10 years ago, the Lawson family disappeared without a trace, seemingly into thin air. Upon the discovery of a hidden room, it reopens a decade later, and Harper Sloann, a low-ranking detective with a fascination for the macabre, takes on the case. I...
Oops! This image does not follow our content guidelines. To continue publishing, please remove it or upload a different image.
I knocked on the door, leaving Pierce by the picket fence a few steps away. "Mr. Jackson?" I hollered, leaning over the frosted windows beside the door. "Kolbie Jackson? District Police."
For a minute, nothing happened, and I considered kicking the door down or reporting a runaway witness. Then, scratching sounds echoed from the inside, seemingly like slippers brushing against wooden floorboards. Something crackled then clicked, and the door swung inward a fraction.
"Yes?" a pale face peeked from the gap like those here's johnny memes I kept seeing in my newsfeed. "Do you need something?"
Pierce stepped up the rickety stairs leading to the porch. It seemed to scare the guy, enough to make him edge the door closer to the frame. "We just want to ask a few questions," Pierce said, beating me to it. I hid my eye-roll as a quick look at the vines crawling along the beams. "About the Lawson case?"
"You've gotta be more specific than that, Officer," Mr. Jackson said, still not inching away from the door. "There are a lotta Lawsons from everywhere."
I laid a hand on the door and tried pushing it back. He fought against my subtle force. Okay, then. Maybe a forced entry would be ideal? I didn't have a lot of time to be running around interviewing witnesses of a ten-year old case. The serial killer case did become one just this morning.
"Stockdole, Perera. Those Lawsons," I said. "If you watch the news instead of dancing all day in front of your phone, you'd know."
Red tinged Mr. Jackson's cheeks as if I struck the right nerve. Then, the force holding my hand and the door in place eased. The door swung inward and Kolbie stepped back and waited for us to duck inside. He led us without a word to a modest living quarters where, speaking of the devil, a ring light and a phone stand waited for him.
"You arrived without notice, so forgive the mess," Mr. Jackson said, flicking his ring light off and setting it next to a pile of boxes. He retrieved his phone as well, tapping away at the screen before wiping it across his tight, pleated shorts. "You can sit there."
I whirled towards the vague direction he waved his hand in. A low, plastic stool awaited me. Pierce was reduced to loitering like an awkward standee, switching his weight from foot to foot and tucking and untucking his hands behind him. Grunting, I took the stool and propped my notebook again. I glanced at Pierce to find he wasn't taking notes or even in the process of doing so. The nerve.
"Just a few questions, Mr. Jackson—"
"Mx."
My head snapped up from the notebook. "Sorry?"
"Please refer to me as Mx. Jackson," the witness said, scratching the back of his neck. "Or just Kolbie. Or Kolbs."
Oh.
"Okay, fine. Let's start over," I crossed lines over the name I scribbled at the top of the page. "We came to get your testimony about the decade-old Lawson case in Stockdole, Perera. According to our records, you're interviewed ten years ago as one of the witnesses. Is that correct?"
