The older FBI agent from the television walks her to the car. He has a hand on her shoulder and Ashley is too numb to shake it off. She allows the man—he had introduced himself as David Rossi—to guide her to the back of the police car.

He assures her that she isn't in trouble as he opens the car door. She barely hears him. He asks Ashley where her mother and brother are and a part of Ashley's brain that isn't in shock answers, "They're out of town. My brother had a soccer tournament in Bismarck."

He nods at her. He goes to close the car door, but the words spill out of her before he can. "Did he really kill all those woman?"

David smiles sadly at her before closing the car door. His hand presses up against the window for a moment or two and Ashley allows the tears to spills over and the sobs to wrack her tiny frame.

"Mom," Ashley says timidly. Her mother is sitting on the couch knitting. The television has been muted, but Ashley can see that the nightly news is on. Another body has been discovered. Jessica Wilder's mangled body parts are hardly even recognizable—all Ashley can see is a mass of bloody remains.

Ashley has been building the courage she needs to talk to her mom for days, yet she is still hiding. Half of her body is shielded behind the wall and she is speaking in soft undertones.

Ashley's mother doesn't look away from her knitting but answers pleasantly, "Yes, darling?" Her mother's voice is beautiful—like chimes in the wind or crickets singing on a summer night. It's always brought Ashley comfort.

"Mom," Ashley begins again. "I think something is wrong with Dad." She pauses for a moment. Her mother continues knitting but her eyebrows wrinkle, the way they do when she is worried. "I think…I think he might be connected to all those murders."

Her mother stops her knitting. When she looks at Ashley, she opens her arms and motions for Ashley to come sit next to her. Ashley runs to her mother, tears brimming on her eyes. She shouldn't be thinking those things about her own father, but some part of her knows they are true.

"He's a white male in his late thirties or earlier forties. He has a family. He's inconspicuous—he fits in around the neighborhood. You would probably let him watch your children while you're out," the young FBI agent on the television had said. "He has a well-paying job. He probably said he was staying late at the office when the recent murders occurred. He has an explosive temper, but he controls it very well. There was probably some sort of trauma in his life ten years ago." The man went on to say other things, perfectly describing Ashley's father.

Ashley tucks herself against her mother. She drapes her legs across her mom's lap and buries her head into her shoulder. Her mother kisses the top of Ashley's hair. She wraps her arms around her daughter and rocks her gently, the way she would when Ashley was a baby.

She rests her cheek against the top of Ashley's head before whispering, "Right now, we just have to be supportive of our family, and that includes your father. We need to do whatever we think is best for him and if that means talking to the FBI, then that's what we're going to have to do." She kisses the top of Ashley's head again. "I know this hard, baby girl. I've had my suspicious ever since the FBI was brought in. We just have to be strong right now."

Ashley sobs into her mother's shoulder. When she looks up at her mother, tears are streaming down her face and she struggles to catch her breath. Her mother wipes the tears away. "Shh, shh, shh, shh, it's okay, baby," she whispers, rocking Ashley to and fro.

"He's a really bad man, isn't he?" Ashley asks; her voice breaking.

Her mother continues to wipe away Ashley's tears. "I wish I knew," she tells her. "I've never been one to lie to my children, Ashley, you know that, so I wish that I could tell you that he's a good man, but I can't tell you that until I know for sure myself."

The women are interrupted when the front door opens and slams shut. Ashley scrambles out her mother's lap and quickly wipes away the tears in her eyes.

Her brother walks in first, clad in his soccer uniform. He kicks off his cleats and begins walking towards to the kitchen. Her father comes in after Ryan, dressed in a sharp business suit. His tie is undone.

"Goddamn it, Ryan," Ashley hears her father yell. "Why can't you take your soccer cleats into your room like I asked instead of leaving them in front of the door ? It's really not that hard."

Ashley hears her little brother mumble an apology and pick up his shoes.

"Come back here and talk to me properly! Beauchamp men do not mumble, for Christ's sake!" Ashley mother grabs her hand and begins rubbing soothing circles. Tears well up in Ashley's eyes again.

Her mother kisses Ashley's temple before going to greet her husband.

"Hi dear," Mrs. Beauchamp says, kissing the corner of her husband's mouth, which was pulled into a frown. "Ryan, darling, go put your cleats away," she says and Ryan scampers into his bedroom.

Ashley watches the scene from the couch. Her father starts yelling a string of profanities as Mrs. Beauchamp takes his suit jacket and briefcase. He pushes her out of the way and stalks back into his bedroom. "I'm going to lie down," he says, still angry. "Do not interrupt me."

"Ryan, honey, let's go, we're going to be late," Mrs. Beauchamp says. Ashley hears Ryan banging about in his room. He probably started packing for his soccer tournament five minutes ago, despite his mother nagging him all week to pack.

"Are you seriously going to go?" Ashley asks her one last time. She's holding her mother's hand tightly, as if that will stop her from embarking on the weekend long trip to Bismarck. "Please, Mommy, please stay," she begs. "I don't want to be alone with him."

Mrs. Beauchamp kneels down to Ashley's level. "I asked him if you could go with us, but he wouldn't let me take you. You know that we've always been safe here. He's never laid a hand on any of us. If I suddenly take you away, that might change. The people from the FBI said that if we are suspicious than we should just act normal. So, you need to stay here for the weekend, okay? I'll be back Sunday afternoon."

Ashley's father comes out of his bedroom, whistling cheerfully. "Almost ready, dear?" He asks his wife. He puts a hand of Ashley's shoulder. The action gives her chills and she wants to shake his hand but she's too scared.

"Just about," Mrs. Beauchamp answers pleasantly. "As soon as that son of yours finds his jersey." Ashley's father laughs loudly.

"I think I saw it in the laundry room," he says and snakes back down the hallway to get the uniform.

"Thank you dear," Ashley's mother calls to him.

Ten minutes later, Ashley's mother and brother are pulling out of the driveway.

It is quiet that night and Ashley goes to bed early. Her stomach is turning, but she isn't sure whether that was because of the premonition that something big was about to happen or from the fear of her father. She hears her father sharpening the knives in the kitchen after she went to bed. Be strong, be strong, be strong, she tell herself, her mother's voice echoing throughout her brain. Be strong.

She is stuck between sleep and consciousness when she hears the doors burst open. Men are yelling that they are FBI, demanding that her father show himself, calling for Ashley to come to them.

When she makes it down the hallway, the FBI agents from the television already have her father pinned to the ground. One of them, the younger man from the television that told Ashley what to look for, is yelling at her father, twisting and pulling his arms behind his back.

No one notices Ashley at first. She feels numb, as if the parts of her brain that process things are being shut down until she's properly ready to deal with this. She had suspicions, but she was trying to regret her doubts about her father.

She needs her mother to help her make sense of it all. Mrs. Beauchamp would know what to say to Ashley; she would know that words that would make this right. For the time being, all Ashley has to cling to was be strong. She repeats those words to herself, over and over like a prayer.

Finally, the older agent notices her. "Ashley," he says quietly, but it was loud enough to get her attention. He is walking towards her slowly, his hand outstretched as if she was an animal he didn't want to scare away. "Ashley, why don't you come outside with me?"

She doesn't remember saying yes, but the agent puts his arm around her shoulder anyway. "My name is David Rossi; I'm with the FBI…" He continues talking, but Ashley tunes him out. They turn to go out the front door and Ashley finally rips her gaze away from her father.

Ashley Seaver drops her bag next to her bed. Her roommate is sitting in the corner of their dorm, munching on popcorn and reading Lord of the Flies. It's been too long of a day and Ashley can hardly wait for Christmas break to start tomorrow. Her mother has already called her three times to make sure she has all of Ashley's flight information.

"Hey Ashley," her roommate says. "You've got some mail."

Ashley chews the inside of her cheek. She wasn't expecting mail. It's probably just junk, she tells herself.

Hatred quickly swells her chest when she sees in think, sloppy handwriting a letter addressed to Ashley Beauchamp. She grips the letter so hard the paper crinkles. She goes to the corner of her closet and takes out a music box from when she was a kid, shoving the letter inside. Nineteen other letters—all addressed to Ashley Beauchamp—sit inside the music box, waiting to be read.