Page 9 of Even in the Dark

Who the hell am I?

I pull out the photo of me and my mother that, yeah, I technically stole from Phil. But it’s a photo of me, so it isn’t really stealing. And at least I have something now. A piece of who I am.

Was.

I study it—home in on my mother’s face. Try convincing myself she looks familiar. But I’m not as good at lying to myself as I am to other people. Still, at least she looks like she was nice.Happy. She has green eyes like mine. Or I guess, I have green eyes like hers. So that’s familiar, at least.

Yeah, I’m totally grasping at straws, here.

I slide the photo back in my pocket, then flop down on the bed. Stare up at the ceiling. It’s about ten feet high and bordered all around in wide, ornate trim.

This room feels like a hotel. A fancy-ass hotel, but still, it’s totally out of whack with any space I’ve ever slept in before. It’s too clean and too big. Toonice.

Guess I would have slept in a place like this when I was a little kid. When I had two parents and a perfect life. Some fancy toddler bedroom with trains or boats or something printed on the sheets. I wonder what I was into back then. Wonder if Phil even remembers.

He must’ve been pretty wrecked after I disappeared. Right?

Maybe not. Maybe he just moved on. Met Diane, had new kids. A new life. A better life, maybe, than with me and my mom.

Can’t really blame him. What was he supposed to do? Mourn our loss for the rest of eternity?

A soft knock at the door makes me flinch.

“Dylan?” It’s Phil. “Can I come in?”

No.

”Yeah,” I sit up.

He steps into my room, onto the massive navy and cream rug that covers most of the hardwood floor. Studies me for a second with calm eyes. “You sure everything’s okay?”

I force a nod, ignore the fact that my guts are twisting up.

Phil sits on the edge of the bed, almost cautiously. He does a lot of things cautiously around me. “I know this transition hasn’t been easy for you. And we want you to feel at home here. I hope you know that.”

“Sure.” My throat feels tight.

“It’s a big change. And we’re aware that—well, that you’ve been through so much already…”

I don’t look away. Bite my tongue, though, to keep from saying something I shouldn’t.

Phil sighs. “I just hope in time, you’ll see this as your home. And us as your family. That’s all we want.”

I nod again. “Okay.”

He smiles and squeezes my shoulder, looking so fucking hopeful. “I love you, son. You need to know that. I never stopped loving you.”

I want to believe him. I also want to look away.

One measly, single photo says he’s a liar.

Phil leans forward and rests his elbows on his knees, limp hands hanging. I stare at the huge cheesy framed picture on the wall of a bunch of horses running on a beach. Then Phil switches gears on me. Starts talking about my first day at my new school in a couple days.

Sandy Haven Prep.

Sounds pretentious as fuck. And I must show some kind of reaction because he tells me I’ve got to “keep an open mind”. That it’ll “be an adjustment”, and other kids will “have questions” and be curious about me.

I flick my tongue against my lip ring and school my expression this time. But come on—curious?Seriously?He means they’ll stare and whisper and wait for me to screw up. Hope to witness first-hand the serial killer’s kid in action doing something that’ll prove them right: that I’m a freak and as messed up as Eli.

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