Pittie, Finding Mary

Updated on May 23, 2019

Little Girls Are Gone

"I think he's the bus driver," she continued looking even more closely at the picture. Pulling up the school's website we began looking for staff or event photos, we found a picture of the bus driver. Placing them side by side on my desktop, I had to agree with her. Add thirty years to this Jack kid and you have Walton Craven, the bus driver. Showing the pictures to Mary, she confirmed he was Jack.

We continued to talk to Mary for a couple of hours. Finding out more and more details for Diane to take to the police, and giving the two of them the last conversation Craven robbed from them. Diane would have to go back to Texas, and who knew if they would have this chance again. Who knew if Mary would keep hanging around after she said her goodbyes.

I have to admit, it felt awesome. There was still a small part of me that was scared. There was that tiny nagging feeling of doubt that said Diane would take her false hopes back and find nothing. I was a fraud. Just some nut job handing out fake information concocted in a twisted brain. I asked Diane to keep my secret if she could. She agreed and told me if I ever needed anything just call, and she left her number.


Why Did I Think It Would Be So Simple

A couple of weeks later the news blew up about the Texas bus driver. Anna and Mary were not his first victims. When they searched his home, they found belongings of two other girls that had gone missing. A search of the graveyard revealed how he easily disposed of the bodies. Craven's father had worked as a caretaker there for years. So his access and knowledge of the graveyard made sense. In fact, his home was within sight of it. The sick bastard could look out his window and see the graves while he drank his morning coffee. The secret room wasn't a secret anymore.

Mine could have been. Diane had kept her promise. There was no mention anywhere of my name. My phone never rang. Not even a single cop asking me questions. All I received was a text saying, "We got him, and I got her." Clara and my father, on the other hand, had made no promises. So they felt free to tell the world.



Bags Were Packed

That's when everything became too much. Now that it was confirmed, people came from everywhere. No longer was it simply church members and friends. Strangers sought me out. Father began using it as an ad campaign for the church. Inviting those strangers to come and I would speak with them. Mother kept telling him to stop. For once, I agreed with my mother about how his actions looked. I felt like he was pimping me out to expand his congregation. That was it. My bags were packed. I sorta had a plan. I was out of here.

I would leave Friday night. Dad always went to the church on Friday after work to polish his sermon, tidy up, and get everything ready for Sunday. Mother was in such a state these days that she would just sit and think for hours. Her obsession with me was waning. I think it was devoured by everything else falling in around her. There was too much going on for her to control. The problems I had caused, the ones Dad was causing, the arguing, my determination to not follow doctors orders, and who knew what else was circling in her head. Plus, Evil Bitch hovered around her constantly. I noticed she would read a book but never turn a page. She hardly spoke to either of us. She was dealing with her own wreck.

We had dinner, just the two of us, that night. Afterward, she cleaned the dishes and I went to my room. Checking the inventory of my backpack, I believed I had everything. My bank account had $1,200 in it, I closed it out and had the money in my pocket. I had been saving for our Florida trip. Now I was thinking I would head to Texas instead. Diane had proved she could keep a secret. Maybe I could stay there until I figure things out. Plus, in a few weeks, I will be eighteen. I will be considered an adult legally, and they can no longer control my life.

Thanks for reading, and if you are enjoying follow me for notifications of future pages to the story. Share with a friend (or an enemy, whatever). The story is about to get good. You will want to come back for more.

Thanks again,

Faron

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    © 2019 Faron Asher

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