The Camaro Murders by Ian Lewis Page B

calm underneath the down blanket.
    Lying on my back, I’ve got one arm around her shoulder and the other behind my head. Now and then, a short gust of wind makes the walls creak. I didn’t get around to winterizing this year, which means each gust is accompanied by a draft. It’s not enough for me to shiver but it makes me glad we’re on the inside.
    It’s three in the morning. I’ve been keeping time with the clock on the dresser, waiting to nod off, but my overactive mind won’t allow it.
    These are the times I wish my father was still alive. I’d like to ask him what he’d do if he were in my place. We’d sit down over a cup of coffee, and he’d impart some kind of wisdom. He never failed to recount a line-of-duty story that he could apply to the problem at hand.
    â€œAlways be prepared,” was his favorite thing to say. For some reason, that’s what I keep coming back to. I just don’t see how it applies this time.
    A man wants simple fruits from his labors, to see his children grow up, to know he’s lived an honest life before his maker. That’s all I ever prepared for. Everything sort of fell in line after that.
    I always knew there’d be the rough stuff when I took a job with the Sheriff’s department. The Jenkins girl for instance—most assume she didn’t meet a good end. That doesn’t sit well with me, but learning how to stomach it is part of the job. So is accepting that I may never know what really happened.
    I normally reason that there will be things outside of my control. But this Camaro business—I feel connected to it. It’s like I’m the only one who knows how closely it’s tied to the whole situation, and it’s my responsibility to make it known.
    This is why I can’t sleep. The onus is on me, no matter how far-fetched my suspicions are. I’m not sure how I’ll explain it to anybody without sounding like a fool, but that’s got to be better than a body count, assuming the driver is still in the killing business.
    I think my father would agree. Accountability is another thing he taught me. It was ingrained into me at a young age. At six years old, I had to own up to Mr. and Mrs. Albright after I stole one of their chickens.
    It sounds simple, but that’s when I first noticed my father’s character. He was accountable as a parent—even if it was embarrassing for him to stand on the Albright’s front porch that summer evening and apologize for his son’s actions.
    That’s a terrible example, though. This goes beyond livestock or personal property. I took an oath, which means I’m bound to my duty. It doesn’t matter if it’s Mrs. Olsen who calls once a month to get her cat out of the tree, or a member of the local posse who thinks the Sheriff’s office is the highest in the land; they both expect the same thing. I’m supposed to enforce accountability.
    Owning up to my responsibility means I have to consider there might be a murderer out there. No one is going to do anything about it; no one else knows what I know. It’s up to me to see this through. Otherwise, there’s nothing else to stop him from killing again.
    So what do I have? For one, suspicion that the driver of the Camaro kidnapped and/or killed Starla Jenkins. There’s a strong possibility that the Crisp boy saw the car…and the chance that the same driver is somehow involved in Ezra Mendelssohn’s death.
    I hate to venture that far, because it puts me into uncertain territory. I don’t have an explanation for the vehicle’s appearance and disappearance, or for what I saw inside Mendelssohn’s house.
    I often forget the last part. It’s been so long I almost don’t believe what I saw in the front room. And I never understood how it related to anything, so I always set it aside. The car was and still remains the most important piece of the puzzle.