Fox & Crow

Ines POV

When the berries and cherries pulled up, state troopers and the FBI in tow, I released a breath of relief. Finally, it was over. This force drove me to do what so many couldn’t, forcing me to carry out their desires as if they were my own. For some reason, I thought there would be pitchforks and torches, people calling from my execution as the police put me in handcuffs. Instead, it was quiet. Nothing but the soft breeze and the night owl making its calls.

“Ines Kelton, you’re under arrest for murder.”

The quiet didn’t last long; they read me my rights. Warning that maybe they could convince the state I should be hung for this even if capital punishment was abolished years ago. Making claims I was messy, unorganized, and a pathetic excuse for a person—a monster.

I had to hold back my laughs and chuckles at that; a monster? Maybe, but I did what the police refused to do. I carried out the revenge of the scorned and hurt, the actual victims. They wouldn’t let the papers print that, though. They couldn’t afford to look bad when they bragged about my capture, how they followed my bread crumbs and caught me, not before I slit one last throat, though.

“Do you understand your rights as I have read them to you?” This officer isn’t seasoned; he is still squeamish and nervous. Maybe he would have listened and actually helped them.

“I Do.” I could fight this, draw out a lengthy trial, and try to make people understand, see what I did, and know why it had to happen. But I was tired.

“You understand you don’t have to answer my questions and are under arrest.”

“Yes.”

“Do you want an attorney present?”

“No.”

“Will you answer some questions?”

“Maybe.” I couldn’t let the cat out of the bag, let them twist my words and lock me up in some psych ward, or at least make it easier to send me there. I’m sick of the freak treatment like I was a stain to the Kelton name.

“Can you tell me why you murdered Mr. Danberry?”

“You know why. You know the why for all of them.” His head tilts sideways in slight confusion. This reaction reminds me of the German shepherd I had as a kid—the dog my father killed; he died trying to protect me. I never had another dog after that.

“Well, the FBI analysts have compiled your profile and are digging through everything as we speak. We know most of it: your background, childhood, even your records.” Ah, yes, those. So they’re willing to dig into my life but not his. Figures. Hell, if they had even looked into their records, there would be plenty.

“Why ask me when you have been given everything you need? Why waste your time questioning me when the case is a slam dunk? Unless you have doubts. Or maybe you all have the feeling you’re missing something. A piece to the puzzle is lost.” I sit back in the chair; these rooms are made uncomfortable. Pressure you into confessing to get away or telling them everything they want to hear. The cuffs cut into my skin. I know a raw red circle will stand out on my wrists when freed from them.

“Sometimes it’s nice to get things off your chest, so maybe do the right thing. Tell me why you think it had to be done.” Whoever the FBI sent, they’re good. Trying to comfort me, make it about what I want, and paint the picture thatmaybeI had a good reason. I survived years of manipulation and suffered beatings that had me screaming for death. An uncomfortable chair and a stuffy room with a cop and a life sentence hanging over my head won’t break me now. I leaned forward in the chair, reading his expression and body language. He shifts in his chair, a blatant sign of discomfort, and his tough cop facade drops slightly.

“Have you looked through my records? Have you talked with my family? Did they tell you all about therottenchild I was? I bet Mother had to use that word. She always did. I won’t say the FBI is far off, but the reason why? I doubt they could know why, but why doesn’t matter. They only need twelve of my peers to believe their reason why, and off to maximum security I go. Maybe even the electric chair, who knows?” His stance changes, coming forward as if trying to get me to keep going because of curiosity or to get me to hang myself; I don’t know. It makes me almost giddy, like an excited kid.

“If you’re innocent, why don’t you help us help you? We want justice for Neil Danberry.” My rage boils in seconds under my skin every time I hear the bastard’s name. Everything in me was screaming: YOU DON’T KNOW ANYTHING. My emotions are taking me through it all. I’m surprised I lasted this long before feeling it again. “Let us help you.” He sounds sorry for me, like he believes there must be some big thing I am hiding that could blow this whole thing wide open. He’s not wrong, but it’s nothing like he’s thinking.

“Have you ever seen a therapist?” His body jolts as if I’ve physically cut him. Growing up in a small town, maybe I have.

“No, I haven’t.”

“I did, for a short while. I thought maybe if I could get some answers, something to explain all these things, things could get better—that I could get better. Sometimes, you’re better off not knowing; I wish I stayed in the dark. Consider what you want, and believe what theprofessionalstell you about me. But there will only be one person alive who truly knows why: me. I guess that will have to be enough.” Even if the profilers see it, they’ll never believe it. No matter how much people say times have changed, they’re lying.

“Why are you-” The door opens, cutting him off. An older man marches his way in, judging by his expensive suit and look of disdain. He’s not here to help me.

“Are you enjoying this? Getting off on the ring around and tormenting all these people just trying to help this poor family you viciously tore apart. I can’t wait to see the judge hand down your sentence; you’re sick.” I shift to face him, our long-standing prosecutor of ten long years. I wonder if he let them get away with all their crimes. If he helped sweep it under the rug.

“Was Tammy crying? Was she screaming out for the electric chair? How could I do this? Did she weep knowing he would never come back?” His face turns into a scowl, eyebrows furry down, and veins ready to pop at any moment.

“You’ve got a lot of nerve.”

“Avoidance is a sign of manipulation; did they tell you that? If we don’t acknowledge what I said, we can act like it didn’t happen. But it’s also a sign that you don’t like what I know becauseyou don’t know. Don’t act high and mighty with me. Come back after you’ve actually read up on my background, and then get back to me. You want to beat me, hang me off a roof, threaten my life, do it. I can guarantee that I’ve survived much worse. I’ve seen hell. You wouldn’t be the first person to send me there; I’m sure you won’t be the last. Get me my fucking lawyer, I’m done.”

His eyes are consumed by anger, and his fists are curled so tight that his knuckles turn white. I wonder if he will try to hit me and see how many hits he can get before they pull him off, assuming they will.

“We’re done here.” He storms out, and the cop follows close behind him. I glance at the door. I can see them arguing with what I can only assume is the FBI and a therapist waiting for a chance at me. I guess things won’t be cooling down, but maybe It’ll be over soon.

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