Bitter Falls (Stillhouse Lake)(4)

The two detectives eventually make their way to me. I give them my business card and explain what I’m doing here. My camera’s internet-enabled, so I send the photos to them directly. I add in from my phone the vague message board posts that led me to this motel. They’re all in code, but it was enough to make me curious. And I can see the detectives see it too from the looks they exchange.

I give them a statement. Promise to come in for more questions if they need me. One of them clearly hasn’t recognized my name; I’m always on guard for that, but he just writes it down along with my contact details and moves on.

The other detective lingers, looking at me. I can see by her expression that she’s caught on. I guard myself instinctively and wait for the sneer, the distrust, the cut.

But she says, “Glad you made it through all you’ve had to deal with, Ms. Proctor. Can’t have been easy. You taking care of yourself?”

I’m surprised. So surprised I don’t really know what to say to that, so I just . . . nod. My throat feels unexpectedly tight. I don’t try to thank her. Maybe she sees it anyway, because she smiles and walks away.

I feel oddly exposed now too. I’m always prepared for a fight. Not for that.

I get back in the car and tell Sam I’m headed home. It’s a solid hour and a half drive home without traffic, but we’ll have some overlap to enjoy being together. Quiet time.

I’m almost never that lucky, and today’s no different. I come in the front door and reset the alarm. Connor’s already up and sitting at the breakfast table nibbling on a piece of toast. At thirteen he’s put on a growth spurt that caught me by surprise. He’s filled out in the shoulders and chest. He’s got some height going too.

But Connor doesn’t look great today. Slumped shoulders. Dull, dark shadows in his eyes. Sam’s cooking eggs at the stove. He flashes me a warm, quick smile and a shrug, messages received and acknowledged. Sam’s in his late thirties, just a bit older than I am. Medium height, medium weight, blondish hair. A nicely symmetrical face that somehow can look older or younger, depending on his mood and the light.

And I love him completely. That still surprises the hell out of me; what right do I have to love a man this solid, this good? And how does he love me? It’s a mystery I don’t think I’ll ever solve.

“Hey, baby,” I say. I kiss my son on the top of the head. He barely reacts. “What’s wrong?”

Connor doesn’t answer. He looks pretty zombified, which is partly the hour and partly something else. Sam replies for him. “He says he woke up sick.”

“Sick,” I repeat. I sink down in the chair next to Connor. “Stomach again?”

He nods and gnaws a tiny bit of toast. There are dark circles under his eyes, and he needs a haircut. I keep intending to take him in for one, and it hits me that he looks halfway neglected right now. He’s got on a favorite threadbare sweater I told him to throw away, paired with distressed blue jeans. Add the ragged hair to that, the exhausted eyes . . . If you sat him on a corner with a WILL WORK FOR FOOD sign, he’d absolutely get donations.

“You don’t want to go to school?” I ask him, and get another nonverbal agreement. “How about going to the doctor?” This time it’s a negative. I press the back of my hand to his forehead. He isn’t running a fever. “Baby, I’m sorry, but you know you either need to go to the doctor or go to school. I can’t let you just stay home. You’ve missed enough days already.”

He gives me a miserable look, but still doesn’t say a word. He just drops the toast and heads back to his room. I look at Sam, and he holds up his hand in an I-don’t-know gesture. “If I had to guess, I’d say bullies,” he tells me.

“Connor’s been dealing with those for years.”

“Connor’s also been moving around town to town. He could look forward to leaving bullies in the rearview, but he’s settled now. He has to face them with no end in sight. I could be wrong, but—”

“But you’re probably not,” I sigh. “Okay. Save me some eggs?”

“Cheese and crumbled bacon. Got it.”

I knock on Connor’s door and ease it open. He’s sitting on the edge of his bed staring at the floor with socks he hasn’t yet put on in his hands. I step in and he doesn’t get mad, so I shut the door behind me. “Sam thinks it’s bullies,” I say. “Is he right?”

A slow nod.

“Can you talk to me about it?”

I’m not sure he will, but he finally does, in a voice so rusty it’s painful. “I just . . . it’s hard.”

He’s right. I get abuse and threats daily in my email. On social media. Even sometimes mailed right to our address. But at least those people are at a distance.

Connor’s face-to-face with his bullies every day. And he can’t escape.

I feel an overwhelming surge of fury, frustration, anguish that makes my pulse beat hard in my temples. Although I want to protect him from the pain, there’s not much I can do. Stick to your decision. He needs to learn how to cope with this as he grows up. Wrapping him in my arms and protecting him from the world can’t give him the armor he needs.

Teaching him how to guard himself . . . That will ensure he’s safe when I’m not there.

“Sweetie, I know. I’m sorry. I can talk to the principal, make sure he knows that they need to back off . . .”