Every time I said “I’m fine” when asked what was wrong. When the guidance counselor and teachers called my parents in, concerned for me, and I told them my home life was good. Yet, I was failing classes, retreating in on myself, and losing the little friends I had. I cut my hair, started wearing baggy clothes, and stopped smiling.
Gone was the bright and sunny Sawyer Bennett. In her place was a raging lightning storm.
After my parents died, Kevin only grew worse. He refused me independence. I had to beg him to get a job at the local library, and even then, I knew he was watching me.
He felt superior because he was going to be a cop. Going to be a protector.
But he gained more than power. He gained powerful friends.
Killing him wasn’t the worst of my sins, just the bloodiest.
Even now, as I sit here in this decrepit lighthouse with a man who doesn’t want to hurt me any less than Kevin did, I don’t regret that decision to take his life. Even if that decision ultimately led me here.
What I do regret is all the people that I’ve hurt on the way.
When I left my old house, stained with Kevin’s blood, I only wore socks on my feet. But what hurts is that I slipped them into other people’s shoes and carried my sins into lives that had no place being there.
That… that I do regret.
I’ve taken enough lives. But tonight will be the last.
And for the first time in my life, I feel at peace with that.
Sawyer Bennett
By the time she’s done, she’s shaking her head, sadness permeating the air.
“She killed herself,” she states.
I nod, a tear slipping through and trailing down my cheek. I did kill myself, but not in the way she thinks.
“I don’t know if her remains are in the cellar, but she was there. She existed.”
“How long ago was this?”
I roll my lips. “I-I’m not sure… Time is different there. But I think it was five birthdays ago.”
Bancroft nods. “I’ll put these into evidence.”
My throat dries, and I can’t help but stare at the piece of paper and wonder if I just made a huge mistake. They will investigate Sawyer Bennett and my admission of guilt. Eventually, it will lead to my wanted status, and the sighting in the airport from my distant relative. Most likely, it’ll be written off because Sawyer Bennett was never there—she died five years ago on Raven Isle.
I’m sure they’ll see the picture of me when I was fourteen years old, sitting awkwardly on the couch with a Christmas present in hand. It was broadcasted everywhere after I escaped.
Up until I killed Kev, I had my natural dark brown hair color styled into a boy cut with thick straightened bangs on my face. I was going through a gothic phase then, wearing heavy black makeup and studded chokers. I presented myself that way in the hopes that Kev would find me less appealing, but it never worked, no matter how hard I tried.
It was the only picture they could find of me. My parents weren’t big on documenting our happy little family, and once Kev’s abuse began, I did everything in my power to avoid being close to them—let alone take pictures with them.
If I’m lucky, they won’t be able to see beneath the bad haircut and heavy makeup and discover the girl sitting before them.
For another hour, she continues with her questioning, offering patience and understanding as I trip over my words, grow flustered, and continue to ask to see Enzo.
She asks about how I was raised, if Sylvester offered us schooling—I said he did since she made note that I appeared educated for someone who was so sheltered—about what he did to Kacey and why, and how he would keep us hidden from people when they wrecked, or when he received shipments, and lastly, about the deaths of Sylvester and Kacey. I broke out into tears during that, and while my sadness may have benefited me, it was nothing but genuine. I didn’t know Kacey for more than an hour or two, but her story and her death are heartbreaking, and she didn’t deserve the hand she was dealt.
In the end, she assures me that I’m not under arrest, but they still will need to ask questions as the investigation unfolds. While walking me out of the interrogation room and to her desk, she speaks to me about options for a place for me to stay until I get an official identity in place.
She’s mid-sentence, in the middle of rifling through file folders by her desk, when she stops, her eyes locked onto my thigh.
My stomach twists and my eyes instantly cut to where she’s staring.