Page 60 of Home Is Where the Bodies Are

“You can set it there,” he says.

I nod and place the containers down where he asked.

“Do you want a cup of coffee?”

“No, I’m fine.”

He pulls open the fridge. It’s nearly empty, aside from a case of Miller Lite and a dozen or so half-empty condiment bottles. “I’ve got beer too or tap water.”

“I’m good,” I say. “But you should refrigerate these two.” I pull the casserole and another dish out from the stack of containers and extend them to him.

He eyes it suspiciously. “What is it?”

“This one’s a cheese ball, and this is a tater tot casserole.”

Charles collects the dishes and puts them in the fridge. He turns back toward me with knitted brows. “Why’d you bring me this stuff?”

I don’t say,Because I feel guilty for what you’ve been through. I don’t say,Because this small gesture is more for me than it is for you. Instead, I say, “Because I wanted to.”

His face relaxes instantly, morphing from the near scowl of apprehension to a flat expression, as though he’s feeling something new and isn’t sure how to express it yet. I don’t think anyone’s ever done something for Charles because they wanted to.

“Charlie,” a guttural voice calls from the other end of a dark hallway.

“Excuse me.” He fills a glass with tap water and serves up several baked goods on a paper plate. Charles takes his time choosing, selecting a custard-filled red-and-green cupcake, smothered with cream cheese frosting; a fudge-covered Rice Krispie treat; and a Reese’s Peanut Butter blossom cookie. As he walks out of the kitchen, he tells me he’ll be back in a second.

A door creaks from somewhere in the house, and then there are muffled voices. I can’t make out what they’re saying, but I assume it’s Charles speaking with his elderly mother. I haven’t seen her in years. I don’t think she leaves the house anymore, and she’s not a person people would visit. She’s like Charles in that sense, a pariah in a small town. She’s an outcast because she is mean, whereas Charles is just odd, misunderstood. A black cat meows and presses his body against me, winding through my legs like a figure eight.

Charles reenters the kitchen carrying an armful of dirty cups and plates. “Sorry about that,” he says as he sets them next to the sink where the tower of dirty dishes looms, a leaning tower ofgrease-uh. “My mother’s not doing well. She’s getting over a bout of pneumonia.”

“I’m sorry,” I say.

He nods, looking down at his feet briefly. I notice his big toe protruding out of a hole in his sock. “She really likes the cupcake,” he adds. “That red-and-green one.”

“I’m glad to hear that. It’s a family recipe.”

His gaze meets mine. “It’s probably not a good idea that you’re here.”

“Do you want me to leave?”

“No.” He shrugs. “I just mean with everything that’s gone on. No one believes me. They all think I had something to do with that little girl.” He shakes his head. “I would never...”

“I believe you,” I say.

His eyes grow wide, and I finally notice the color of them. A mix of browns and greens that appear to change depending on the light. “Why do you believe me?”

I also can’t answer this question truthfully. I want to. I want to tell someone what really happened because right now the truth feels like a parasite burrowed deep within my body, feeding on me, slowly weakening my will to live. I’m not sure how much more I can take of it.

“Because of the bicycle.”

“Yeah... if it weren’t for that bike showing up while I was locked up, I’d be facing life in prison. My lawyers said I didn’t have a chance in hell. Lucky me.” He sighs.

“If you didn’t do it, why’d you confess?” I ask. I never understood it. Why admit to something you didn’t do?

“I’ve asked myself the same question. But you try being interrogated for sixteen hours straight. Hungry, sleep-deprived, and just wanting it to be done. The more they talked about Emma and what they thought happened to her, the more I believed it wasn’t just a story, but a memory of my own they were describing. Funny how quickly you can turn on yourself, mistake a lie for the truth. Then they told me if I confessed, it’d all be over. And I believed them.” He leans against the counter.

“I’m sorry you went through that, Charles.”

“Yeah, well, it’s over now. At least the worst of it.”

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