Never See Them Again by M. William Phelps Read Free Book Online Page B

inside, after all. There had been a terrible mistake. She wasn’t there. It was another girl. Some other family would have to suffer the loss.
    At certain points throughout the night, a cop would come out and speak to George, dancing around the reality that Rachael was one of the victims.
    â€œDoes your daughter have long reddish hair?”
    George would drop his head in his hands. “Yes, sir, she does.”
    â€œOkay. We’re just not sure yet it’s her, sorry.”
    They stood outside, “being eaten alive by the mosquitoes,” George recalled. “We knew. But we just kept praying and praying and praying.”
    A kindhearted couple, as George described them, who lived nearby, invited George, Ann and Lelah into their home at some point so they could get out of the humid, oppressive weather and sit down for a moment with a glass of water. The three of them were dehydrated, running on adrenaline. They had no idea what time it was or how long they had been waiting.
    It was near three o’clock in the morning when two investigators came out of the house, carrying something in a bag. George, Ann, and Lelah looked on as they approached; both men had serious looks on their faces.
    George knew.
    â€œWe have something here,” one of them said. “Yes, it is your daughter.”
    Rachael’s wallet.
    Ann fell backward to the ground and screamed so loud, George remembered, it hurt his ears. George caved in and began whimpering. Lelah kept slowly repeating, “No . . . no . . . no,” almost in a whisper.
    Confirmation. The worst result ever. Rachael’s driver’s license.
    Ann and Lelah walked off after a time and got into the car; both women were shells of themselves, overcome with emotion, curled up, crying, now locked inside all that pain.
    George stood and stared at the house.
    I don’t know what to do .
    One of the investigators asked George if he was okay. George looked out of it, staggered and dazed. “A blubbering fool,” he called himself later.
    A statue.
    â€œWhat do I do now?” George whispered to the investigator. He was crying.
    â€œMr. Koloroutis, you have to go home and take care of your family.” The cop looked over toward the car where Ann and Lelah sat, waiting.
    There was nothing more George and his family could do at the crime scene.
    George and Ann both had cars there. George got into his, as Ann was able to pull herself together enough to drive her vehicle.
    â€œI got to the end of the street,” George recalled. He was leading the way home. “And I didn’t know what to do—which way to turn. Here’s the big leader . . . the big man of the house, and I have no idea what I’m doing, where I’m going.”
    Ann pulled in front of her husband and took off toward the house.
    George followed.
    The sun was coming up as they arrived home. Not knowing what to do, having no playbook to follow, George got out of his car and walked into the house.
    â€œHere it is,” George remembered, “my little girl is dead. Dead! Not hit by a car or struck by lightning. But another human being murdered her.”
    Ann went for the couch, where she lay down and wailed. Lelah walked straight for the bathroom, vomited, then sank against the wall, crumbling to the floor, crying until it seemed there were no more tears left.
    George had a hard time processing what happened. He walked up the stairs, went into Rachael’s room, and looked around. Then he walked into Lelah’s room. Did the same. After that, he found himself in his and Ann’s room. Finally he realized he was wandering the hallways of the house, head in his hands, unable to come to terms with the night’s events. George was the provider; he was the man of the house who was supposed to make everything better. But this—how in the hell was he going to manage?
    How do I fix this? If I could only fix this. . . . Something’s broken. . . . If