All the Little Lights
Page 86

The phone went silent, and I held it against my cheek, keeping my eyes shut tight to block out the gruesome scene in the bedroom.
I didn’t know what else to do, so I counted. I counted to ten, and then twenty, and then a hundred, and then five hundred. At 506, the front door crashed against the Christmas tree, the ornaments and lights dancing with the branches.
“Catherine?” Mr. Mason bellowed, police sirens sounding in the distance.
I scrambled to my feet, sprinting down the hallway and into Mr. Mason’s arms, sobbing.
He hugged me, nearly panting. “Are you okay?” he asked, holding me at bay. “Becca?” he called.
I shook my head, unable to form a single word.
Mr. Mason trudged into the kitchen and saw the mess for himself. He ran into the garage and then the yard, calling for his wife. He came back inside, slipping and then falling to his knees. He looked at the blood on his hands. “What happened?” he cried. “Where is she?”
“I don’t . . . I . . .” I shook my head and then covered my mouth with my hand.
Two police cars parked in front of Mrs. Mason’s house. Their blue and red lights flickered in the front room, drowning out the soft white light of the Christmas tree.
A police officer knelt beside me. “Are you all right, miss?”
I nodded.
A second officer froze in the dining room. “We need to search the house, sir. I need you to step outside.”
Mr. Mason stood, turned on his heel, and made a beeline for the door, grabbing my arm and tugging me along with him. An ambulance pulled into the driveway, and paramedics jumped out. After a short search and seizure in the back, one brought two blankets while the other ran into the house.
“What did you see?” Mr. Mason asked, draping the blanket around my shoulders.
“I . . . nothing. I just got here.”
“From where?”
“Elliott brought me from—”
“Elliott was here?” he asked.
“He dropped me off. He walked me to the door, but he didn’t come in.”
“Where is he now?”
“He left. He was gone before I turned the light on and saw . . . Do you . . . do you think that’s her blood?”
He hugged me, and his words stuck in his throat for a moment. “Christ, I hope not.”
We stood by one of the police cars, huddled and shivering. One by one, the neighbors stepped out to watch the officers and paramedics travel in and out. More police arrived, and then Detective Thompson.
He eyed me as he walked across the front yard to the house, the police cruiser’s lights casting shadows on his face.
“Why don’t you two sit in the back of the ambulance, where it’s warm?” one of the paramedics said.
“Did you find her?” Mr. Mason asked in a daze.
The man shook his head, pressing his lips together in a hard line. “Doesn’t look like she’s in there.”
Mr. Mason took a deep breath, and I followed him into the ambulance.
“If she’s not in there and they took her, maybe she’s still alive,” Mr. Mason said.
“Her fingers . . . there were marks on the floor. Like she was trying to hang on to something,” I said.
“To stay. She fought. Of course she did.” His bottom lip trembled, and then he pinched the bridge of his nose, choking out a cry.
I touched his shoulder. “She’s going to be okay. They’ll find her.”
He nodded and held out his phone. “Do you, uh . . .” He cleared his throat. “Do you want to call Elliott?”
I shrugged, my bottom lip trembling. “I don’t know his number.”
Mr. Mason wiped his eyes with the sleeve of his coat. “You were with him all day?”
“His mom is in town. He was home all day, I swear.”
“He’s a good kid.” He ran his hand over his hair. “I need to call Lauren, but Christ . . .”
“Lauren’s her sister?”
“Yeah.”
The door opened, and Detective Thompson climbed in, sitting next to me. He pulled out a notebook and a pen. “Catherine.”
I nodded.
“Can you tell me what happened tonight?”
“I was at Elliott’s all day. I came home and Mrs.—Becca’s car was here, so I assumed she was home. Elliott walked me to the door, kissed me goodbye, then I walked across the living room, the dining room, and switched on the light. That’s when I saw the . . . all the . . .”
The detective nodded, scribbling in his notepad.
Mr. Mason cleared his throat again. “Looks like the whole police force is here.”
“Pretty much,” Thompson said, still scribbling.
“Who’s out looking for her?” Mr. Mason asked.
Thompson’s head popped up. “Pardon?”
“The paramedic said she’s not in the house. Who’s out searching for my wife?”
Thompson narrowed his eyes. “No one. No one’s looking for her.”
“Why the hell not?” Mr. Mason said. For the first time, I heard anger in his voice. He still loved her. “If she’s not here, then she’s out there somewhere. Why aren’t you out there looking for her?”
“We need to get some information first, Mr. Mason, and then we can get started. Catherine, about what time did you leave the Masons’ home for the Youngbloods’?”
I shrugged. “I’m not sure. Ten thirty maybe?”
“This morning?”
“Yes.”
“And you were at the Youngbloods’ all day? Until what time?”
“Tonight. An hour ago maybe.”
“And where was Elliott today?”
“With me.”
“All day?”
“Yes. He came to the Masons’ this morning. She went to the grocery store, I left her a note, and we left for his house.”
“You left a note? Where?”
“On the kitchen counter.”
He scribbled. “At any point did Elliott leave?”
“No! Why don’t you find Mrs. Mason instead of trying to pin this on Elliott? It wasn’t him!” I yelled.
Mr. Mason pointed down the road. “Kirk, put down your damn notepad and go find my wife!”
Thompson frowned. “Were there children in the home at any time today?”
“What?” I asked.
“Lauren’s kids,” Mr. Mason said. “They visit every Christmas Eve. They open presents and have dinner.”
“Who’s Lauren?” Thompson asked.
“Becca’s sister. Why?”
“There are drawings in the garage. A child’s drawings. In the blood.”
I swallowed.
Mr. Mason immediately fished his phone from his pocket and dialed. “Lauren? You home? I’m sorry for waking you. Are the kids home? Yes, I know, but can you check for me? Just do it!” He waited, his knee bobbing. “What?” He held the phone to his chest and closed his eyes, relieved. He spoke quietly to Thompson. “They’re there. In bed.”
The detective nodded.
“I’m sorry, Lauren. No, no. It’s . . . Becca. I’m not sure. It looks bad. The police are here at the house. She’s not here. Did she say anything to you? No, they’ll come to you. I don’t know, Lauren. I’m sorry.”
As Mr. Mason spoke to his sister-in-law, Detective Thompson gestured for me to follow him outside of the ambulance into the yard.