But I Need You - W. Winters Page 0,7
alone say them. I don’t want anything more, and neither does he that I’m aware of. So all of this … the protection he’s given me … it’s just him being kind and doing what he knows how to do. I appreciate that.
I appreciate you, I write to him because that’s all I know how to say right now. It doesn’t explain why the back of my eyes prick with unshed tears and I suddenly feel so alone.
Lying on my back and staring at the spinning ceiling fan, I come to the only conclusion my exhausted mind has to offer: I think I’m falling for him and that’s terrifying. In all of this mess and turmoil, my heart is apparently in chaos too. Last night, I slipped deeper into his arms than I ever have before.
He’s only a phone call away and he’s texted me that twice already tonight. That’s good enough for now.
I swear I try to sleep. I forced my eyes closed, my bed is warm and cozy … I even got up around 2:00 a.m. for a drink of chamomile tea that I sucked down as quickly as I could so I didn’t have to have my eyes open for too long. All the effort to sleep doesn’t work; sleep evades me.
The alarm clock reads nearly 4:00 a.m. as I sit in my bed, reading through a folder of evidence. If I can’t sleep, I can at least work.
Ross Brass is the one case I chose. Even if his charges were dropped, he’s a suspect in another case. There are more murders with his signature and now an APB is out. But he’s in the wind.
It’s the case that makes the most sense for me to look into. With nothing but time on my hands and a stain on my reputation, both because of him, I want this bastard behind bars for more than one reason. It’s not a vendetta, though, it’s simply my fucking job.
It’s not the case that’s opened on my laptop laying only a foot from me on the bed. The dim light of it calls to me to come back to it even though I’ve read through it a dozen times already. There’s not much there, to be honest. Twenty years ago, detective work wasn’t what it is now. The lack of forensics and technology and protocols … it all adds up to incomplete files, scanned papers that are more incoherent thoughts and assumptions that aren’t backed up than anything else.
What is known is that there were three men, at least, who kidnapped, assaulted and sexually abused a number of boys ranging from six years to ten years old. Two men were found dead at the scene, where the remains of the missing boys were found buried along with evidence that they were fed to the dogs roaming around the property. The third man was badly injured by the dogs; with his throat ripped out, he died in the hospital hours after discovery. One boy was alive when police arrived, only to die shortly after in the care of medical professionals who simply couldn’t treat all his injuries.
The case is a horror story and a tragedy that kept mothers awake at night. It destroyed a small town in northeastern New York and I can’t even imagine what their families went through.
Including Cody, given that Christopher was only identified by teeth buried in the black dirt and the little boy who survived said he was alive only days before. A week would have made a difference in a life. A single week. The lead detective on the case retired shortly after and one note I haven’t forgotten is in the files. A note stating that he suspected one of the men nearly a year before they were caught, but nothing came of the home search.
A photograph stares back at me as I drag the device into my lap and lean against the headboard.
Christopher Walsh was one of the sixteen boys over the course of four years.
There’s no one to question now, only ghosts.
Yet questions pile up in my mind, refusing to let it go, because deep down inside I’m vaguely aware there’s something here that I’m supposed to know.
The creak of the floor is synonymous with a number of things. The first being a striking fear that runs through me, followed by a chill that rolls down my spine. The second and most obvious is an unsolicited exhale and the memory of the last