“Thatcher?” His voice was a whisper, the question at the end of his cousin’s name enough to break my heart. Because there was no question as to who it was. No question as to whether or not he was alive.
I held on to Seth, partly to keep him from joining Thatcher there, partly because I just needed something to hold on to. I finally got it together enough to pull my phone out of my pocket, call 911. Carter and Ramsay both arrived on the scene with the paramedics.
And now we’re back here. They separated me and Seth immediately, pulling us each into our own rooms. I’m eighteen now, Seth nineteen, so no parents needed to be called.
Detective Carter settles his heavy frame down onto the chair across from me, while Detective Ramsay remains standing, leaning against the wall, arms crossed. Their classic stances. I haven’t been in this room since October, and nothing’s changed, not the coffee stains on the table, not the chip in the blue plastic chair I’m sitting in, not the relentless overhead light. It feels like a nightmare, one I’d woken up from, escaped, and then somehow been foolish enough to fall back asleep into.
Carter presses Play on the recorder next to him. “Detectives Carter and Ramsay, interviewing Adelaide Olivia Blackwood, July fifteenth, 2024, 11:04 p.m.” He looks at me, folds his dark brown hands together. “Addie. Let’s start at the beginning. Tell me what you were doing before you found the body.”
“Thatcher.” I hated when they said the body. They did that with Fiona, too. They should know by now how much I hate that. “We found Thatcher.”
“Before you found Thatcher.” Detective Carter has a deep, serious voice, the kind that should be narrating children’s bedtime stories. Comforting in any other setting.
“I was with Seth,” I say.
Ramsay lets out a loud exhale.
Detective Ramsay is not kind, not gentle, not comforting. I knew him before, sort of. He’s my ex–best friend Gen’s uncle. He’s always made me vaguely uncomfortable, and I’d never been able to pinpoint why. Now I know: It’s because he’s a complete and total prick.
I open my mouth, but Carter holds up a hand. “Just walk us through your evening, please, Addie.”
I swallow. “Fine.”
I tell them about seeing Seth in town. Him wanting to talk to me. Deciding to hear him out.
“When did you leave your house?” Detective Carter asks.
“Eight thirty-ish.”
“And then what?” Ramsay asks.
He’s looking at me the way he did the last time. Like he knows I’m guilty and he’s about to catch me in a lie.
But there’s no way they can try and pin this on me. Seth and I were together when we heard Thatcher yell. There’s no way it could have been me. Or him.
Of course, that means they’d have to believe both Seth and me. Something I’m not sure they’ve ever done.
I keep my voice and face calm, tell them about the fight we had. Being interrupted by the yell. Sprinting through the woods toward the ravine. Getting there too late.
Both detectives listen to my story with barely a blink. When I finish, there’s a long pause.
Carter breaks the silence. “Did you see anyone else in the woods?”
I shake my head.
“Hear anything? Get any impression that there was anyone out there besides yourself and Mr. Montgomery?”
I hesitate. Almost tell them about that feeling. Of the dark pressing in, the sensation of eyes on the back of my neck. But it sounds silly now, in the bright lights of the interrogation room. I didn’t actually see anyone. They’d think I was making things up.
I shake my head.
Ramsay eases himself off the wall. “We have techs combing the area now.” His tone is almost conversational. “Same way we did last summer. They didn’t find evidence of anyone other than your sister then. With your hair on her, of course. What’s the over/under on the chances they’ll find evidence of anyone else this time?”
I stare at him. “I have no idea.” I look to Carter then. “Do you think it was suicide?”
“People don’t usually call out before committing suicide, Ms. Blackwood,” Ramsay says.
My eyes flicker between them. “So you think someone killed him.”
His eyes go lazily to me. “But how could that be? If you and Mr. Montgomery were the only ones there?”
The implication is heavy on the air. I dig my fingers into my bare knees. “We didn’t…Why would we have called you, from the scene of the crime, if we were the ones who—”
“No one’s accusing you of anything,” Carter cuts in. “Now, can you tell me the last time you saw Thatcher Montgomery? Alive?”
That one’s easy. “Last summer. The parade.”
“You haven’t seen or spoken to him since then?”
I pause. “I sent him a DM.”
“What did it say?”
“Did you kill her?” I quote.
“Did he respond?”
“No. And then he blocked me.”
