kris thrust a finger toward the Polaroids.
“Where did you get those? Those are not pictures from news articles. Someone took those.”
Hitch seemed to be frozen, as if time had stopped and only Kris was free to move inside this space between seconds. Then he tipped his head back and said, “Ah, yes. Well. When one is attempting to solve a mystery, one must have access to every piece of the puzzle. Surely you understand, or else you wouldn’t be here.”
“Did you take them?” Kris could feel her flesh recoiling, as if it were trying to slither away from the man before her.
“Yes,” Hitch said matter-of-factly.
“How?”
“I went into their homes and I took them. And then I left. They never even knew I was there, thank God. Those families have been through enough.”
Sunlight caught in the lens of Hitch’s glasses and transformed his eyes into twin suns.
Kris inched away from the secretary desk, but Hitch was directly between her and the open doorway.
“You broke into their houses,” she said.
Offended, Hitch put a hand to his chest, those too-long fingers spreading out against his sternum like the tentacles of a sea creature.
“I did no such thing.”
Leaning closer, he whispered, “You wouldn’t believe how many people leave their doors unlocked these days. Though in their case, what did it matter? Their most precious possession had already been taken.”
Kris glanced to the open door. She was sure Hitch planned to block her way. At her sides, she opened her hands, preparing to shove him as hard as she could in the chest, just enough to move him away from the doorway so she could slip through.
Before she could act, he stepped aside voluntarily and motioned toward the hall.
“After you,” he said, the perfect gentleman.
Kris kept her pace slow and steady as she made her way downstairs. She half-expected a hand to clamp down on her shoulder and yank her backward, but the assault never came. She was at the front door before she accepted that she was getting away unscathed.
Her fingers found the latch and twisted it. The dead bolt retracted. She opened the front door and felt the salvation of sunlight and wind on her face. She stepped out onto the porch, forcing herself to maintain a sense of calm.
Hitch was in the doorway, his hands pressed against the frame, his oblong face jutting out mere inches as if he were magically bound to the building.