Switch Blade Romance

Return to Manitachie Falls.

February 25th, 2015.

Manitachie Falls came into view without ceremony, like a bad memory surfacing when you least expected it.
Rachel Edison stared out the passenger-side window of the rented Impala as the town line slid past. The place looked worn down, slumped under the weight of its own history. Nothing new here, nothing hopeful. Just old buildings and older secrets.
“What exactly are we hoping to find?” Rachel asked.
Sheriff John Henry kept his eyes on the road. “This is where it started,” he said, his voice thick with Arkansas drawl. “As far as I know.”
Juanita sat in the back with Lacey, both of them quiet. The air in the car felt heavier now, as if the town itself had reached inside and taken a seat with them.
“He came here in the summer of 2007,” John went on. “Charles Grady. Same class as my Emily.”
“Are we talking to her?” Rachel asked.
“No,” John said quickly. “Thank God. She and her fiancé moved to Missouri about a year ago.”
Rachel nodded. “So who are we talking to?”
“People who knew him,” John said. “Might give us insight on where he took Andrew.”
Rachel frowned. “There are people still alive who knew Charles Grady?”
John sighed. “A few. Friends. And his aunt.”
He turned into the parking lot of a convenience store with a small diner attached. A handful of trucks sat idling, their paint dulled by time and sun.
“Who first?” Rachel asked.
“Angel Bowen,” John said. “She works here.”
Inside, the diner smelled of bacon grease and scorched coffee. Lacey realized she was starving the moment the scent hit her. None of them had been eating right—not since Andrew vanished.
They slid into a back booth. A young waitress took menus and hurried off.
A few minutes later, a brunette woman in her mid-twenties approached and sat down without asking. Her face was young, but her eyes carried old damage.
“Well I’ll be damned,” she said. “John Henry. Been what—three years?”
“About that,” John said. “You staying clean?”
Angel smirked. “I better be. Or you’ll arrest me again.”
Juanita cleared her throat.
John nodded. “Angel, we need to talk to you about—”
“Charles Grady,” Angel cut in. “I know. He’s got a new boy, doesn’t he? Still obsessing. God, that’s just sad.”
She lit a cigarette.
“He’s done this before,” she went on. “You know that, right?”
“Yes,” Rachel said. “In 2008.”
“And before that,” Angel added. “2006. Another town.”
Rachel stiffened. “He killed before he came here?”
John nodded grimly. “Lester Sturgis.”
Angel flicked ash into a napkin. “He never admitted it. But he talked about it. Lester got caught at Charles’s house by his stepdad—Earl Rodmoore. Didn’t end well.”
Juanita leaned forward. “That’s why he controlled Matthew Sager so tightly?”
“Yes,” John said. “We found Matthew’s body in the woods. Same time as the others.”
Angel crushed out her cigarette. “He drugs them. Some hypnotic shit he got from my ex. Makes them compliant.”
Lacey’s stomach dropped. “That’s what he did to Andrew.”
John nodded. “That’s what he did to Matthew too. He kept talking about a devil with green eyes.”
Rachel went cold she remembered what Andrew said that night at Higgins . “his   eyes were green. Bright green.”
Silence settled over the table.
“We need to find Andrew,” Rachel said. “Angel—do you know where Charles might’ve taken him?”
Angel shook her head. “No. But his aunt might.”
The drive to Marta Lumpkins’ place took fifteen minutes.
As they passed a quiet residential street, Lacey noticed a row of abandoned-looking houses.
Sheriff Henry caught her glance. “Before everything,” he said quietly, “Marta and her husband Elias lived over on Willowbrook Lane. Real house. Yard. Normal life.”
“What happened?” Lacey asked.
“After the murders,” John said, “town turned on them. Lost the house. Elias started drinking heavy. They ended up in that trailer.”
The trailer sat slumped in its yard like something waiting to die.
The screen door opened.
Marta Lumpkins stood there—small, worn, eyes already brimming with defeat.
“John Henry,” she said. “Who’s the boy killed now?”
“Eleven,” John said. “That we know of.”
Marta closed her eyes.
“Jesus Christ Almighty,” she whispered. “Come in.”
Inside smelled of cigarettes, cat urine, and cheap liquor. Marta sat at the kitchen table, lit a cigarette, hands shaking.
“My sister had such hopes for that boy,” she said. “After the accident took all her others… Charles was all she had left.”
She told them everything.
About Debra.
About the miracle birth.
About Elias—how he loved Charles like the son he never had.
About Earl Rodmoore and the rot that followed.
“When Charles came back to us years later,” Marta said, “he was hollow. Like something else was already living inside him.”
Her voice dropped.
“One night I saw him. Candles. A mask. Talking to something I couldn’t see. I knew better than to go in that room.”
Tears slid freely now.
“The next morning he left. Camping, he said. I never saw him again.”
She looked at them, broken.
“They blame me. Elias drank himself to death. And I live with it every day.”
Juanita reached for her hand. “I’m so sorry.”
Marta nodded. “Debra and Earl went to Sneedville, Tennessee.”
Rachel’s breath caught. “That’s where Andrew is.”
John stood. “We’re going. Now.”
As they turned to leave, Marta spoke again—soft, ruined.
“If you find that boy alive… save him.”
She swallowed hard.
“And if you find my nephew…”
Her eyes filled.
“Kill him. Please.”
The trailer door closed behind them, leaving the words hanging—heavy, final, and long overdue.