Page 97 of Dying Truth
‘And you don’t think it’s a good idea to insist that she come home, given the death of a second child at—’
‘Oh God, poor Anthony and Louise,’ Mrs Winters said, shaking her head.
Mr Winters squeezed her hand. ‘We met the Coffee-Todds a few times, at social functions at the school.’
‘Do you know the parents of Christian Fellows, the boy left hanging in the janitor’s room yesterday?’ Kim asked.
Mr Winters shook his head. ‘I don’t think we’ve ever met.’
‘And you know that a teacher was killed last night?’ she asked.
‘Road accident, Principal Thorpe said.’
‘She was run down by a vehicle, Mr Winters,’ Kim corrected. ‘Which is currently being investigated.’
‘Clearly unrelated,’ he said.
Kim looked to Bryant, wondering if any words were actually coming out of her mouth.
‘And you still don’t think that your other daughter should be safely home here with you?’ she asked, incredulously.
Bryant sat forward. ‘Three separate deaths in one week is probably nudging above the national average, Mr Winters, so if my daughter—’
‘Saffie is very independent, officers. She is sixteen years of age and rarely obeys her parents.’
Except when they were urging her to hide her sister’s possessions and obstruct the investigation of the police, Kim thought. Right now she was unsure just how many laws they had broken by medicating their own child, but she knew CPS wouldn’t touch prosecution of grieving parents.
Kim stood. ‘Well, thank you both for your time. We’ll be in touch.’
Bryant followed her out of the front door.
Kim sat in the car staring back at the house. There was a knot in her stomach that only came when she felt she was being led in the wrong direction.
She replayed the conversation in her mind.
‘Damn, damn, damn,’ Kim said, reaching for her phone.
‘Bryant, we need to speak to Stacey and Dawson now.’
She had the overwhelming feeling that she’d been looking the wrong way.
Sixty-Seven
21March2018
Hey Diary,
The feeling is still there but I don’t know if it’s real. My senses are telling me that there is someone behind me, watching me but when I look there’s no one there.
Is it real??????????
Or is it the pills????????
But it can’t be the tablets. My parents would never have given them to me if they could make me feel like this; a shadowy half person trudging through fog every minute of the day.
The dark thoughts are still there but the sharp, angry icicles are wrapped in soft, fluffy snow. They’re there but they don’t pierce me any more.
But these pills don’t just take the bad thoughts. They’re not homing beacons attaching themselves only to the crap. I can’t think straight. Everything has a furry edge. I have a vision of the pill exploding inside my brain, releasing a gas that seeps into every part of me. Only yesterday I found myself at the wrong classroom.
