witness
Three days. That's how long had passed since I followed a scream into the woods behind our house and caught a glimpse of our neighbor, Mr. Miller, hunched over a dilapidated well. His clothes were drenched in what appeared to be blood and ravaged with tears. The terror of the reality of that night clung to my bones and kept me ensnared to the confines of my bedroom, peering at his front door from my window ever since.
Summer vacation had only begun a week ago, but the constant news broadcasts advising teenagers—particularly females—about the mandatory curfew increased after Sheriff Dobson stumbled upon the body of Rose Middleton in the quarry and reports of a fifth missing girl made headlines. Everything about this town changed after that, and it didn't help that there were three more bodies and no suspects.
A faint knock on my door disrupts my investigation of the Miller's house before my mother makes her way in, struggling to zip up the back of her infamous black dress she only wore when she had a date, and she did, with Anthony Miller.
"Are you sure you can't cancel? That restaurant you've been raving about since your visit to Dewitt a few years ago finally opened down the road. We can go together."
I couldn't just accuse her date of being a serial killer without any evidence to confirm my assumption. When I revisited the well the next day, there were no signs that anyone had disturbed it since the rain washed any evidence and turned it to mud. Once I've zipped her dress, she turns to me and cradles my face in her palms.
"As much as I love that idea, honey, that's where Anthony and I are headed," she smiles brightly and then kisses my cheek. The moment her hands leave my face, the doorbell echoes through the house. She doesn't say a word but motions me to follow her downstairs. "I love you. Be nice," she whispers before opening the door. "Anthony, come in; let me grab my bag."
He steps into the foyer as my mom proceeds to the coat rack, where she hangs her bags.
"Someone got caught in the rain," Mr. Miller says, pointing to a pair of muddy Converse beneath the coat rack.
Had he seen me in the woods that day? Was he watching me as I'd been watching him?
"Not necessarily," Mom laughs, slipping her bag on her shoulder. "Chapin here likes to hike in the woods. Sadly, her shoes and my floors reap the consequences."
"The woods? That's no place for a young lady at a time like this. Not with that psycho on the loose." His comment wasn't irrational. If I hadn't already suspected him, I may've been flattered by his aptitude, though I'm unable to shake the uneasiness that rushes over me as I watch his eyes roam every inch of our home. "Ready?" Mr. Miller asks as Mom joins us by the front door.
Mom blows a kiss in my direction as they both step out of the house. I wave them off with a subtle goodbye, listening to her heels clink against the concrete. Mr. Miller follows behind her, leaving a light trail of muddy footprints in his wake.
After a solid ten minutes of back and forth between my inner monologue, I've decided the way to get the answers I crave about the murdered and missing girls would only come from the inside of Mr. Miller's home. When his charcoal Escalade has disappeared down the road, I slip on clean shoes, grab the panic whistle Sheriff Dobson mandated our school to pass out on the last day, and my cell phone before leaving.
As expected, the neighborhood is quiet tonight, as it had been since the reality of a murderer in our podunk town set into people's minds. Consequently, I pull a bobby pin from my hair to break into his home unscathed and unnoticed. The inside is unlike what my imagination had constructed.
