The detective's name was Morris.
I remember that because it was the first normal thing I'd heard in weeks. Detective Morris. Plain. Simple. The kind of name that didn't mean anything.
He sat in the plastic chair next to my hospital bed. There was a recorder on his lap. Small, black, red light blinking. He'd asked if it was okay to record. I'd nodded. I think I nodded. My
head didn't always do what I wanted it to anymore.
"Can you state your name for the record?"
My throat was dry. The nurse had brought water earlier but I couldn't remember where I'd put the cup. Everything here was white. The walls. The sheets. The ceiling. It all blended together.
"Michael. Michael Brennan."
"And your age?"
I had to think about that. Numbers were hard now. Time was hard.
"Twenty-four. I think."
Detective Morris wrote something down. He had a notepad too. Old-fashioned. Most people used tablets now but he had paper and a pen that clicked when he pressed it.
"Michael, do you know why I'm here?"
I looked at my hands. They were bandaged. White gauze wrapped around both palms. I didn't remember why. There were a lot of things I didn't remember. Or maybe I remembered too much. It was hard to tell the difference anymore.
"East Hamilton."
"That's right." He leaned forward a little. Not too close. They'd told him not to get too close. I could hear things sometimes. Voices outside the door. The doctors talking. They said I could be volatile. That was the word they used. Volatile.
I didn't feel volatile. I felt empty.
"We've been investigating what happened there for three months now. The reports we have, they say gas leak. Church basement. Whole town cleared out. Forty-seven people hospitalized." He paused. "But the stories don't add up. People aren't talking. And you're the only one who's said anything at all."
I stared at the ceiling. Gas leak. That's what they were calling it.
"That's not what happened."
"Then what did happen?"
"You won't believe me."
"Try me."
I laughed. It came out bitter. Broken. "Everyone says that. Try me. Tell me the truth. But you don't mean it. None of you do."
"Michael."
"You want the truth that makes sense. The one that fits in your reports. Not the real truth."
Morris was quiet for a moment. Then he clicked his pen. Once. Twice.
"I've been doing this eighteen years. I've seen things that don't make sense. Things that don't fit." He looked at me. "So when I say try me, I mean it."
I looked at him. Really looked at him. He had tired eyes. Kind eyes.
I wondered if he'd still have those eyes when I was done talking.
"There was no gas leak."
"Okay."
"And the evacuation. It wasn't an evacuation. Not really."
"Then what was it?"
I closed my eyes. Behind my eyelids I could see it. East Hamilton. The church steeple. The quiet streets. The doors with locks on the outside.
"It's a long story."
"I have time."
"It's not a good story."
"I didn't think it would be."
I took a breath. It hurt. Everything hurt. The doctors said that would get better. They said a lot of things would get better.
They were wrong.
"You have to understand something first. East Hamilton isn't what people think it is. It never was." I opened my eyes. "There are things that happen there. Things that have been happening for a long time. Since the beginning."
"What kind of things?"
"The kind people don't talk about. The kind that get buried under tradition and faith and quiet Sundays."
Morris wrote something down. "Quiet Sundays?"
"Yeah. That's where it starts. That's where everything starts."
"Tell me about them."
I looked at the window. It was dark outside. Or maybe it was just the blinds. I couldn't tell.
"I was ten when I first noticed the doors."
I was ten when I first noticed the doors.
That probably sounds stupid. Everyone notices doors. But I mean really noticing them. The way some of them had locks on the outside instead of the inside. The way certain houses had deadbolts that faced the wrong way.
But I didn't understand what that meant back then. I was ten. Ten-year-olds don't think about locks. They think about bike rides and baseball and whether they'll get to stay up late on Friday.
It was September. Still warm. The kind of warm where the sun made everything shimmer and you could smell cut grass from three blocks away.
East Hamilton looked like every other small town in America. Main Street with a diner and a post office. Church at the center. Houses spread out in neat rows. White picket fences. Flags on porches. The kind of place people called wholesome.
My mom used to say we were blessed to live here. Safe. Protected. Far from the chaos of cities and the wickedness of the modern world.
I believed her.
I went to East Hamilton Elementary. Red brick building, two stories, playground out back with swings that squeaked when you went too high. There were maybe sixty kids in the whole school, through fifth grade. Everyone knew everyone. That's what small towns were like.
My best friend was Chloe.
She sat next to me in Mrs. Patterson's class. Fourth grade. Chloe had brown hair that she always wore in a ponytail and she was better at math than me. Better at most things, really. But she never made me feel stupid about it.
"Michael, you're doing it wrong."
We were working on multiplication tables. Fours. I hated fours.
"I know."
"You're supposed to carry the number."
"I know."
She reached over and pointed at my paper. "Look. Four times seven is twenty-eight. So you put the eight here and carry the two."
I looked at where she was pointing. It still didn't make sense.
"Why?"
"Because that's how it works."
"But why?"
She sighed. "I don't know. That's just the rule."
Rules. Everything in East Hamilton had rules. Don't run in church. Don't talk back to adults. Don't go past the town limits without permission. Don't make noise on Sundays.
Especially that last one.
Sundays were quiet in East Hamilton. Not the normal kind of quiet. The enforced kind. No cars. No radios. No kids playing outside. Everyone went to church in the morning and then went home and stayed there. All day. In silence.
My dad said it was a tradition. A way to honor God. One day a week where we set aside all distractions and focused on what mattered.
I didn't really get it. But I was ten. I didn't get a lot of things.
"Michael Brennan."
I looked up. Mrs. Patterson was standing at the front of the class. She was old. Not old like grandma old, but old enough that her hair was starting to go gray. She always wore long skirts
and cardigans, even when it was hot outside.
"Yes, ma'am?"
"Are you paying attention?"
"Yes, ma'am."
"Then what did I just say?"
I glanced at Chloe. She gave me a look that said you're on your own.
"Um," I said. "Something about... multiplication?"
A few kids laughed. Not mean laughs. Just the kind of laughs that happen when someone gets caught not paying attention.
Mrs. Patterson didn't smile. "I said we'll be having a test on Friday. I expect everyone to study. That includes you."
"Yes, ma'am."
She went back to writing on the board. I looked down at my paper. Numbers swam in front of my eyes. Four times seven. Twenty-eight. Carry the two.
I still didn't get it.
After school, Chloe and I walked home together. We lived on the same street. Maple Street. Five blocks from school, right in the middle of town.
"You're gonna fail that test," Chloe said.
"I know."
"You want me to help you study?"
"Would you?"
"Yeah. Come over tomorrow after school."
"Okay."
We passed the Harrisons' house. Mr. Harrison was in the yard, mowing the lawn. He waved. We waved back. That's what you did in East Hamilton. You waved. You smiled. You were polite.
"My mom says your family is one of the original families," Chloe said.
"What's that mean?"
"I don't know. Something about your great-great-grandparents being here when the town was founded."
I shrugged. "I guess."
"She says that's important."
"Why?"
"I don't know. Adults are weird."
We stopped at her house first. Yellow paint, white shutters. Her mom was on the porch, watering plants.
"Hi, Mrs. Davies."
"Hello, Michael. Chloe, get inside and start your homework."
"I will."
"Now, Chloe."
Chloe rolled her eyes but went inside anyway.
I kept walking. Two more houses down and I was home.
My house looked like all the others. White wood, front porch, neat lawn. My dad was particular about the lawn. He mowed it every Saturday. Exactly the same height. Perfectly straight lines.
My little sister Emma was in the driveway. She was seven. Too young for real school but old enough to be annoying. Right now she was drawing on the concrete with chalk. Pink and blue flowers everywhere.
"Mom's gonna make you wash that off."
"No she won't."
"Yes she will."
"You don't know."
I went inside. The house smelled like vanilla. Mom was baking something. Probably cookies. She baked a lot. Said it was important to keep busy. Idle hands and all that.
"Michael? That you?"
"Yeah."
"How was school?"
"Fine."
"Just fine?"
"Yeah."
I heard her footsteps coming from the kitchen. She appeared in the doorway, wiping her hands on her apron. My mom looked like everyone else's mom in East Hamilton. Hair pulled back. Simple dress. Tired smile.
"You have homework?"
"Yeah."
"Then go do it. Dinner's at six."
I went upstairs. My room was at the end of the hall. Small. Bed, desk, window facing the street. I could see the church from here. The steeple rising above everything else. White and pointed. Like a finger pointing at heaven.
I dropped my backpack on the floor and looked at the multiplication worksheet Mrs. Patterson had given us.
Four times eight. Thirty-two.
Four times nine. Thirty-six.
Four times ten. Forty.
The numbers made sense when I didn't think about them too hard. When I just let them be numbers.
Outside, I could hear Emma singing. Some song about flowers. She was always singing. Mom said it was nice to have music in the house.
Dad said Sundays were better.
I didn't know which one I agreed with.
I finished my homework. Or tried to. Half the answers were probably wrong but at least I'd done it. That counted for something.
At six, we had dinner. Meatloaf. Mashed potatoes. Green beans. We ate in the dining room, all of us together. That was the rule. Family dinner. Every night.
"How was work?"
"Fine. Coleman barn's almost done."
"That's good."
"Should be finished by next week."
They talked like that a lot. Surface conversations. Nothing too deep. Just enough to fill the silence.
Emma kicked me under the table.
"Stop."
"You stop."
"I'm not doing anything."
"You're breathing loud."
"I'm not breathing loud."
"Yes you are."
"Emma. Eat your dinner."
Emma made a face but went back to her food.
I looked at Dad. He was eating methodically. Fork to plate. Food to mouth. Chew. Swallow. Repeat. He did everything that way. Methodical. Precise.
"Michael."
"Yeah?"
"Sunday's coming up."
"I know."
"You remember the rules?"
"Yes, sir."
"Good."
That was it. That was the whole conversation.
After dinner, I helped Mom with the dishes. Emma went to watch TV. Dad went to his office. That's what he called it. The office. It was just a room with a desk and some filing cabinets, but he acted like it was important.
"Mom."
"Mm?"
"Why do we have to be quiet on Sundays?"
She paused. Hands in the soapy water. Then she kept washing.
"It's tradition."
"But why?"
"Because that's how we honor God. One day of complete rest. Complete silence."
"But what if there's an emergency?"
"There won't be."
"But what if there is?"
She looked at me then. Really looked at me. Her eyes were blue. I'd gotten my eyes from her.
"Michael, some questions don't need answers. Some things just are."
I didn't understand what that meant.
But I nodded anyway.
That night, lying in bed, I thought about Sundays. The quiet. The way the whole town went still. Like someone had pressed pause on the world.
I thought about the doors too. The locks on the outside.
I didn't know why I was thinking about them. They were just doors. Just locks.
Everyone had locks.
I fell asleep thinking about that.
And when I woke up, it was Thursday. Two more days until Sunday.
Two more days until the quiet.