The Camaro Murders Read Online Free PDF Page A

What was his name again?”
    They’d forget, and I wouldn’t have to think anymore. It would be a lot like sleep, but without the dreams and without the cold—and without the guilt. But if there’s no guilt, then there’s no Starla.
    I can’t let go of my memory of her, so I need my guilt. It’s a necessary part of who I am…a building block of sorts…one I covet but am quick to hide in shame.
    Holding on to it won’t get me anywhere in the end. My condition is more complex than that. I’m so close to breaking free, but someone, something, somewhere is holding me back.
    Is it Mendelssohn reaching out in death? I blame him for everything else—my dreams, my guilt—he may as well shoulder the blame for my lack of motivation as well.
    It’s easier that way. I don’t have to be accountable or even love myself. Still, I’ve asked God so many times to forgive me for not being braver, but I suppose some things just aren’t forgivable.

What Prying Hands May Find
    January 16th, 1987
    Deputy Hildersham at the Mendelssohn farm
    The paramedics are nearly finished by the time I pull into the drive of the Mendelssohn farm.
    â€œShow’s over, Hildersham,” the first-response officer says as we meet at the slanting front steps. It’s Lightfoot, another deputy. He eyeballs me with disapproval while passing a toothpick from one side of his mouth to the other.
    I look past him through the peeling door frame. The body has been bagged, and the paramedics are ready to move it outside.
    The house is shabby white, almost gray, and sits two hundred feet from the road on the northern edge of town. The paint on the clapboard siding is curling into sizable flakes.
    It’s an old farmhouse, surrounded mostly by fields no longer worked. A run-down barn stands near the back of the property and looks to have been in disrepair for many years.
    I allow the medics to shuffle past me before I continue up the steps and into the front room. The flashes of red and blue illuminate an overturned chair. A few depressions in the far wall break up the otherwise bare plaster.
    There is a second story whose stairs I don’t climb, and I imagine there’s an attic. A hint of natural gas lingers below the scent of aging wood and plaster; it’s a worn-in smell that only lived-in houses have.
    The house contains most of the original fixtures from when it was built in the thirties. It’s full of oak and earth-tones. Mendelssohn lived alone for decades.
    I continue to survey the relics of yesteryear in the front room, coarse and faded with use, and I’ll be damned if I don’t see somebody else standing there in the corner.
    It’s only for a second that I see this illusion. But I’d swear on the Good Book there was a little boy there, fragile and pale, with his finger to his lips urging me to be quiet.
    Startled, I curse under my breath before Lightfoot emerges from the open door behind me.
    He struts into the room like the good ol’ boy he is. A few wisps of streaky hair hang over his brow. “There ain’t nothin’ else that needs to be done here,” he says, with that stupid toothpick clamped between his teeth. “Let the doc sort it out.”
    As much as I want, I don’t have a reason to argue. Lightfoot has already cordoned off the rickety porch with tape that says “Police Line—Do Not Cross,” and the body is making its way down the drive, the ambulance tires crackling on compacted snow. I shrug my reluctant agreement. The coroner will handle the rest. I steal a sideways glance before heading towards the door.
    The corner is vacant, dark, and dusty. A cold trickle races down the underside of my arm and I shiver. I don’t believe in ghosts, phantoms, or whatever you want to call them. But I saw the boy, plain as day, and now I don’t.
    â€œI’m not sure why you bothered comin’ out here,