I guess I can call a neighbor.”
Violet grabs my wrist. “I want to stay with you,” she says.
“What’s the matter?” I ask in surprise. “I thought you liked going over to Jordyn’s house.”
Violet shakes her head, lips pressed tightly together. “I just don’t want to. Please don’t make me go.”
“You seem pretty upset, Violet,” Officer Grady says. “Did something happen with Jordyn?”
“No, I just want to stay with my mom,” Violet insists. She’s lying. At least partially. I can tell because Violet’s voice has taken on the babyish tone she uses when she knows she’s in trouble and wants to get on my good side. I want to make her tell me what happened but say nothing because Officer Grady is watching us both closely.
“I won’t leave you, honey.” I kiss the top of her head but she keeps a viselike grip on my arm. “Thanks,” I say to Officer Grady, “but she’s been through a lot today. I think she should stay with me.”
The last time Jordyn was over at the house, just a few days ago, the girls seemed like they were getting along fine. They holed themselves up in Violet’s room and didn’t come down for two hours. Not even when I told them I had just thrown some cookie dough in the oven.
When they finally reemerged I asked Violet why Cora didn’t come over, too. The three of them are as thick as thieves. Violet said that Cora was busy but I caught the look on Jordyn’s face when I mentioned Cora’s name. Like she had just bitten into something that’s gone bad. I meant to ask Violet about it later but forgot.
Now I wish I had. A million times over I’ve seen that look on the faces of the girls I knew as a kid. The nasty smirks that slid into place just before they stabbed you in the back.
Case #92-10945
Conversation dated November 12, 2017,
via DarkestDoor
Corareef12:
Help! I’m working on a school project and trying to find out more information about Joseph Wither. He lived in Pitch, Iowa, in the 1940s and people say that he killed several young girls because his girlfriend was grounded from seeing him. I can’t find any actual proof. Does anyone know anything about this?
4leafclover:
That’s quite the school project! I never had an assignment like that in school!
Lazydazey:
Never heard of him.
Dutchman007:
My grandpa grew up around Pitch and told us stories about Joseph Wither. Said he burned down his family home and then ran away. Girls started showing up dead by the railroad tracks and rumor was that Joseph Wither was behind it. My grandpa said that most people thought he killed himself or ran away and he had nothing to do with the dead girls.
Corareef12:
Thanks! That’s what I’m beginning to think. We can’t find any proof of anything—just lots of stories. Plus, people around here are saying that Wither is still killing girls but he’d be like ninety!
4leafclover:
Corareef12, just how old are you? You really shouldn’t give personal info about where you’re from here...
Beth Crow
Monday, April 16, 2018
Following closely behind Officer Grady, Violet and I make our way up the steps and into the police station, a squat, one-story redbrick building with the words City of Pitch Police Department stenciled in orange letters across the large plate-glass window. The shell of a pay telephone hangs between a set of double doors and a wooden bench.
“Go ahead and take a seat for a minute,” Officer Grady says, gesturing to the wooden bench littered with newspapers and magazines. “I’ll go check on the kids and come get you so we can talk.”
We sit on the wooden bench and wait. I wonder if I should call a lawyer right now, just in case, but I don’t know any attorneys and I sure as hell can’t afford one.
“Mom, what do they think Max did?” Violet asks.
“Nothing. It’s just a misunderstanding,” I reassure her. “We’ll get it straightened out and go home.”
The front entrance opens and a woman walks in with a young girl that I recognize as Nikki’s little sister. The woman is wearing an egg-yolk-colored waitress uniform from a twenty-four-hour café located on the highway south of town. Her frosted hair is scraped back in a tight bun and a thick layer of foundation and lipstick do nothing to hide the fatigue on her face.
“You’re Max’s mom,” she says. Her heavily mascaraed eyes settle on me. It’s an accusation. There is no friendliness in her tone and I know this isn’t