Two weeks later, Andrea Perez had come close to giving up.
Maryville was the kind of town that looked wholesome on
postcards—brick storefronts, white-steepled churches, American flags fluttering
over every porch. But underneath, it felt like a place with locked rooms and
boarded-up memories. No one would talk to her. Not the families, not the
churches, not herds of men gathered in diners nursing black coffee and
suspicion.
The pressure finally forced Sheriff Jeff Anderson to grant
her a meeting—not because he wanted to, the receptionist clarified, but
because “a whole lot of folks are sick of hearing your name.”
Perfect.
Jeff summoned her into his cramped office late in the
afternoon. The room smelled like disinfectant, burnt coffee, and sweat ground
into leather chairs. A map of the county hung behind him, pins marking
accidents, farm thefts, and the benign crimes of rural life.
He did not shake her hand.
“Sit,” he said instead.
Andrea took the chair across from his desk. His arms folded
across his chest, thick and immovable as tree limbs. His bald head gleamed
beneath the fluorescent lights and the yellow mustache looked like it had been
carved from corn silk.
“You want answers,” he said. “So ask your damn questions.”
Andrea flipped open her notebook, voice steady.
“There were four boys. All declared accidents. All with
issues in the reports—missing pages, contradictory autopsies, no further
inquiry. Why?”
The sheriff’s jaw tightened.
“We followed procedures. Nothing suspicious was found.”
She didn’t flinch.
“Terry Ferguson. Eight years old. Found in a shallow pond he
swam in every summer. His sister overheard his parents discussing cut marks in
his groin. The sheriff’s department told them it was grass.”
“It probably was,” Jeff muttered, but his eyes slid away.
Andrea turned a page.
“Irwin Fanning. Bullied. Found in a ditch. Injuries didn’t
match a vehicle accident. No tracks. Clothes cut, not torn. No suspects. No
investigation.”
Jeff’s voice dropped. “We did what we could.”
She leaned forward.
“The boy in Skidmore—stabbed before he was hung. You called
it suicide.” She shook her head. “No one hangs themselves after stabbing
their own groin.”
The sheriff stared at the wall, not at her.
Finally, Andrea spoke the name that changed his posture
completely.
“Jack Geary.”
A breath escaped him—a quiet, broken thing. His shoulders
sagged, the stone cracked.
“There was nothing wrong with that kid,” he said.
Andrea’s voice softened. “Then why won’t anyone talk about
him?”
“Because we’re ashamed.”
He scrubbed a hand over his face and spoke slowly—as if
unloading weight he’d carried for years.
“Martin Geary—Jack’s father—was a bail bondsman. A stubborn
son of a bitch, but a decent one. He took Jack everywhere. Didn’t trust leaving
him with his mother or older brother. We all knew why.”
He looked up, eyes darker now.
“Dustin beat him every chance he got. Called him every name
you can imagine. Their mother, Frances… she was worse. Cold. Cruel. Thought
Jack ruined her life. Used to say out loud she wished she’d given birth to a
rock instead.”
Andrea didn’t write anymore. She just listened.
“And when Martin found out his wife was screwing Wade
Hardy—well, everyone in town knew. Martin stayed because he believed in
marriage. Wrong decision. Wade hated that kid from day one. Thought he could
‘fix’ him. Which meant fists.”
Andrea’s stomach twisted.
“Neighbors called us, over and over,” Jeff continued.
“Screaming. Crashes. Crying. We shrugged it off. ‘Family business,’ we said. It
wasn’t.”
“What happened when Martin was arrested?”
Anderson looked haunted.
“I was on duty. He was caught transporting marijuana across
county lines. Jack was in the car. Sat there shaking, watching us cuff his
dad.” His voice cracked. “We dragged Martin to the cruiser and the boy just
stood there—silent. Looked like someone had blown out the last candle in his
life.”
He swallowed.
“His mother refused to pick him up. Said she was too
depressed. So Officer Cole Pritchard drove him home.”
“You saw them drive away?”
“I followed behind. Cole walked the boy to the door. Frances
opened it, saw him, and slammed it shut. Not a thank you. Not a hug for her
kid. Nothing.”
He rubbed his temples.
“After that… Jack changed. He survived. Barely. But he
survived.”
Andrea’s throat tightened.
“And the night he ran?”
“That was four years later. Jack was sixteen. Wade was
drunk. Storm rolling in. Something set him off. He hit Jack hard—too hard. Jack
snapped. Beat Wade until the man couldn’t stand. Frances dragged Wade to the
car and drove him to the hospital.”
“And Jack left.”
Jeff nodded.
“Vanished into the storm. We looked for him. Whole
department. Neighbors. Farmers. We were close.”
His voice hollowed.
“And then Cole died.”
Andrea leaned forward. “The accident?”
“Highway 71. Cole’s cruiser was parked on the shoulder.
Driver’s door open. We think he saw Jack walking. Maybe tried to help. But Cole
stepped into the lane just as a diesel crested the hill.”
He swallowed.
“That accident broke us. Broke the search. Broke the town.
We buried Cole before we found Jack.”
Andrea whispered, “And then?”
“Farmer found him three days later. Said his tractor ran
over what was left of the body in the field.”
“Do you believe that?”
Jeff’s eyes filled—not with tears, but with a kind of old,
dry grief.
“I don’t know,” he said. “Maybe it was an accident. Maybe it
wasn’t. But here’s what I do know…”
He straightened, and his voice turned hard.
“That boy was failed. At home. At school. By his church. By
his neighbors. And by this department.”
He looked Andrea in the eye.
“That’s why no one talks, Ms. Perez. Not because we’re
hiding a monster.”
He swallowed hard.
“But because deep down, we all know we were one.”
Andrea walked out of the sheriff’s office quietly, notebook
closed. The receptionist looked up—bright red hair pulled into a messy
ponytail, freckles across her cheeks, maybe twenty-four at most.
She offered a timid smile.
“I’m Candy Robbins.”
Andrea nodded. “Andrea.”
Candy came closer, lowering her voice.
“I went to school with Jack Geary. I hated what happened to
him. I was just a kid then, and my parents—and our youth minister—told me to
stay away from him. Said he was trouble.”
Andrea noted the shift.
“The youth minister’s name?”
Candy hesitated, whispering like she was afraid the walls
might hear.
“Harold Morgan. He’s pastor at First United Methodist now.”
She took a shaky breath. “He might talk to you. People might, now that you’ve
talked to the sheriff.”
Andrea closed her notebook.
“Is there someone else I should speak to?”
Candy nodded.
“Julian Hernandez. He was Jack’s friend. Best friend, I
think. His family owns Estrella and Jack’s Dive. If he’s not at one, he’s at
the other.”
Andrea gave her a genuine smile.
“Thank you, Candy.”
Candy’s eyes softened, like she’d been waiting years to say
this.
“Somebody should’ve cared back then,” she whispered. “Maybe
it’s not too late for somebody to care now.”
© 2025 James William Jackson III. All rights reserved. “Jaxson Lee” and all related content are original fictional works created by James William Jackson III. Any resemblance to actual persons, events, or locations is purely coincidental.
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