Part of me doesn’t feel I have the right to be angry. Ryan did some pretty fucked up shit to her, and if she doesn’t want to show up to his funeral, then she shouldn’t have to. Maybe I’m just angry because it would’ve given me an excuse to see her. Talk to her. Even if it would’ve just been an angry-filled exchange, it would’ve soothed something in my soul to see her again.
“No mother should ever have to bury their child,” Mom whispers from beside me, dabbing her nose with her tissue daintily.
“I know, Mom,” I whisper back, feeling a million different shades of guilty when I’m the one that helped put him in the ground—or rather, a bunch of pig’s stomachs. I don’t feel guilty that it happened, I feel guilty that my mother is the one ultimately suffering for it.
The priest says a few prayers. Mom steps forward, Ryan’s childhood teddy bear clutched in her hand. Supposedly, when he was a baby, he never let that thing go. It was his comfort when he was scared, clutching the teddy bear with tiny hands, convinced that it’d keep him safe. Mom decided to bury it with his casket in the hopes that he’ll find comfort in the bear even in death.
She throws the bear, crouches down and with a heartbreaking sob and throws the first handful of dirt on the casket. Dad slowly walks up to join her, fisting the dirt like it personally wronged him, his knuckles bleeding into white, before throwing his handful on the casket as well. They asked me to do the small tradition, too, but I declined. I think I have enough bad karma built up, there’s no need to rub it in by pretending I care that much.
They rejoin my side as the dirt begins to pile on, scoop by scoop.
“Where do you think she is?” Mom asks softly from beside me, her tears still freshly falling.
I sigh, not sure how to answer. “From what I know about her, she’s not used to the family thing. I don’t think she’s the type of person that finds solace from other people. She probably just needed to be alone today, Mom.”
Mom nods, accepting that answer. Always the most kind-hearted person, never judging others. “Everyone grieves differently,” she says. “I hope she knows she can always find a family in us.”
My heart clenches, for reasons I can’t even name. I can’t tell if it hurts that she’d be included in the family as Ryan’s girlfriend, and not mine. How would Mom even react to that? River and I falling in love with each other? Sometimes it’s hard to say with her. She’s understanding, but she’s also never dealt with a death of a child before. She could react in ways even neither of us would expect.
Not that it matters much anymore, anyway. River lied to me repeatedly for several months. I get that we weren’t on the best of terms—to no fault of my own—but she couldn’t open her fucking mouth at any point when I was helping her cover up my brother’s murder?
Fuck, she even tried getting the answer out of Ryan before she killed him, already knowing the answer herself. And she still kept her mouth shut. It hurts. It hurts that she knew how badly I wanted to solve this case, how much it was getting to me, and she didn’t care enough about me to end my misery.
I’m a damn good detective, I know that. I’m on the verge of getting promoted to Sergeant, for fuck’s sake. Every detective has their one. The one criminal that gave them absolute hell to catch. The Ghost Killer was mine, and no part of me would’ve been ashamed if River revealed her suspicions to me.
The only thing that pisses me off more than River lying to me is the fact that the Ghost Killer was right under my nose the entire time, attempting to fuck with the investigation anyway he could. After his story started changing, I stopped relying on him. Stopped listening. Long term use of meth fucks with your memory and Billy is no stranger to tasting his own product. It started off as just a few minor details that changed, and then eventually, some key details.
It makes me wonder what would’ve happened to the investigation if Billy would’ve came to me as a sober man. I loathe to admit that he probably would’ve succeeded in fucking with my case. I wouldn’t have been chasing him this long if he wasn’t a smart man. I guess I can be thankful for meth if it means I have a stone-cold killer starting to make mistakes.
The fire inside me has been raging since the moment I saw Benedict Davis on River’s phone, staring at the camera with cold, dead eyes and an expression that would better suit your nightmares. And those scars. Those goddamn scars. I’ve been tempted to ask Benedict how he got them when interviewing him, but I always kept my mouth shut. Now, all I want to do is give him new ones. The flames are being stoked, wood thrown into the inferno now that Benedict—or Billy—is missing.
Now that I know who the Ghost Killer is, he has no fucking chance of escaping me now.
I PUT MOM TO bed only an hour ago when my phone begins to buzz in my pocket. I ignore it for now, more focused on making sure my distraught mother is okay. Couldn’t give a fuck less how Dad is feeling. But the buzzing is insistent and soon Dad is snapping at me to answer the phone already. I listen if only for the fact to get away from him.
With a sigh, I answer, “Mako.”
“Mako? Oh my God, Mako. Thank God.”
My brow creases, not recognizing the voice over the phone.
“Who is this?”
“It’s Amelia, River’s best friend.”
My heart stops and everything around me freezes. If River’s friend is calling me, that means something happened. Something bad.
“Where’s River?” I ask, a bite to my tone.
“That’s just the fucking thing, I don’t know! I was just at her house yesterday, and while she was stuck on the couch crying, she was otherwise fine. And then I go back over today to drop off some comfort food and the house is trashed! She’s gone, Mako, she’s fucking gone and I know it was Billy. I know he fucking took her!”
By the end of her rant, she’s hysterical and I’m shaking from… fuck, from so many things. Potent fury is coursing through my veins. That motherfucker took my girl, and now there is no hope that I’ll be bringing back Billy alive. The second I get my hands around that asshole’s neck… I can’t think about it right now, I need to focus on finding River.
“I’m heading to her house now. Stay there.”
I hang up the phone and rush out of the house, Dad’s concerned questions chasing me out. I don’t have the brain space to hear them, let alone give a solid answer.
I’m peeling out of the driveway and speeding towards Ryan’s house, donning my sirens to get there faster. Ryan lives about fifteen minutes away from our parents. I get there in five.