The Girl From the Woods

The police called me that afternoon. They wanted me to come down for questioning. When I showed up, a woman told me to wait in the lobby.

A lean officer with thick brown hair met with me. He took me to a small room with a table and chair and told me to sit. Which I did. Then he pushed a folder toward me.

"What's this?" I asked.

"That's Rachel's autopsy report," he answered.

They were quick.

"But those take—"

"Oh, I'm aware of how long the reports take. But this was a missing girl, so we rushed it."

"Wait, Rachel was missing?"

He nodded. "For a few weeks. How exactly did she come to be on your property?"

"She came out from the woods," I answered.

A look of disbelief crossed his features, and he grunted. "You have a very good imagination."

I glared at him. "I did not hurt her. I didn't even know her."

"Most killers don't know their victims," the officer commented snidely. "And your story of the events seem very far-fetched."

I stared at him, my mouth working to form words, but nothing came.

He stood, then, and as he opened the door to the hall, he looked back at me.

"Do us a favor, boy. Stay in town."