All the Dangerous Things

by Stacy Willingham

“Just, you know. It looks bad. He was having an affair—” “It wasn’t an affair.” “There was another woman. Then his wife dies under suspicious circumstances…” “It wasn’t suspicious. It was an overdose.” “… and now his son disappears under suspicious circumstances, and you two are no longer together…” “Okay,”

Wait hes low key cooking

we like to organize the people in our lives into tidy little compartments, keeping them there to make ourselves feel safe, so seeing my coworkers there, like that—ripped from our emotionless cubicles and conference rooms, wiping snot on their shirtsleeves and their eyes red and raw—felt unnatural and wrong, driving home the realness of it all.

And I could imagine. I had been through it before; or, at least, something similar.

“These last couple years with Allison have been tough,” he said. “She had a problem, Isabelle. A problem I didn’t know how to handle. I tried to help her, but—”

HES LYING

it reminds me of those people who buy the exact same dog when their other one dies.

would think you would, too, considering my son is still missing, and you still haven’t found him.”

Clocked

Dozier just left here a few minutes ago. There’s no way he could have gotten to the station that fast.

Sometjing is nt adding up

I know it in my bones. He was looking for me, specifically; maybe he even went to TrueCrimeCon to meet me. He had found me sitting there, that empty seat next to me, and introduced himself. Handed me his card. Then he came here and gave me a taste of what he knew I wanted: someone to listen, someone to understand. Someone to care. It was only a bite, though. Only enough to satisfy the craving. And then he threatened to go, leaving me desperate: a junky in need of just one more fix, so I had offered my home to make him stay.

I realize there is no way it wasn’t orchestrated. There is no way it wasn’t planned.

won’t hurt you,” I had told her. And she nodded her head, believing. Trusting. It was a promise I couldn’t keep.

As sudden as a blink, barely there, I felt a stab of regret.

“Isabelle, honey, let me explain.”

WHATTTTTTTT

not at all prepared for the answer. It was because of his sister’s murder. His sister, Allison.

Wowzers

“I know he killed her.”

“She got pregnant,” he says at last. “And then a couple of weeks later, she died.”

After all, I had given up so much for him. Losing him, too, would have felt like losing everything.

“Allison never would have overdosed pregnant,” Waylon says now, eyes quivering. “She never would have done that.”

“And that’s when I knew it,” he says. “Seeing you two together at the bar, then again at the memorial. He fucking killed her.”

I knew he did it again.”

Ben never wanted to be a father. He never wanted Mason. I knew that going into it, of course, but lots of people have a change of heart when it comes to parenthood—I know I did, that twinge of regret evaporating completely the moment I looked into those bright green eyes.

Nobody broke into our house. The evidence just isn’t there. But Ben would have known that the battery in the baby monitor was dead. Ben would have been able to walk into the nursery without waking up Roscoe or making Mason cry. Ben would have been able to open the window from the inside, try to stage an intrusion, before walking out the front door without leaving any prints.

What they’re doing.

Obsessing about.

She seems fun, eclectic. So incredibly young.

He really did do to me what we did to Allison.

“Two years.” Two years. Two years. For two entire years, Ben has been seeing someone else. Before Mason was taken. Before he even took his first steps.

“He was lonely?” I say, a sudden burst of anger surging through me. “Is that what he said? He said that I was always leaving? That I was the one who was never around?”

I’m sure, to keep a cover from the neighbors. Ben would have insisted—for appearances’ sake.

It just clicked the old man saw the other girl

“Yes you do,” I say, my voice trembling. “You took my son.”

“It’s okay,” she says, smiling. “Isabelle, he’s in a better place.”

“There are so many people out there who would love to have a child.”

“Like someone told her which night to show up.” I

Sometimes, the stories we create are about ourselves. Sometimes, other people. But as long as we believe them—as long as we can convince others to believe them—they keep their power. They remain true.