“Okay…” I shifted forward, leaning closer. My eyes locked on the typed front page of whatever document he had. A bunch of numbers decorated the top, along with the words unsolved and a date and then a name.
Della’s name.
Missing Case of Della Donna Mclary.
She had a middle name.
I never knew.
My mouth went dry as he flicked over the page and slipped out a glossy photo of the place that haunted my nightmares. “Is this their farm?”
Words vanished down my throat, leaving me mute.
I nodded around a harsh cough.
The same dilapidated farmhouse with its rotten veranda and haphazard shutters. The same barn in the distance where I’d slept with other stinky, starving kids. The machinery and tractors and animal feed all scattered uncared for in the muddy yards.
I hadn’t forgotten anything about it.
Not a single thing.
Not the sweat on my back or the pain in my muscles or the fever in my blood.
Not the soul-crushing feeling of abandonment and abuse.
Martin held up another image. “This them? Willem and Marion Mclary?”
Again, I hadn’t forgotten a single thing.
From the dirty dungarees Willem wore to the faded sundress his wife preferred. Everything was grimy and unloved and held an aura of perpetual greed.
I nodded again.
“And this?” His third photo showed Della.
A rosy cheeked baby who didn’t belong. A baby with inquisitive blue eyes and a ribbon twisted around her chubby fist. All she wore was a diaper and a food splattered purple bib.
She sat in her highchair in the same kitchen where I’d scurried like a cockroach and stolen crumbs from the floor when they weren’t looking.
My voice returned, its volume restored thanks to the baby who taught me how to read and write. “That’s her. Della Mclary.”
“Why do you call each other Wild now?”
“Because she chose that for us to share.”
“But it’s not a legitimate name?”
“No.”
His forehead furrowed. “How have you gone this long in life using a fake name with no documentation?”
I shrugged. “Luck?”
He chuckled. “I think you make your own luck, Ren.”
“I make my own way, if that’s what you mean.”
We made eye contact and smiled.
I’d found an unlikely friend in this cop. This cop trying to persecute me for a nineteen-year-old unsolved crime.
Pulling a wad of papers out, Martin skimmed the text before giving me some information, for a change. “Della was reported missing by her father. When the local police went to their farm to write up the report, they made a note of lack of sanitation and signs of other inhabitants in the barn. You said that’s where you slept with the others?”
“Yes.”
“Why didn’t the police see them when they went over?”
“There was a bunker.” I flicked through the rolodex of things from that time. “Mclary was a doomsdayer. Had a bunker full of food and supplies. He’d stuff us all down there if he got whiff of a visitor coming.” I laughed, not that it was a laughing matter. “It was a monthly occurrence, thanks to the pastor having a drink or two with Willem. He donated to the church, you see…keeping up his image.”
“And how many children were there with you?” Martin picked up a pen, holding it above a blank piece of paper.
“Not sure.” I frowned, doing my best to count when, back then, I didn’t know how numbers worked. “Ten. Fifteen, perhaps?”
“And all boys?”
“No. Not all boys.” My black look gave him all he needed to know. “The girls were Mclary’s favourite.”
Martin whitened, scribbling something down. “And you don’t know where they went after they were burned out on the farm?”
“A few were killed, I know that much. And a man in a black suit came and took others away. Another sale. Another transaction. Don’t know what happened after that.”
The cop, whose entire career was probably based on writing up DUIs and sorting out domestic disputes, put down his pen and rubbed his eyes. Those sort of images weren’t the kind you could rub away.
Slowly, he sifted through the file again and pulled out another document. “What I’m about to tell you may or may not have power over what your future holds, but after your arrest, we did our best to track down the Mclary’s. To tell them the good news that we’ve found their missing daughter.”
I kept my emotions hidden about that.
I would kill them all before they took Della away from me.
“They’re dead. Both of them.”
I jerked in my chair. “How long?”
Turned out…I didn’t need to kill anyone.
“Six years.”
“How?”
“Marion Mclary shot Willem point-blank with a shotgun, then turned it on herself.”
My mouth fell open. “What?”
“Murder and suicide.” Martin shrugged. “The case was open and shut. Their estate was placed into the hands of the bank that’d been threatening foreclosure for years, but it never sold.”
“What does that mean?”
“It means the farm is untouched, and we might find evidence of what you’re saying.”