Chapter 9
The sheriff's Tahoe pulled in behind us at 8:47 and the CPS worker's gray Subaru right after. I'd followed them out past the highway in my sister's borrowed Civic, the one with the blue tag keys still tucked in my purse because I couldn't stand leaving them in the SUV. Elias's house sat at the end of the county road where the pavement gave out, a single-wide with peeling white skirting and a yard that hadn't been mowed since August. The air smelled like cut grass from the neighbor's lot and old gasoline from the shed.
Elias was already on the step when we got out. He wore a clean white t-shirt and jeans, hair combed like he was going to church. He didn't look at me.
"Mornin'," the sheriff said. He kept his voice even. "We got that consent to walk through, Elias. Appreciate you meeting us."
Elias nodded once. His jaw worked. "Yeah. I got nothing to hide. Come on."
Inside, the trailer was too hot and too quiet. The CPS worker, Ms. Alvarez, asked me to stay by the front door while they walked. I could see everything from there anyway. The kitchen first. Dishes stacked, an ashtray full, a case of beer on the counter with three cans missing. Beside the back door, leaning against the wall without a guard or a lock, were his tools — a circular saw, a drill, a toolbox with the lid open and bits scattered across the floor where a child could step on them. Ms. Alvarez took a photo. The flash made Elias blink.
"This stay out like this?" the sheriff asked.
Elias shrugged. "I'm working on the deck. I put it up at night."
Ms. Alvarez didn't answer. She just wrote it down.
We moved down the narrow hall. My son's room was the second door on the left. I'd helped him unpack his bag there two weeks before, folded his Spider-Man sheets, set his little lamp up. Now the mattress was bare. No sheets. No blanket. Just a stained mattress with the plastic corner torn and a pillow without a case pushed against the wall. On the floor beside it, coiled like it had been dropped, was a brown leather belt. The buckle had scratched the linoleum.
My throat closed. I had to breathe through my nose to stay still.
Ms. Alvarez crouched and photographed the mattress from two angles, then the belt, then the empty closet where two t-shirts hung and nothing else. The sheriff put a gloved hand on the belt but didn't pick it up yet.
"Elias," Ms. Alvarez said, quiet. "Where's his bedding?"
Elias's face went red. "He wets the bed. I took it to wash. I was gonna put it back."
"When'd you take it?" she asked.
He hesitated half a second too long. "Last night."
The sheriff made a note. I looked at the mattress again and saw the dark, set-in stain that hadn't been washed in a long time.
Outside, the neighbor was already in his yard. Mr. Henderson, older, in overalls, holding a hose. He'd called the sheriff last night after Ms. Alvarez left her card. The sheriff waved him over.
"Mr. Henderson, you told dispatch you heard something the night of the twenty-third?" the sheriff asked.
Henderson looked at Elias, then at me, then down. "Yeah. That Tuesday. I was out with the dog about ten. Heard that little boy crying. Real hard. For a long while."
My hands started to shake. I tucked them under my arms.
"Could you tell where it was coming from?" Ms. Alvarez asked.
"From his place," Henderson said, tipping his head toward Elias's trailer. "Windows were open. I heard him yelling, Elias yelling. And music. Another man's voice. I saw a truck I didn't know parked out front. Looked like they were drinking on the porch."
Elias cut in, loud. "That's a lie. My friend came over to help me with lumber. We had one beer. The kid was asleep."
Henderson didn't argue. He just said, "I heard what I heard," and looked away.
Ms. Alvarez wrote every word down. The sheriff took a photo of Henderson's yard line to the trailer, the distance, the open window.
Back on the small porch, the sheriff turned to Elias. "We need you to come to the station today for a recorded interview. Voluntary, but it helps clear this up fast."
Elias shook his head right away. "I ain't going anywhere. I didn't do nothing. You got no warrant."
"No, you don't have to right now," the sheriff said, calm. "But if you don't come in, I write that you declined. Better to tell your side."
Elias stared at the gravel. His hands were fists. For a second I thought he'd go inside and slam the door.
"You saying I'm a suspect?" he asked.
"I'm saying you're a person of interest and we have questions," the sheriff said. "Come in at two. Bring your ID."
Ms. Alvarez added, soft but firm, "If you don't come, we proceed on what we have."
That landed. Elias let out a breath through his teeth. "Fine. Two o'clock. I'll come. But this is bullshit."
May you like
He didn't look at me once. I stood by the door with my purse against my chest and watched Ms. Alvarez bag the belt in a paper sack, seal it, initial it. The sheriff took a final wide shot of the boy's empty room. The house past the county road looked exactly like what it was — a place where a child had been left without a bed, with a belt on the floor and tools he could hurt himself on, while the adults drank on the porch and let him cry.
We walked back to our cars without another word.
