32. Laura

The brick house on the corner sits quiet and dark. No Christmas tree with twinkling lights in any of the windows. The word murderer is scrawled across the two-car garage door, spray-painted in blood red. Cracked eggs are splatted on windows, yolks frozen against the panes. My shoes crunch over snow that's been packed down by trespassers and vandals. Clutched in my mitten-covered hands are a casserole dish and an assortment of baked goods. It's the least I can do after what Brian and I did. I still don't know why we got rid of Emma. When I bring it up, Brian tunes me out or just walks away. So, I started doing things that would make me feel an ounce better. Like this... bringing a hot dish and sweet treats to the man whose life we ruined.

The air is sharp and icy, pricking the sides of my throat as I breathe it in. A faint taste of blood enters my mouth as the capillaries seem to swell, bursting with the cold, then thawing on the exhale and trickling out of the fissures. At the door, I hesitate and notice the bell has been ripped clean off. He clearly doesn't want any visitors, and I don't blame him. I glance at the side street through the trees, the same one our house is on. Then I take a quick look at the park behind me that sits across from the main road, making sure no one is watching. I'm not sure how I'd explain bringing baked goods to Charles Gallagher.

I pound my fist against the door. It's a muffled knock thanks to my thick mitten. The wind whips against my face, stinging my skin. I knock again, this time harder. The drawn curtains on the front window flick and then settle into place. I know someone's home, but I don't know if they'll answer. Heavy footsteps grow louder as they clamor inside. A chain lock jingles. Three dead bolts click. The handle jerks. This type of protection is unusual for a small town, but not with what he's been through. Finally, the door swings open and on the other side stands Charles Gallagher.

I haven't seen him since the day Emma went missing, and he seems to have aged years in the past six months. He's still a tall, gangly thing but he wears a hardened face. Prison will do that to you, I suppose. He wasn't in long... only a month or so, but it was long enough. His dark hair is buzzed short. The same goes for his facial hair. A pair of thick glasses with silver frames rests on the bridge of his nose, and fresh pink scars stretch across his right cheek.

"What?" he asks. It's not a greeting, but I didn't expect one. He's been out of prison for ten days, and coming back to the Grove probably isn't much of an improvement. Although Charles was acquitted in a court of law, the court of public opinion said otherwise.

"Hi, Charles. I'm Laura. Laura Thomas. I live at the end of the street."

"Yeah," he says. His gaze dances all around me like he's readying himself for a fight-or-flight response.

I lift my hands a few inches, showing off the ceramic dish and stack of Tupperware containers. "I made too much, and I have extra casserole and baked goods." I don't want him to think I specifically made it for him, even though I did.

"And?"

"I thought you and your mother might enjoy them."

He eyes me and my Tupperware with suspicion and then scans the landscape behind me.

"Otherwise, they'll go to waste," I add, lifting a brow.

Charles squints as he studies my face. When he's finally made up his mind, he nods and beckons to follow him. I take a deep breath before crossing the threshold, reminding myself that he's not the dangerous one.

A tube television sits in the far corner of the living room, playing a rerun of Garfield and Friends. Charles glances at the screen, pausing for a moment to watch Garfield scarf down a pan of lasagna. He smiles faintly before continuing into the kitchen. I notice he walks with a limp now, and I'm not sure I should follow him, but I do. His house resembles what I've made of his life—a mess. A putrid scent of cat urine mixed with cigarettes permeates my nose. The sink is overflowing with dirty dishes, stacked a couple feet tall. Piles of old newspapers and ashtrays chock-full of stubbed-out Camel cigarettes clutter the kitchen table. Several cats meow from somewhere deep in the home but they don't make an appearance. Charles clears a small area on the table.

"You can set it there," he says.

I nod and place the containers down where he asked.

"Do you want a cup of coffee?"

"No, I'm fine."

He pulls open the fridge. It's nearly empty, aside from a case of Miller Lite and a dozen or so half-empty condiment bottles. "I've got beer too or tap water."

"I'm good," I say. "But you should refrigerate these two." I pull the casserole and another dish out from the stack of containers and extend them to him.

He eyes it suspiciously. "What is it?"

"This one's a cheese ball, and this is a tater tot casserole."

Charles collects the dishes and puts them in the fridge. He turns back toward me with knitted brows. "Why'd you bring me this stuff?"

I don't say, Because I feel guilty for what you've been through. I don't say, Because this small gesture is more for me than it is for you. Instead, I say, "Because I wanted to."

His face relaxes instantly, morphing from the near scowl of apprehension to a flat expression, as though he's feeling something new and isn't sure how to express it yet. I don't think anyone's ever done something for Charles because they wanted to.

"Charlie," a guttural voice calls from the other end of a dark hallway.

"Excuse me." He fills a glass with tap water and serves up several baked goods on a paper plate. Charles takes his time choosing, selecting a custard-filled red-and-green cupcake, smothered with cream cheese frosting; a fudge-covered Rice Krispie treat; and a Reese's Peanut Butter blossom cookie. As he walks out of the kitchen, he tells me he'll be back in a second.

A door creaks from somewhere in the house, and then there are muffled voices. I can't make out what they're saying, but I assume it's Charles speaking with his elderly mother. I haven't seen her in years. I don't think she leaves the house anymore, and she's not a person people would visit. She's like Charles in that sense, a pariah in a small town. She's an outcast because she is mean, whereas Charles is just odd, misunderstood. A black cat meows and presses his body against me, winding through my legs like a figure eight.

Charles reenters the kitchen carrying an armful of dirty cups and plates. "Sorry about that," he says as he sets them next to the sink where the tower of dirty dishes looms, a leaning tower of grease-uh. "My mother's not doing well. She's getting over a bout of pneumonia."

"I'm sorry," I say.

He nods, looking down at his feet briefly. I notice his big toe protruding out of a hole in his sock. "She really likes the cupcake," he adds. "That red-and-green one."

"I'm glad to hear that. It's a family recipe."

His gaze meets mine. "It's probably not a good idea that you're here."

"Do you want me to leave?"

"No." He shrugs. "I just mean with everything that's gone on. No one believes me. They all think I had something to do with that little girl." He shakes his head. "I would never..."

"I believe you," I say.

His eyes grow wide, and I finally notice the color of them. A mix of browns and greens that appear to change depending on the light. "Why do you believe me?"

I also can't answer this question truthfully. I want to. I want to tell someone what really happened because right now the truth feels like a parasite burrowed deep within my body, feeding on me, slowly weakening my will to live. I'm not sure how much more I can take of it.

"Because of the bicycle."

"Yeah... if it weren't for that bike showing up while I was locked up, I'd be facing life in prison. My lawyers said I didn't have a chance in hell. Lucky me." He sighs.

"If you didn't do it, why'd you confess?" I ask. I never understood it. Why admit to something you didn't do?

"I've asked myself the same question. But you try being interrogated for sixteen hours straight. Hungry, sleep-deprived, and just wanting it to be done. The more they talked about Emma and what they thought happened to her, the more I believed it wasn't just a story, but a memory of my own they were describing. Funny how quickly you can turn on yourself, mistake a lie for the truth. Then they told me if I confessed, it'd all be over. And I believed them." He leans against the counter.

"I'm sorry you went through that, Charles."

"Yeah, well, it's over now. At least the worst of it."

I scan the kitchen again. A telephone hangs on a wall covered in faded floral wallpaper. The coiled beige cord isn't connected to the receiver. It hangs freely, swaying left to right from the vent blowing hot air beneath it. An umbilical cord cut loose from its energy source.

"Is your phone broken?"

"No. But it rings off the hook with calls from people I have no interest in talking to. Reporters, pranksters, bill collectors, and those that wish death upon me."

"Have you considered moving? This town's not going to change their mind about you. You could leave and start fresh elsewhere."

"Can't. My money's all tied up in this house, and I've got my mother to look after. Ya know, before all this happened, no one in this town paid me any mind. I thought that was unbearable, feeling invisible, like I don't matter. But now I know that being detested is far worse than going unnoticed." Charles shakes his head and shuffles his feet. He looks to me. "You're the only one from town that's been kind to me."

I swallow hard and force a polite smile.

If only he knew...