Gerald hid his excitement as the attendant scribbled on the back of his gas receipt with a grimy pencil. Only in a small town does everyone really know everyone else. And willingly give you directions to where they live.

Now he could get down to business. He pictured how to end Chris Jacobs’s life as impatience rushed through him. He imagined Chris fighting for air with Gerald’s hands around his throat, knowledge of his killer’s identity visible in his eyes. Or Chris seeing the spray of his own blood on a wall from Gerald’s knife to the neck. The two men had a history together; it was time for the climax.

Chris studied his monitor in the dim light. Four camera views showed different angles of his home. Three outside and one in. He’d thought about investing in some motion detectors to trip the cameras, but there were too many small critters wandering around. The black-and-white images were still. No one had gone near his home.

Brian made a small sound in his sleep. It was a good noise. A contented noise. It was an adventure for the boy to spend the night above Juan’s bakery. It was one of Brian’s favorite places to buy a treat, so sleeping above the little shop was even better. The boy definitely had a sweet tooth. Juan created some incredible baked goods. Chris loved the smell and the taste of the baked breads, but he could do without the sweet, dessert-type foods.

He hadn’t eaten sweets in decades.

Sweat beaded down his back, and feeling slightly nauseous, Chris ran a shaky hand over his mouth. No cakes. No frosting. Not for him. He closed his eyes, breathing deep.

He remembered being back in the hospital. He didn’t know how long he’d been there. According to his parents, he’d spent months getting well enough to be released. To him, the time was a big haze. Doctors, nurses, police, detectives. He’d spoken to none of them and looked away at their questions. He couldn’t even face his parents. He knew he looked bad. The burns ran up and down his face, and his hair had been pulled out in places. Later, he’d learned that both his cheekbones and his nose had been broken, probably more than once.

Although most of the hospital days were a complete fog, there were some clear memories. Jamie. He remembered the first time he saw her. Her green eyes wide in wonder as she stared at his bandages.

And he remembered the Twinkies. They’d been in a small gift basket. His hospital room had been packed with bouquets and balloons and gift baskets. Gifts from people he’d never met. People who’d read about his plight in the paper. People who’d prayed for two years for all the kids to come home safely. He was an answer to that prayer.

One gift basket had caught his eye during one of his foggy moments. Individually wrapped cellophane Twinkies filled a red toy bucket, clear wrap fastened with a red bow at the top. It’d sat across his room nearly hidden by balloons, but it stood out like a spotlight to him. He’d stared at it, unable to get himself out of bed. He’d drift off to sleep, but the bucket was still there each time he woke. Sometimes moved to another tabletop to make room for more gifts. When he finally woke with a nurse in his room, he’d pointed at the bucket. Shock had crossed her face. He’d never made eye contact with any of his caretakers before, but he was making contact now. He pointed again. And met her eyes.

“You want to see your gifts?” she’d asked, excitement in her voice. She reached for a stuffed animal. Chris shook his head and pointed again. She hesitated and placed the animal back, trying to follow his line of sight. “You want the red bucket?”

He nodded.

“I’ll let you look at it, but I don’t think you should eat any right now. I can ask a doctor later if you can have one.” She lifted the bucket and peered inside.

Chris emphatically shook his head. No way would he eat a Twinkie. The nurse faltered at his head movement, assuming she’d grabbed the wrong gift again. He gestured for her to bring it closer. She set it on the bed next to him, and he reached for the envelope. Correction. He tried to reach for the small envelope. His hands wouldn’t obey his brain.

The nurse gently lifted the note and slid out the card. “Looks like it’s already been opened and read.” She scanned the note, a small crease appearing between her brows. “It’s not signed. But some of the arrangements from the public haven’t been signed.” She smiled at him, “They can’t help but send you things. You’ve been missing for quite a while, and they’re happy you’re home.”

Chris did an awkward “hurry up” gesture with his hand, his stomach starting to churn.

She looked back at the note and read out loud: “Get well soon, Chris. Your family is extremely lucky to have you back. I hope these Twinkies keep your mouth full until you go home.”

Chris vomited all over his bed.

In Juan’s attic, Chris’s vision blurred. Bile came up the back of his throat, and he lunged for the garbage can. He heaved. And heaved.

I hope these Twinkies keep your mouth full.

He heaved again, the nurse’s voice ringing in his memory. He sank to his knees, leaning over the can, waiting for his stomach to hold still. Sweat dripped from his forehead into the can. Chris fell back against the wall, sliding to sit on the floor, the can clutched between his hands.

Fuck.

He hadn’t had a reaction like that in at least six months. The discovery of the children’s remains had brought everything fresh to the surface. He spit into the can, wincing at the acid taste. Not ready to get up, he leaned his head against the wall and closed his eyes. He needed a few more minutes. He breathed deep through his mouth in an attempt to not smell his own vomit. That technique semi-worked.