Darkness My Old Friend

Before birth; yes, what time was it then? A time like now, and when they were dead, it would be still like now: these trees, that sky, this earth, those acorn seeds, sun and wind, all the same, while they, with dust-turned hearts, change only.

– TRUMAN CAPOTE,

Other Voices, Other Rooms

For those who believe, no explanation is necessary. For those who do not, no explanation will suffice.

– JOSEPH DUNNINGER

(“The Amazing Dunninger”)

chapter twenty-three

Eloise didn’t remember that Marla Holt had been a smoker. And yet there she was in a pair of navy pedal pushers and a crisp white top, smoking a cigarette. She sat on the chair by the fireplace that Eloise hadn’t used in years, her legs draped over the arm like she owned the place.

“Do you mind?” Marla asked. She held up the cigarette in two slim fingers.

“Not at all,” said Eloise. There was no use in fighting these things. Better just to ride it out. She’d been vacuuming. Now she was talking to Marla Holt. That’s just the way it was some days.

“Can I help you with something?” asked Eloise. She took a seat on the couch.

“You were always so kind to me,” Marla said. She offered that warm smile Eloise remembered. Smiles like that, genuine and open, were truly rare. “So kind to the children. Thank you for that.”

“It was my pleasure,” said Eloise. “They’re lovely children. I hear Cara has two girls now, twins.”

Marla looked distant. “Yes.”

That’s how Eloise first knew that these types of encounters weren’t supernatural, exactly. Meaning that Eloise was quite sure she wasn’t talking to a ghost, in the traditional sense. Marla was more like a hologram, a facsimile, something Eloise’s mind did to translate energies for her consciousness. Eloise was certain that if she’d been talking to a real ghost-in other words, Marla’s disembodied spirit-Marla would have been more animated about her granddaughters. This was more like a broadcast, a message; today it happened to take the form of Marla Holt. From whom or what the message came, Eloise had no idea.

“What happened to you, dear?” Eloise said. “Where did you go?”

Sometimes it was that easy. Sometimes they just told you. Of course, it wasn’t always the truth. Or it was some kind of riddle. This was a very confusing business.

Marla took a drag of her cigarette, crossed her legs. Her long hair was lustrous and thick, falling in waves over her shoulders. Her body was equally lush, full at the breasts and hips.

“When you’re young, you only think about getting married, you know. The white dress, the flowers, the honeymoon. You never think about being married, what that means.” She looked up at the ceiling. “Do you have any regrets, Eloise?”

Marla’s words echoed Eloise’s recent conversation with Ray. This was another reason Eloise didn’t think the Marla in her living room was a ghost. There were always these subtle links to whatever was going on in her own life.

“Some days I’m not sure I have anything but regrets,” said Eloise.

“So you know what I mean.” Marla tossed the cigarette into the fireplace. A fine line of smoke wafted up toward the ceiling. Of course, there was no scent of tobacco in the air.

“I wasn’t happy,” Marla said. “And in that unhappiness I made mistakes.”

“You had an affair?”

“There were dalliances. I wouldn’t call them affairs. Flirtations?” She pressed her bloodred lips into a tight, thin line.

“He knew I was a flirt,” Marla said. “He liked that about me at first. He was so quiet, reserved. With me he could be that. My personality more than made up for it. And he kept me centered, kept my feet on the ground.”

“I can see that.” Eloise had found that it was better to agree with them, to be encouraging.

“Isn’t it funny, though, that the things we love about each other at first become the things we hate later on? I was flamboyant. He was staid and professorial. I wanted to spend. He wanted to save. We were so different. And in the beginning, that was okay. And then, suddenly, it was oppressive.”

“So what happened? Did he catch you with someone?” Eloise said gently. If she didn’t try to move it along, it could go on forever. And the longer it took, the more exhausted she’d feel afterward.

“That would be easy, wouldn’t it?” Marla said with a mirthless laugh. “Husband catches me in the act, kills me in a jealous rage. Or miserable wife runs off on her husband and two kids, disappears forever.”

“Then what? What happened?”

Marla got up and started walking toward the door. Then she turned to look at Eloise with a pleading expression.

“I was wondering if I could convince you to let this one go,” Marla said.

It was little phrases like that that disturbed Eloise the most, so familiar but off the mark. Let this one go? She’d let them all go if she could. She wasn’t the one who couldn’t let go of the people who had passed. It was everyone else.

“It’s Michael who can’t let you go,” Eloise said.

“I mean, it doesn’t matter anymore,” Marla said, as if Eloise had argued the point. “Mack’s gone. He suffered the most with all of it. If the truth comes out now, it’s only going to cause more pain.”

Eloise lifted her palms. “What can I do?”

But Marla wasn’t listening. They never did.

“You know what my biggest mistake was?” she said. She was crying now. “I let him love me too much. I catered to it. I loved how much he loved me.”

“Mack did love you,” Eloise said. She wasn’t sure what Marla meant. “I always saw love there.”

She shook her head. “No, Eloise. Not Mack. Michael.”

Eloise was lying on the floor then. The vacuum cleaner was still running beside her. She reached over to turn it off and then lay back down in the silence that followed. Her head ached, presumably from the fall, which she did not remember. She’d met a woman, another so-called psychic, who’d taken to wearing a helmet at home, where most of her visions occurred. So many blows to the head cannot be healthy for the living. The dead have no regard for us whatsoever, so we must protect ourselves.

Prior to her accident, Eloise had had little faith and less religion. She didn’t believe in the Catholic God she’d been raised with. The concepts of heaven and hell, a divine system of punishments and rewards, seemed overly simplistic. The world, life, was so complicated. How could the afterlife be any different? She’d been firmly agnostic for most of her remembered life. Her visions and encounters, the sight she had after her accident, did nothing to change her position.

In the industry there were plenty of psychics who claimed to talk to the dead, to know the geography of the world beyond. Some of them were quite convincing-millions bought their books, attended their seminars; some of these people had appointments scheduled for years with the grieving who had unfinished business with the dead. And Eloise couldn’t say for certain that they weren’t doing what they said they were. Maybe souls did linger, to say good-bye, to offer an apology, to seek justice-all those things we don’t always get in life. And the living do cling, unable to face the possibility that after death there is nothing. That sometimes there is no forgiveness, no resolution, no justice. It just ends, it just goes dark.

What Eloise did believe in was energy. Energy cannot be destroyed; it can only change its form. So life, as the ultimate form of energy, must find another shape, another dimension, when the body dies. She believed in a net that connected everyone in the universe to everyone else, living and dead. Something had happened to her during the accident, or in her coma, or maybe in the moments where she’d been closest to death, that altered her biochemically, turned her into a receiver of energies. She still did not necessarily believe in God or the afterlife. People often found that odd. Coming to her for solace, they didn’t get what they expected. They found her cold, left her disappointed. Maybe that’s why she wasn’t a regular talk-show guest.

“Eloise?”

Ray was standing over her. He was accustomed to finding her in odd places-once in the shower with her clothes on, once in the basement closet, often on the kitchen floor. You’re like a cell phone. Sometimes you have to move around to get the best signal, he’d said once. That probably made sense.

“I saw Marla Holt.”

Ray gave her a hand up from the floor. She was wobbly on her legs for a second, so he helped her over to the couch.

“She asked if I’d let this one go.”

“Maybe we should.” This was not like him, a complete reversal from their last conversation. Ray was not one to let things go.

“I’m at a dead end,” he said. “The next-door neighbor, Claudia Miller, was the last person I had to talk to, but she’s not talking.”

Eloise remembered what Marla had said about her “flirtations,” her “dalliances.” She recounted this for Ray.

“What does that mean? Did she have an affair or didn’t she?” He sounded irritated with Eloise’s apparition. Which was irritating to Eloise.

“How should I know?” she asked.

He released a long breath, leaned against the couch, and tilted his head back. “I had one last idea,” he said.

Oliver sauntered into the room and made a graceless leap onto the coffee table, nearly slipping off the other side and then catching himself with a last-minute shift of weight. The magazines on the table-Time, Newsweek, TV Guide-all fell softly to the floor. Eloise let them lie. Oliver regained his composure quickly, began glaring at Ray.

“That cat is fat,” said Ray. Ray was a powerfully built man, big in the shoulders and the middle. No one would accuse him of being svelte. Eloise suppressed a smile.

“Beauty comes in all sizes,” she said. Oliver started to purr, daintily licking his paw. The clock on the mantel chimed the quarter hour.

“Let’s go to the Chapel,” Ray said. He turned to look out the window.

She followed his gaze. “It’s raining.”

“Wear a raincoat,” he said. “When’s the last time you left the house?”

It had been a couple of days since she’d gone to see Jones Cooper. Sometimes this happened; she didn’t leave the house for a while. Then she didn’t want to leave. Then she was almost afraid to leave, couldn’t think of what to wear that would be acceptable to other eyes. Sometimes she was afraid she had forgotten how to talk to people, real people, not ghosts or holograms or whatever they were, or herself.

“Last-ditch effort,” he said. “If you don’t get anything out there, you’re off the hook. I’m going to tell Michael Holt he’s going to have to keep pushing the Hollows PD. I don’t have those files, so I don’t know what other leads they had back then. Your visions are vague at best. We move on, like you said. There are other people waiting who maybe we could help.”

It had been raining since the early afternoon. It was coming down harder now. On the news they’d said it wouldn’t let up for the next three days. She rose from the couch and went to the hall closet, with Ray and Oliver following behind. She put on her hideous yellow slicker and matching rain boots.

“Good,” said Ray.

The only thing that was motivating her to do this was the hope that it would be their last involvement in the case. Marla Holt had asked her to let it go, and she wanted to do that. She didn’t want to tell Ray what Marla had said about Michael. She didn’t know why. But if there was one thing she’d learned in her old age, it was to follow her instincts.

chapter twenty-four

Jones walked into his house and closed the door. He felt a heaviness settle on him, a low-grade despair. The Hollows PD was probably reopening the Marla Holt case, on his advice, and that left him where? He didn’t know. Chuck hadn’t said, Okay, I’ll call you and let you know what we find. He’d said, Thanks for doing this, Cooper. Stop by and we’ll get you a paycheck. Jones knew that it was nothing personal. Budgets had been slashed. They could afford a few hours from him, but probably not much more. Still. He was itching to get up to that dig site, had half expected to be invited.

He hung his coat in the closet, heard Maggie making lunch in the kitchen. This had been their habit for many years, even when he was on the job. They met in the kitchen for lunch, if they could. Unless one of them was busy with work. Or unless Maggie was mad at him. He hadn’t expected her to be waiting for him today. But there she was.

He walked into the kitchen. When she didn’t look up at him from the soup she was stirring on the stove, he went to the pile of mail on the counter, starting sorting. Bills, catalogs, advertisement postcards. Was there ever anything good in the mail anymore? Seemed like everything important or timely came over the phone or by e-mail. No one wanted to wait days for letters to be delivered anymore. Everything was now, now, now.

He walked over to his wife and wrapped his arms around her, kissed her cheek. “Still mad at me?” he asked.

He felt her body soften against him. In the glass of the microwave oven door, he could see her reflection, the reluctant smile tugging at the corners of her mouth.

“Yes,” she said.

“I’m sorry I lied to you,” he said. “I’m struggling with this, Mags.” He held her tighter.

“I know you are,” she said. She still stirred the soup. “I’ll try to be more patient.”

He breathed onto her neck; she’d always loved that. “I rescheduled my appointment with the doctor.”

She put down the spoon in her hand and turned in to his embrace, wrapped her arms around his neck.

“I’m so glad,” she said. It sounded like she might cry. “Thank you.”

But when she pulled back to look at him, she was smiling. It was that smile, warm and proud, which had always motivated him to be a better man. It was the gold medal, the mark of highest personal achievement. When they were younger and first in love, he saw it every time she looked at him. She could see something in him then that he hadn’t seen in himself. And he strove every day to be that man. In the years they’d shared, he hadn’t always succeeded. Sometimes he’d failed miserably.

He made the salad while she finished the sandwiches and poured the soup into red stoneware bowls. Then they sat at the kitchen table as the rain tapped at the window beside them. Over lunch he told her about everything that had transpired that day, even how he was feeling about it.

“So go up there,” she said when he was done.

“They didn’t ask me,” he said.

“So? You’re the one Bill Grove trusts. He asked you to make sure they respect the land. It’s your responsibility to make sure they do. If you’re going to be doing this kind of work here in The Hollows, people need to trust your word.”

He loved his wife. “Good point,” he said. “You’re right.”

She gave a quick, self-satisfied nod and got up to clear the table.

“So do you think you might hang out a shingle?” she said from the sink.

“What? Like a private-detective kind of thing?”

He came up behind her with the glasses, put them in the sink.

“Yes, something like that.”

He gave a little chuckle. “It’s a small town. I’m not sure how much call there would be for my services.”

“You’d be surprised.”

He thought about Paula Carr then and the call he’d seen on his phone. When he’d checked his messages, he found that she hadn’t left a voice mail. His old buddy at the credit bureau hadn’t gotten back to him yet. Hands down, that was the fastest way to locate someone. If you had the right contacts, you could find out someone’s last charge and where. In a culture where people used their cards for virtually everything, it was almost impossible to hide unless you went off the grid-lost your cell phone, switched to cash.

“Anyway,” said Maggie, “part-time wouldn’t be bad.”

“I’ll think about it.” He was trying for nonchalant, but he kind of liked the idea, and he could tell that Maggie knew he did, too. She gave him a fast kiss on the cheek, a light squeeze around the middle.

“I have a patient,” she said.

And then she was gone, slipped through the door that took her to her other life. Dr. Cooper. He used to have another life, too. Detective Cooper, local cop, former jock, hometown boy. He’d been those things for so long he didn’t know how to be just Jones Cooper, husband, father, retired (not by choice). He thought about what Maggie had said earlier. What you were before, what we were, it’s gone. We have to find a new way forward together, as the people we are now. He was starting to understand what she meant.

There was a list of phone messages on the counter: The plumber apparently hadn’t been paid; the Andersons were going out of town, so could Jones feed their cats? And then another, which gave him pause. Kevin Carr had called. Paula’s husband. Could Jones please call him back?

Jones took out his cell phone and scrolled through the numbers to find Paula’s, then quickly hit “send.” He’d get in touch with her first before he called her husband.

“Hello?” It was a male voice, presumably Kevin Carr. Jones toyed with the idea of hanging up. But with caller ID there wasn’t much point in doing that anymore. Jones stayed silent.

“Is this Jones Cooper?” The voice on the other line was edgy, nervous.

“It is,” Jones said reluctantly. “Who’s this?”

“This is Kevin Carr. I saw your name and number on my wife’s cell phone bill. Has she been talking to you?”

What was he going to do, lie?

“That’s right,” he said. He put on his cop voice-distant, almost, but not quite to the point of rudeness. “What can I do for you, Mr. Carr?”

“I want to know what you’ve been talking to my wife about.”

Jones didn’t like the sound of the other man’s voice. He heard insolence and anger in Carr’s tone. He remembered what Paula had said: Kevin cares about what he cares about, and that’s it.

Jones kept his voice light and level. “I think that’s something you should discuss with her, Mr. Carr.”

There was a long pause on the line. “My wife’s gone,” Carr said finally.

“Gone?” Jones felt his blood pressure go up a bit.

“She left me yesterday,” he said. Carr could barely contain the heat of his rage; Jones could feel it. “She assaulted me. Then she took my two youngest children and left. She kidnapped my children.”

Jones couldn’t imagine Paula Carr assaulting anyone-unless she had no choice. He could see her defending herself, her children. He was always suspicious of men who accused their wives of kidnapping the children. When a woman like Paula Carr left her home and took her kids, there was generally a damn good reason. Usually that reason was her husband.

“Why did she leave, Mr. Carr?” Jones asked. “Why did she assault you?”

“Look,” said Carr, his voice going peevish and high-pitched. “I’m calling you because I want to know who you are and why you were talking to my wife.”

Jones noticed that Carr hadn’t used Paula’s name once. He’d referred to her as “my wife.” That said something to Jones about Carr, about how he viewed Paula.

“At the moment I’m not willing to discuss that with you,” said Jones. “Have you called the police to report the assault or to report your children missing? If you have, they can get in touch with me and I’ll answer any of their questions.”

Jones heard Carr take a deep breath. When he spoke again, the guy was crying. Jones really hated it when men cried. It made him extremely uncomfortable.

“Look, Mr. Cooper,” Carr said. This time his voice was soft and pleading. “My wife is not well. I don’t know what she told you, but she’s unstable, has a history of depression.” Carr paused to take a shuddering breath. “I’m afraid of what she might do-to herself, to the kids.”

Jones felt the first trickle of fear for Paula Carr and her children. Had Carr hurt them? Was this call a setup, a play to make himself look innocent when things got ugly?

“I can’t help you, Mr. Carr,” he said. “But what I will do for you is contact the police.”

“No,” Carr said quickly. “I don’t want to get her in trouble. It’s against the law, right, to leave the home with the children without your spouse’s permission?”

Or was Carr trying to set her up as unstable, as someone who had kidnapped and might harm the children, when what she was doing was fleeing an abusive marriage?

“That depends upon the circumstances,” said Jones.

There was another heavy silence on the line. Jones could hear the other man nearly panting.

“You’re a private detective, right?” Carr said. Why did everyone think he was a private detective? Jones chose not to respond.

The other man went on. “It doesn’t matter why she was talking to you. Just… can you help me find my wife? All I want is for her to come home so that we can work things out.”

Jones stayed silent, as if he were considering it. But he had no intention of helping Kevin Carr. On the other hand, he had promised to help Paula. And he was a man of his word.

“Okay, Mr. Carr. I’ll help you find her,” he said. “I will need some information from you, like her parents’ hometown, her maiden name.”

Carr got all mushy with gratitude. A moment later he was firing off the information.

“I’ll be in touch this afternoon, Mr. Carr,” said Jones when he had what he needed. “Just do me a favor until then. Stay put and wait for my call.”

“And you won’t call the police?”

“At this point I can’t see why I’d have to do that.” Maggie had accused him of being the king of noncommittal answers. It was a cop thing.

What he did first after he hung up was call Denise Smith, the receptionist at Hollows Elementary. He and Denise had known each other since they’d attended kindergarten together at the same school where she now worked. After the standard pleasantries had been exchanged, he asked her who had picked up Cameron Carr from school yesterday. It was an unusual request, probably information she wasn’t authorized to give. But Jones had found that so many people were used to him in his role as cop that they answered his questions as if they had to answer.

“Well, it’s normally his mom. But I can ask his teacher,” Denise said. “We hardly ever see the dad. I think he works in the city.” He heard her fingers clattering on a keyboard, then a pause.

“You know,” she said after a second, “I don’t need to ask. It was Paula. She stopped by the office to say Cameron was going to be out the next couple of days. They were going away.”

“How did she seem?”

“Oh, busy, rushed, like everyone these days.”

“Did she say where she was going?”

“No,” she said. She drew out the syllable, as if she were thinking about it. “No. She didn’t.”

“Thanks, Denise.”

“Is everything all right?” She’d lowered her voice to a whisper. He’d always liked her. She was one of the few people in The Hollows who could be counted on to keep her mouth shut.

“I hope so,” he said. “Not a word about this, okay?”

“Of course not,” she said. “You know me better than that.”

When he hung up with Denise, every nerve ending in his body was buzzing. If he were still a cop, he’d know what to do. There was a very clear protocol to follow: have someone file a missing-persons report, access phone and banking and credit-card records, put her license-plate number in the system, hope she got pulled over or that someone found her abandoned car. But he was a civilian now; he couldn’t do any of that. He could report her missing. But he didn’t want to do that. If she had fled for good reason, he’d only be helping her husband track her down.

He put in a call to the contact at the credit bureau he’d reached out to about Carr’s ex and left a voice mail. Jack Kellerman. They’d been drinking buddies forever, meeting every couple of months in the city or here in The Hollows when Jack was back visiting his parents. Jack was always broke, so Jones always picked up the tab. Jack returned the favor by putting Jones’s requests ahead of everyone else’s or keeping them quiet when they were trying to get around a subpoena.

“I thought you were out of this game,” Jack had said when they’d spoken yesterday.

“I guess you’re never really out of it, somehow,” said Jones.

“It does get a hold on you,” Jack said. “You know you can count on me anytime.”

On the job Jack had been Jones’s most valuable contact. It was nice to know that the relationship was still there. If Jones did decide to go private (which he had not), it would make a big difference. Once you had access to someone’s credit-card charges, you could easily track that person-hotels, gas stations, tollbooths, ATMs. Everyone used plastic. If someone stopped, he was either dead, off the deep end, or trying to get lost.

Next he phoned Chuck, ostensibly to tell him about Paula Carr and the odd call from her husband.

“You think there’s reason to be concerned for her safety?” asked Chuck when he was done.

“Possibly,” said Jones.

“You want to report her missing?”

“I’d stop short of that.”

“Why?”

Jones told him about the call to Denise Smith.

“So what do you want me to do?” Chuck sounded annoyed. Overworked. Underpaid. Hassled by bosses and civilians, probably his wife, too.

“I guess I was just wondering what you think,” said Jones. This wasn’t strictly true. There was silence on the line; Chuck had stopped typing.

“If it were me,” Chuck said, “I’d call the parents. Feel them out if you’re concerned.”

“That’s what I was thinking,” said Jones. Jones could tell that Chuck was flattered that Jones had sought out his opinion. He was getting into it. No cop could resist a good mystery, or the idea that someone wanted to know what he thought about it.

“If she hadn’t picked up the kid,” Chuck said, “I’d be more inclined to tell you to fill out a missing-persons report, get the ball rolling in case we’re looking at foul play. I mean, if she really had assaulted him and taken the kids, why wouldn’t he have called the police and filed a report? If he was a good guy, truly concerned for the safety of his kids, no matter how much he loved his wife, he’d have filed charges last night. He’d be frantically looking-and so would we.”

“Exactly,” Jones said. “It’s suspicious.”

“Yeah, I’d call the parents,” Chuck said. “Chances are she went to them.”

“That’s good advice. In the meantime can I give you her tag number?” he said. This was the real reason he’d called Chuck. There was new license-plate-recognition software. Using security and CCTV cameras that were all over the place, cops could track plates now. It was something that was happening very quietly, under the radar of the media and civil-rights groups. As a civilian, Jones didn’t have access to that anymore, and the technology was so new that he didn’t have a private contact. “Maybe you’ll get a hit on her vehicle somewhere?”

Another pause. It was a favor he was asking Chuck, something not quite aboveboard. Jones waited.

“Yeah, sure,” Chuck said finally.

Jones had taken down the make, model, and plate number of Paula Carr’s SUV when he left her house the other day. Force of habit.

“Since I have you on the phone…” said Chuck.

“What’s up?”

“Want to take a ride up to the dig site? The Grove boys are giving my men a hard time. Things might go easier if you were there to mediate.”

“I thought you’d never ask,” said Jones.

Chuck gave a little laugh. “It’s nice to be working with you again, man,” he said.

Brother, you have no idea.

chapter twenty-five

When Eloise glanced in the visor mirror to check her reflection, she saw Marla in the backseat.

“It has changed so much here,” Marla said. She sounded wistful and far away, a voice broadcasting from another time and place.

Eloise ignored her. This was new. She was still aware of herself, of Ray, the car interior. She felt the heat of Ray’s thigh pressed against hers. She could smell the stale cigar smoke that had made a home in the upholstery. The car was old; he could afford better. There was a crack in the beige dash, an ash burn on the seat. Outdated pictures of his kids were fastened with rubber bands to the driver’s-side visor. Drive it till it dies, that was Ray’s philosophy about cars-about cases, about relationships, about shoes, too, for that matter. The odometer on the old Caddy (bought used) read ten thousand miles, having turned over last year. She reached out a finger to touch the crack.

“What?” said Ray. “It’s a piece of shit. I know.”

“I didn’t say anything.”

“I’m old-school, El. I’m not buying into the mass-consumer bullshit. Everything doesn’t have to be newer, better, brighter, shinier. What about the good-enough stuff rotting away in landfills? I’m about using as little as possible.”

“Old-school is new-school,” Eloise said. She held back a smile. “You’re preaching to the choir.” Eloise looked in the mirror again, hoping Marla had gone. But no.

“Nobody ever loved me like Michael,” she said. “Not even Mack. Even as a baby, Michael never wanted anyone else. I thought he’d outgrow it, but he never did.”

Eloise remembered how Michael used to cry when his mother left, even when he knew she was just running out for groceries or going for a jog. It wasn’t normal. Little Cara was so easy. She might fuss for her mama, but eventually she settled in after a bit to color or have some animal crackers. Michael sulked, sitting by the window until Marla came home. He was eleven or twelve the last time Eloise had watched him, far too old for that kind of behavior.

“He was fourteen that night,” Marla said. “Too big, too tall for his age. Taller than Mack already by then. He never made friends easily. He was happy to stay home with me. And I was so lonely in my marriage to Mack that I was happy to have him. Is that wrong?”

Eloise saw the dark purple necklace of handprints on Marla’s throat then. She brought a hand to her own neck.

“What are you staring at?” asked Ray.

“Nothing,” said Eloise. She glanced down at her knees. Her legs looked like tree branches, thin and knobby, jutting out from her yellow slicker.

“He can’t let me go,” said Marla.

When had she started to let it waste her like this? Even her doctor wasn’t sure what was wrong with her. She took something for the pain and weakness in her joints. One doctor had posited that her visions were something like ministrokes or TIAs. So she took something to prevent those episodes-which clearly it didn’t. She wasn’t supposed to drive, and she did only when something was really important, like her visit to Jones Cooper the other day. There was something for her stomach pains, diagnosed as IBS. Then there was the pill to help her sleep through the night. Her cholesterol was through the roof, even though she hardly ate. They gave her more medication for that.

“Mom? Are you taking all these pills?” Amanda had asked last year. She’d come to visit Eloise-without the kids. Her obligatory visit, which was actually worse than if she didn’t visit at all. Eloise could hardly stand to see herself through Amanda’s eyes. But her daughter was so kind, so vigilant about gifts and cards and flowers on Mother’s Day. The children sent Eloise crayon drawings. And it was unspoken between them that Amanda endured her visits to Eloise the way she did her yearly trip to the dentist, something anticipated with distaste, obligatory, and mercifully brief.

But yes, she was taking all those pills on her little schedule or as needed. Lately she’d been wondering what would happen to her if she just stopped taking them. Maybe the legion of things wrong with her would march in and sweep her away.

She looked into the mirror and saw that Marla was gone. She was aware that they were on the access road into the Hollows Wood. It was narrow, barely a road at all, just a rut between trees. Ray brought the car to a stop.

The road ahead was wet, the dirt turning into thick, gooey mud. The rain was coming down, just a drizzle. But the sky was that kind of gray that looked as if it would never be any other color again.

“We have to go on foot the rest of the way,” said Ray. He regarded her with a worried squint. “Can you do it?”

She didn’t bother being indignant. “I think so.”

“It’s not far. But the old girl isn’t going to make it through that muck.” He patted the steering wheel. “Or if she does, she won’t make it out again.”

As soon as they exited the car, they heard voices. They followed, Eloise holding on to Ray’s arm over the wet and unstable ground. Her yellow rain boots were ugly against the brown, made a slurping noise in the mud. By the time they reached the clearing, they saw four men in uniform digging into the earth. A few other men in heavy black slickers stood around watching. With the dead trees and the rain, the scene was as grim as a funeral. Eloise shuddered.

“Cops,” said Ray. He said it like one might say “termites”-with surprise and dismay and a dread of things to come. One could forget that he’d been a cop himself. “What are they looking for?”

“I bet they’re looking for Marla.”

“No,” he said. “How would they know about the Chapel?”

There was a flash of something in the trees across the opening. And then she saw him-too big, too tall, as his mother had described him. Clad in black, his long, dark hair hanging wet and ropy, fists clenched at his sides, he looked ghoulish. When he’d first come to see her, he’d looked sweet and bookish. He’d had his long hair back in a ponytail, wore those cute wire-rimmed glasses, was dressed neatly in jeans and a blue T-shirt. He was much like she’d remembered him as a boy, quiet, soft-spoken. The man she saw through the trees made her heart thud with fear. Eloise was about to point him out to Ray. But she was interrupted.

“I got something.” The voice rang high-pitched with alarm. It disturbed the air. Some large-winged birds above them flapped away. Then Jones Cooper was coming up behind them, clearing his throat so, Eloise guessed, as to not take them by surprise. Ray turned around to look at the other man.

“All of a sudden, it’s Grand Central around here,” said Ray. He didn’t even bother to conceal his dislike, which took the form of a sneer. Eloise couldn’t remember what it was with the two of them. And she didn’t much care-two old dogs with a bone between them.

“It has been a while, Muldune,” said Jones. Eloise noted how he did always try to be polite, even when he was annoyed. She wasn’t sure if this was a good trait or a dishonest one. She looked again across the clearing in time to see Michael slipping away into the dark between the trees. She still didn’t say anything; something held her back.

The three of them started walking toward the group of men who stood around looking down at the ground. As he approached, Jones asked, “What did you find there, son?”

The man in uniform was just a boy, with a smooth, unlined face free from stubble. He looked pale and stricken.

“Detective Cooper,” the boy said. Did everybody in this town know Jones Cooper? “I think I found bones.”

They all looked at the hole in the earth and saw the shock of white against the dark of the soil.

“Okay,” said Jones. He put up his hands. “Step away and stop digging. Call Detective Ferrigno and get some crime-scene techs out here.”

“Don’t tell them, Eloise. Please.” Marla again. Just her voice, loud inside Eloise’s head.

“It’s too late,” she said. And everyone turned to look at her with grim faces. That was her last awareness of the scene.

Marla sat up from the dirt and brushed herself off. For someone who’d been buried for more than twenty years, she looked remarkably well coiffed. Except for that throat, which was a mottled black and purple.

“He was supposed to spend the night with a friend. I should have known he’d come home. Cara was asleep. You remember how she slept like the dead, don’t you? Once that child was asleep, I had a solid twelve hours before she’d open her eyes again. Mack was working late, grading term papers in his office at the university. I had been looking forward to that time to myself all week.”

She stood up. “That’s what you lose when you’re a mother and a wife. You lose time to yourself. Your time is never yours again, is it? Not really.”

She sighed. “Anyway, it was nothing, what he saw. I had a friend over. As I confided in him about my life, I cried. My friend moved to comfort me. That’s what Michael saw. That’s all, I swear. But the rage in that boy, like all his life it had just been simmering, waiting for a reason to blow. My God. Why was he so angry at me?”

But then Marla was running and Eloise was high above her. It was like a satellite image she couldn’t zoom in on. She couldn’t get closer as she watched Marla darting through the woods. Two large forms gave chase, until one of them gained on her and took her to the ground. The other form came up behind, and there was a fight. Marla ran again, disappeared into the Chapel, while the two men engaged in a vicious physical battle that left one of them lifeless on the ground. The one who remained standing went after her again.

But that was all. Eloise came to on her back in the field with Ray and Jones looming over her.

“Eloise, are you okay?” asked Jones.

Ray helped her up, less concerned. “What did you see?” he asked.

“She said there was someone else there that night. A friend, not a lover,” Eloise said to Ray. She didn’t care about Jones, what he thought of her, whether or not he believed her. She leaned against Ray.

“He was here, watching the dig, Ray. Just now, in the real world.”

“Who?”

“Michael Holt. I saw him run off. Go after him.” She pointed in the direction she’d seen him run, and Ray took off, leaving her alone with Jones.

“Are you okay?” he asked again.

“I’m okay.”

He looked after Ray, seemed to consider giving chase himself. But he stayed rooted. Others had arrived. She saw more men moving into the clearing.

“It doesn’t seem like this whole thing, whatever it is you do, is very good for your health,” said Jones.

She didn’t know how to answer him. No one who wasn’t another psychic, or her daughter, had made that observation before. This is killing you, Mom. You need to walk away from it. In fact, no one seemed to notice her at all. For most people it was only about what she could do for them.

“He’s using you,” said Jones. He was still looking off in the direction where Ray had gone. “You shouldn’t let him anymore.”

She was about to protest. But she found she didn’t have it in her. “He’s my friend.”

She sensed that he was about to make some kind of comment, but then he moved away from her and toward them, the other men, with a quick glance back. She turned and exited the clearing, heading back toward the car. There was nothing left to do for Marla Holt; she wouldn’t visit Eloise again. Eloise couldn’t help her anymore.

chapter twenty-six

Michael ran through the wet woods, branches slapping at his face, roots tugging at his feet. His chest was tight with effort, his heart an engine running too hot, too hard. When he finally came to a stop at the mine head, he was sobbing. Then, in the next moment, everything in his stomach came up in one heaving orange gush. The sound of the splatter against the ground made him dry-heave until he could hardly breathe. Then he sank against the wooden frame of the mine entrance. After a while his breathing slowed, his nausea subsided. The cool air from the mine shaft seemed to wash out and over him, soothing him.

He’d been coming here his whole life. His father had shown him the way. It was here where he went below the first time, first ventured into that always dark and cool and quiet place. There was no chatter, no traffic, no one else to look on him in judgment, to take stock of him and find him wanting.

It was Cooper who had led them all to that place, brought the police. And Eloise and Ray had been there, too. If it hadn’t been for that stupid girl, tramping about where she didn’t belong, no one ever would have known about him digging out there. Now the site would be lost, or someone else would take credit for it. But no, that wasn’t it, was it? That wasn’t why he couldn’t stop crying.

He pulled himself to his feet and stood at the entrance to the mine. When he first returned here after his father had died, the mine head had been boarded up. There was a city sign on it that declared it condemned. DO NOT ENTER, the sign warned. DANGER. He’d brought a crowbar down and pried it open. The boards lay off to the side, a jagged pile of broken wood and jutting rusted nails.

“What did you do to her?” he yelled into the darkness. It was a wet, solid thing, that darkness. It could come out and grab you, drag you down into the earth.

“What did you do to her?” The question bounced back at him, echoing off the mine shaft’s walls. His words sounded desperate and grief-stricken, his voice distorted and foreign, even to himself.

His own memories of that night were boarded up like the mine. Do not enter. Danger. And there was no crowbar strong enough to break through. All he could remember was the bike ride home through silent suburban streets, the moon high, the houses dark. He left his bike on the lawn, carelessly let it twist and fall to the ground. He climbed the porch step and put his hand on the knob. But that door wouldn’t open, not in his memory. He couldn’t get it to budge. And he was tired of trying.

“All the answers are down here,” his father had told him about the mines and caves. “Down here you can hear yourself think, finally.”

Maybe that’s what he needed to do. Go down. Maybe his father was right. Maybe the answers were there.

“Michael!”

He looked up through the trees. The voice was familiar. Ray Muldune. He was making his way slowly, unsteadily closer.

“Michael!”

Ray was a good guy, but Michael didn’t want to talk anymore. Not to Ray, not to anyone. He lifted his pack from the ground and hefted it onto his back. He stooped his head and stepped inside, into the blessed quiet.

chapter twenty-seven

When Cole pulled up to the house, he knew that something was wrong. He just knew. His dad’s car was in the driveway, and his father was almost never home before Claire and Cameron went to bed. Paula’s SUV was gone. And there was something else. He realized as he sat and watched the house that he’d never seen it without the outside lights burning. Paula always had all the lights on, inside and out. I hate the dark, she’d told him. It makes me sad. His dad was always complaining about lamps burning in empty rooms. But Cole liked it. He didn’t like the dark, either.

He forced himself to exit the car, even though he just wanted to keep driving. He should have gone straight to Willow’s. He’d wanted to. But he’d promised Cam that they’d play a game when he came home from school. And Cole didn’t like to break promises to his brother. He closed the car door behind him, and the sound of it echoed on the quiet street. He didn’t pull into the drive in case his father needed to get out or Paula needed to get in.

Cole walked in through the open garage and up the three wooden steps into the laundry room. There was none of the usual chaos to greet him. Usually Cam’s shoes, coat, and book bag were lying on the floor until Paula ran around cleaning everything up. He’d hear the television blaring, Claire crying, or Paula talking on the phone. He’d smell something cooking on the stove.

Tonight he stood in the doorway that led to the empty living room, feeling an uneasiness. It was like the feeling he had when he’d called his mother and found that the line had been disconnected. Or when his birthday came and went and she didn’t call or send a card. It wasn’t like her. He couldn’t imagine that she had some new boyfriend and didn’t want him around, as his father said. But his father wouldn’t lie, would he? Why would he lie?

Cole closed the laundry room door behind him. Again he thought about just leaving. No one tracked him. As long as he left a note for Paula, and as long as he was home by eight to do his homework, she wouldn’t be mad. Instead he walked to the foyer.

“Paula?”

Nothing.

“Dad?”

He had that nervous stomach that he’d had on and off since he went to the apartment he’d lived in with his mother and found it empty. All their stuff-all his stuff-was gone. He hadn’t wanted to cry in front of his dad. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d cried about anything, really. But it had rushed out of him in a wave, like vomit. He’d just started sobbing.

“Where is she?” he’d asked. He knew he sounded like a little kid; he couldn’t help it. “Where did she go?”

“Cole, I’m sorry, son,” his dad had said. “I don’t know. It’s okay, though. You’ll stay with us until we find her.”

Except that horrible, sad sinking feeling had stayed. Sometimes he was able to ignore it, like when he was getting high with Jolie and Jeb, or when he was thinking about Willow Graves, or playing with Claire and Cam. But whenever it was dark or quiet, that ache just spread from his belly and swallowed him whole. Maybe that’s why Paula didn’t like the dark. Sometimes he looked at her when she thought no one was watching and he wondered if she had that spreading sadness inside, too.

On the staircase he picked his way over Cam’s robot dog, a fire truck, a caboose from his train set, and headed up. He heard Kevin’s voice. There was a sliver of low light coming from the door left ajar to his office. Cole stood and listened.

“I’m sorry, baby. I’m sorry. I’m stuck at work. I’ll make it up to you.”

Cole knew that Kevin wasn’t talking to Paula. That was not the tone he used when he was talking to her. Cole pushed the door open. His father was sitting on the big walnut desk with his head in one hand, cell phone in the other.

“Dad?” Somehow the word never quite rang true for Cole. He’d wanted to call his father “Kevin.” But Kevin insisted on “Dad.” Cole complied, just to be polite.

His father looked up at him startled but then tried for a smile. He raised a finger.

“Look, honey,” he said. “I have to go. Let’s talk about this later.”

Cole heard whoever it was get shrill and loud on the other end. But Kevin just hung up. Cole remembered how his mother used to yell at his dad, when Cole was small. He could see her standing at the kitchen counter crying. He didn’t remember what they were fighting about. Just that for the longest time he thought that was why his father never came to see him, because his mother was always screaming her head off at the guy. He had recently started to wonder if that was true. And why it was that she’d been screaming at him.

“How was school, pal?”

Kevin looked terrible, pasty in the light of his computer screen. There was some kind of mark on his face, a dark line under his eye that trailed to his mouth. Was it blood?

“Dad, what’s wrong?” asked Cole. “Where are Paula and the kids?”

His father didn’t answer right away, looked at him with an odd, frozen smile.

“Uh, Cole,” he said. He pointed to the chair across from his desk. “Take a seat, okay?”

Cole sank into the chair. The clock on the bookshelf behind Kevin said that it was almost four. He was going to be late to see Willow.

“Paula and I are taking a little break.”

“A break?” Cole felt that ache in his stomach. He wished his father would turn on a light.

“She has taken the kids and, um…” His dad didn’t seem like he could finish the sentence. Kevin looked down at fingers that he had spread wide across the blotter on his desk. “The truth is, I don’t know where she is.”

“What happened to your eye?”

Kevin lifted a finger to his face. “Oh,” he said. The smear from his face had transferred to his finger. “I hit my head on a cabinet door.”

Cole didn’t know what to say. It was obvious his father was lying. He remembered what his mother had said to him the day he left to go spend a few weeks with Kevin. I know you love your dad and I’m happy that you’re going to have some time with him. But remember, all that glitters isn’t gold… Whatever, Mom. See you in a couple of weeks.

He hadn’t even been sad to leave her. He hadn’t, in fact, given her a backward glance; she was too strict, too paranoid, always on his case about homework and who he was hanging out with. And when she found that joint, he thought she was going to have an aneurysm. Then, on the computer, he’d discovered that she’d been looking at those discipline summer camps. He’d wanted to get away from her and stay with Kevin. His father, Cole had thought, was smart and cool and had money. Not like his mother, who could barely make ends meet.

“Are you okay?” Cole asked

Kevin blew out a breath, tried for a smile. “I’m sorry, son,” he said. “This is not what I had planned for your visit.”

His father had been full of promises about the kind of summer they’d have together. But Kevin was often gone before Cole got up, sometimes didn’t get home until very late. They’d played golf once. He had also, once, taken Cole and the kids to the beach. But Kevin was just on his phone the whole time, while Cole took care of the kids. Since school started, he’d hardly seen his father at all.

“It’s okay, Dad. Don’t worry about it.”

Cole wanted to ask more about Paula, but something told him not to. Kevin’s cell phone started ringing then. He glanced at it, his nose wrinkling as if he’d smelled something foul.

“I have to take this, okay?” Kevin said. He picked up the phone and looked down at the desk. “Hey, Greg. What’s up?… I know. I know… You’ll have it tomorrow.”

Cole rose and moved to the door. He stood there a minute, not knowing whether he should leave or not. He wanted to turn on the light, so Kevin wouldn’t be sitting there with just the computer screen on. There was something really depressing about that. But instead, after a moment, he simply closed the door and left.

Cole walked into Cameron’s room and sat on his little brother’s bed. He looked around at Cam’s mounds of toys and shelves of books. Then Cole put his head down on the sheets that were covered with planets and stars and smelled of Johnson’s Baby Shampoo.

Cole remembered how he’d lied to Willow about his mother being in Iraq. He didn’t even know why he’d done that; it was such a stupid lie. He’d have to keep it up if he went to her house. She’d ask about it, and he’d have to keep lying. And he’d have to pretend that everything was okay, that he was cool and in control. He couldn’t tell her that he was nearly sick from wondering where his mother had gone. And now Paula, Cameron, and Claire had gone as well. Something wasn’t right. Lots of things weren’t right. But he had no idea what he was supposed to do about any of it. He hadn’t realized how exhausting it was to be sad all the time. He was thinking that as he fell asleep.

He didn’t come. Not at four. Not at five. At five fifteen Willow moved away from the window and threw herself in front of the television. Her mother was making dinner in the kitchen.

In a way Willow wasn’t even surprised. She started to wonder if she’d imagined the whole thing-him appearing at her locker, the excited and surprised lift in her heart. She wasn’t the girl that boys liked; she was the weird one with the orange hair and the poky elbows. She wasn’t the pretty one with long-lashed eyes and big boobs. She was just Willow. He was probably only making fun of her. He went back to Jolie, and they had a good laugh.

“Where’s your friend?” her mom asked. She stood in the doorway wearing an apron dusted with flour. She held a dishcloth in her hand. Willow’s mother was beautiful; everyone said so. Willow knew that she herself looked like her father, who, honestly, was not her mother’s equal in the looks department. In the pictures they had, he looked skinny and goofy. She wondered what Bethany had ever seen in him. He was a wonderful man. He wasn’t like any of the other men I’ve known. So he was a freak. Maybe that’s why Willow was such a misfit; it was hereditary.

She thought about lying-telling her that Cole had called and said he had too much homework, or that he got called into work, something responsible that didn’t make him a screwup who broke his promises like Richard. But she didn’t.

“I don’t know,” she said. She stared at the screen, some stupid cartoon. She didn’t even know what she was watching. “He stood me up, I guess.”

She tried not to cry, but a big tear escaped from her eye. She batted it away.

“Oh, Willow,” said her mom. Bethany sat next to her, and Willow fitted herself into her mother’s arms. “I’m sure he had an important reason.”

“He could have called,” said Willow.

“Maybe his car broke down or something like that. Just give him the benefit of the doubt until you know better.”

“I guess,” she said. But already she was feeling that dark place growing, that angry, disappointed hole in her middle.

“I know how hard it is to be your age, Willow. I remember.”

“When does it get easier?”

Her mother issued a little laugh. “It gets different. Let’s put it that way.”

“Great.”

Her mother switched off the television with the remote. And they sat like that, listening to the rain hit the windows. Her mother rubbed her back, and Willow closed her eyes. The room was warm, and the couch was soft.

She must have dozed off, because when she woke up, she was alone on the couch and she could hear her mother on the phone. Her voice had a funny tone, soft and sweet.

“No, I don’t think it’s inappropriate,” she said. “I think it’s fine.”

Bethany laughed then, and she sounded so light and happy that it made Willow angry in a weird way. How can she be happy when I’m so miserable?

“That sounds nice,” Bethany said. “Okay.”

When Willow walked into the kitchen, the table was set for three. Bethany had made pizza from scratch. As her mother hung up the phone, Willow cleared the third place. She didn’t need to eat dinner reminded that she’d been stood up.

“Who was that?” she asked when her mother hung up the phone.

Her mother was using the pizza cutter to make slices in the pie. The kitchen was a disaster-sauce and flour everywhere. Bethany was not a tidy cook.

“I thought you were sleeping,” said Bethany, not looking at Willow. But she had this big smile on her face.

“Who was it?” asked Willow. “Not Richard? He’s not still coming this weekend, is he?”

“No, it wasn’t Richard,” said Bethany. “And I don’t know if Richard is still planning on coming this weekend. Do you want him to? You guys haven’t talked in months.”

“I really couldn’t care less,” said Willow. She brought the salad to the table and flopped down in her seat.

“Well, I told him he could come if he wanted to,” she said. “Either way, we’ll do something fun. We should check out that old cider mill. It’s supposed to be really cool.”

“Oh, yeah,” said Willow. “It sounds like a blast.”

They spent the rest of the meal talking about school-her classes, Mr. Vance, how maybe she should try out for drama next year. Then, after dinner, Bethany helped Willow answer her essay question about A Separate Peace: “Did Gene purposely knock Fin from the branch? Why or why not? If he did, what does it say about Gene and the friendship he shared with Fin?” Mom thought that was such a great question. But Willow just thought it was a cheat, since they’d been discussing it all week in class. Plus, she’d already read the book in seventh grade. But Mr. Vance said he liked to teach it again because the themes were so “complicated.”

It wasn’t until hours later, when Willow was lying in bed thinking about Cole and trying to go to sleep, that she realized her mother had never answered the question about who was on the phone.

That night she dreamed that Cole called her and told her how sorry he was for letting her down, for not being there when he said he would. He told her he loved her and that he couldn’t wait to see her again. But then she woke up and realized that she’d only been dreaming, and the crushing disappointment she felt was almost too much to bear.

chapter twenty-eight

“I have to be honest. After our last session, I didn’t think you’d be coming back.”

Dr. Dahl was well pressed as always, looking particularly dewy and flushed, as though he’d just come from his daily workout. An open bottle of water, half empty, sat on the table beside his chair.

Jones shifted in his seat. “Well, to be honest, I wasn’t sure I would.”

The doctor looked at him with an open, expectant gaze. He seemed hopeful. Maybe even a little smug? No, not that. But there was something about his expression that annoyed Jones.

“So what are we doing here?” Dr. Dahl said.

Jones started to say how it was about Maggie, how he was afraid of what might happen to their marriage if he didn’t keep coming to therapy. And even though this was part of the reason, it wasn’t the whole reason.

“I realized that you were right,” he said, even though it practically killed him. He cleared his throat. “That I’ve been holding back, afraid to move forward into the next phase of my life.”

The doctor gave him an approving nod, which made Jones want to get up and leave again.

“What have you been afraid of, do you think?”

You had to love the guy. He went right into it. No foreplay at all. The headache was already starting.

“Well, I guess I’ve been afraid that there is no next phase,” said Jones. “That there would just be this puttering around for the next however-many years, taking pointless classes and mowing lawns. We’d take a few trips, go on some cruises. You know, I’ve been afraid that this was it. The only thing left was a kind of slow, inevitable trek toward the end. I mean, I don’t even play golf.”

“But you’re a young man. Plenty of law-enforcement folks retire young, take their pensions, and find other work.”

“I guess I don’t feel that young sometimes,” said Jones. “But anyway, some things have happened over the last couple of days.”

He told the doctor about the cases he was working on, about Maggie’s suggestion that he might hang out a shingle.

“And you’re happy to be engaged in this type of work again? It gratifies you?”

“It does. I guess I originally came to police work as a kind of penance,” said Jones. “A way to make up for wrongs I’d perpetrated.”

“And has that changed?” The doctor took a sip from his water bottle.

“It has.”

“What does it mean to you now?”

Jones thought about it a moment. But he didn’t have to think about it much. He had a strange clarity on the subject.

“You know, I think I’m a little lost unless I’m helping people.”

Part of Jones expected the doctor to praise him for his selflessness. But Dr. Dahl was quiet a moment, seemed to be turning over Jones’s words.

Then, “You know, I think that’s fine, Jones. As long as you don’t use the work of helping others to hide from things inside you that need tending. I guess we both know you did that for a long time, first with your mother, then in your profession.”

What was it with these guys? Was there some kind of manual they were all reading from? Maggie had said almost the same words. Jones didn’t respond, really, just mimicked that affirming noise the doctor often made.

“But we can talk more about that next time,” said the doctor. “Our time is up.”

This was the other thing that always irked Jones about therapy. When your time was up, you got booted. It was like you were just getting comfortable, getting used to confiding in someone, and then you were asked to leave.

Back in his car, he turned on the cell phone; he expected messages. But there was nothing. Nothing from Chuck about the bones they’d found, which were being analyzed, or about Michael Holt, who’d apparently disappeared into the mines and had not yet emerged. Nothing from Paula Carr’s parents; he’d called them twice, only to get voice mail. Nothing from Jack at the credit bureau on Paula Carr, or on Cole’s mother, Robin O’Conner.

This was the thing about investigative work that people just didn’t get. There were all these dead, waiting spots: waiting for DNA results-or in this case dental records-for contacts to wade through a river of other requests just like yours, for people who didn’t want to talk to you to call you back. That’s why cops drank after hours and overate on the job. How were you supposed to deal with the agitation, the urgency in the spaces where you had no control whatsoever? You went and got some food, scarfed it down in your car.

While he was still holding the phone, staring at it in frustration, it started to ring as though he’d willed it to do so. Ricky had set Jones’s cell so that it sounded like the ringing of an old rotary phone. The tone was oddly comforting, that solid clanging of a bell, that sound of a real mechanism working-even though it wasn’t that. The world had gone so quiet, all the noises that machines made now were soft and ambient, musical.

“Okay,” said Kellerman. “Here’s what I’ve got.”

“Great,” said Jones. He felt the relief that always came with action.

“Paula Carr hasn’t used her credit cards or made any bank withdrawals in forty-eight hours.” Kellerman paused to issue a hacking cough. The sound of it made Jones cringe.

“Sorry,” Kellerman said. “One interesting thing. I did a little digging and found an account under her maiden name, husband not listed as an account holder. Last week there was a large withdrawal. Ten thousand.”

Jones thought about this, and it made sense. She was planning a flight. She wanted to find Cole’s mother before she left with her kids; that’s why she’d called him. Something had happened to force her hand. Or maybe something worse.

“That’s interesting,” said Jones.

“Looks to me like she wanted to get lost.”

“Maybe.”

“Something else notable. Paula Carr hasn’t made any ATM withdrawals in years. Her paycheck from a small company was direct-deposited into a joint account. But that account only had one ATM card, and that was for the husband. Her credit-card purchases are strictly mom-type charges. I’m talking about grocery and big-box stores, kids’ clothing stores, online book retailers. There’s not a charge on there over a couple hundred dollars.”

“So her husband had her on a leash,” said Jones. “Controlling her spending.”

“I wish I could keep my wife on a leash,” said Kellerman. He started laughing, but the laugh turned into that horrible cough again.

“You all right, man?”

“Ah, got this cough,” Kellerman said. “I’m seeing a doctor on Friday.”

“I’m sure it’s nothing,” said Jones. “Allergies, probably.” The cough sounded bad, rattling and deep.

Controlling the money was a way of controlling the relationship. Jones thought about how Carr had referred to Paula only as “my wife,” how the house was spotless, no pictures, how nervous and apologetic Paula had been throughout the visit. Jones was starting to get the picture. Kevin Carr was all about control.

“If I find anything on her, I’ll give you a call. People get sloppy or careless after a while. Think no one is paying attention. Or they run out of cash.”

“I’d appreciate it.”

“The other woman, Robin O’Conner,” Kellerman went on. “She’s broke. She was recently fired from her job. She’s got five maxed-out cards, about ninety-five dollars and change in her account. She’s been evicted from her apartment, with two months owed in back rent.”

“When was her last charge?”

“She tried to use her card yesterday at the Regal Motel in Chester. It was a charge for twenty dollars and twenty-three cents, and it was declined.”

Chester was about an hour from The Hollows, another small working-class town, but one that hadn’t developed in the same way as The Hollows had. He looked at his watch. He could go out there, try to find Robin O’Conner, as Paula had asked. But why? He didn’t have a client, really. He wasn’t a cop. He wasn’t even a PI. At this point it was costing him money to fulfill his promise to Paula Carr-the drive, the dinner he’d owe Kellerman for these favors-and his buddy could pack it away. Maggie would not approve.

“Want me to keep tabs on her, too?” Kellerman asked.

“I’d appreciate it.”

“I’ll text you if either of them pops.”

They made arrangements to get together for dinner the following week. Once the call had ended, Jones put the car in drive. He almost didn’t realize he was heading to Chester until he’d pulled onto the highway. Why not? he thought. It was the only real lead he had on any of the three missing women. What was he going to do, go home and reflect on the future course of his life, his marriage, all the “work” he had to do on himself? He wasn’t going to do that. He just wasn’t. The very thought of it was suffocating.

As he drove, he found himself wondering what he would need to do to get his private investigator’s license. He wondered, too, if he should start carrying a gun again.

chapter twenty-nine

The rumor swirling around the school office was that the police had found human bones up by the Chapel, suspected to be the remains of Marla Holt. At first this news landed softly, like a false whisper in Henry Ivy’s ear. Something that could easily be denied and pushed away. But as the day wore on and the rumor spread and five separate people said to him “Did you hear?” he started to feel as if he were being buried alive under concrete blocks. By the late afternoon, the weight was crushing him. Was she up there? Had she been up there all these years? When he and everyone else had thought the worst of her? Had she been lying rotting in a shallow grave not a mile from where he worked every day? Had he stayed with her that night, as she had wanted him to, would she be alive right now?

All day he went through the motions: morning announcements, going over attendance records, disciplining the usual out-of-control students, chatting with his assistant. And all the while there was this terrible hum in the back of his head. He had plans that night with Bethany Graves. He felt like he was being punished for trying to be happy. There was something cosmic, wasn’t there, that just wouldn’t allow it.

“I can’t go out,” Bethany had told him. “Not with so much happening with Willow. Not with her being so unhappy.”

“I understand,” he’d said, trying to keep the disappointment out of his voice. He figured it was just a polite blow-off.

“But you can come here,” she’d said. “For dinner? Tomorrow night?”

He felt a happy lift in his heart, the lofting of hope. “You don’t think it’s… inappropriate.”

“No,” she’d said. There was a smile in her voice. “I don’t think it’s inappropriate at all. I think it’s fine.”

When he woke up in the morning, he’d felt light and happy. He’d blasted through his 6:00 A.M. workout, had a power breakfast of egg whites and a fruit smoothie, gotten to work early to get a jump on some of his teacher evaluations. But by 9:30, after the office started to fill and people were talking about the rumors, he felt a kind of gray veil of grief and sorrow descend.

What he’d never told them was that he had loved her-in a way. It was not in the way he had loved Maggie Cooper. Once upon a time, he’d had a real hope that Maggie would love him, too. When they were teenagers, he’d imagined that one day their friendship would turn into something more, that one day they’d get married and have children. Of course, that had never happened. But their friendship had endured. And he had taken that as a kind of consolation prize.

He had loved Marla Holt like you love a movie star, never imagining that there could be anything between you. She was older than he was, seemed wise and worldly. And she was so beautiful that he almost didn’t believe she was real. Even her imperfections-the tiny laugh lines at her eyes, the beauty mark on her lower right cheek (her witch’s mole, she’d called it)-only made her more gorgeous. When she spoke to him, he was transfixed by her… by the way her mouth moved, by the way her hands danced to her throat, by the blinking of her eyes.

The night she’d disappeared, they were supposed to jog. He’d called her to ask what time, and she’d said she couldn’t go. That Michael was at a sleepover and she had Cara. Mack would be late at work. But he could come by for a bit, couldn’t he? Just to talk. Because that’s what they did on their jogs. They talked and talked about everything.

At first he’d hesitated, because it seemed inappropriate. But she’d said, Please, Henry. I so look forward to our time together. And he had agreed. He enjoyed their time together, too. He looked forward to being with her, even though he knew he’d never touch her and that she was so far above and beyond him. Every instinct in his body told him not to go, that it was wrong, that it could lead someplace unseemly. But he did go, because she’d asked him to go and she had sounded so sad when she did.

He’d wanted to tell Jones about it that night in the woods. When they were out there, maybe feet from where they’d found those bones. He’d wanted to say, I was with her that night, Jones. I held her in my arms. She was so unhappy with Mack, with herself, with the life they’d made. She told me that she’d made mistakes, that in certain ways she’d been unfaithful. I held her, and I wanted her so badly. I could have had her. I didn’t care that there was someone else, someone not her husband. She was already opening up to me like a flower.

Henry had wanted to tell Jones how it had taken every ounce of restraint in his body not to kiss her, not to feel the softness of her lips on his. His whole body had ached with desire as she wept in his arms. What would have happened if Michael hadn’t come home and found them there, holding each other, swaying in the dim light of the living room? Would he have been able to walk away from her? Would he have been able to hold himself back? He knew that nobody thought of him as someone with the same drives and needs as any man. Henry’s so sweet. Henry’s so kind. Henry’s such a good friend. But he did have needs, desires, always ignored and repressed. And he’d been alone so long.

“Mom?”

The word had rocketed through both of them, sent them reeling back from each other like an electric shock.

“Michael,” she said. It sounded more like a breath exhaled, shocked and afraid. “What are you doing here?”

“Mom,” the boy had said. “What are you doing?”

There was something strange and electric about the moment.

“It’s nothing, sweetie,” Marla whispered. “Henry’s just a friend.”

Henry’s just a friend. The words sliced him, even though he knew in his heart of hearts that it was true. That’s what he was to women. Just a friend. Even though he’d been burning with desire, she’d only been seeking comfort in her misery.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “I’m very sorry.”

And he’d moved quickly past the boy, who was already taller and thicker than Henry, with his face burning. The kid was panting like an animal. He was only thirteen, or maybe fourteen already. He was still in middle school, not yet at Hollows High.

“Don’t, Henry.” Her words followed him out the front door. And then he was running. He’d come over in his jogging clothes, because he hadn’t expected to stay long, because he didn’t want anyone to see him going to her house wearing street clothes. He ran and ran, did hard, sweaty miles through the neighborhood and out onto the road that led to the more rural areas of The Hollows, past the grazing fields and dairy farms. Later, when questions were asked, people had seen him running, as he did most nights. They had seen him running alone, not with Marla Holt. When he got back to his house, he saw that the Holt house was dark. And Mack’s car was in the driveway. And that’s when Henry saw Claudia Miller, standing in her upstairs window, a black silhouette against a glowing yellow light, watching, always watching.

The bell rang, and he snapped back to the moment. He wondered if he should cancel with Bethany Graves. What kind of company would he be with all this on his mind? He’d spent so much time wondering about that night with Marla. What would have happened if he’d stayed, hadn’t run like a coward? Maybe she’d be with him right now, be his wife, instead of running off with whomever she’d finally chosen.

Honestly, he’d never believed that she had fallen to harm. He believed as everyone else had that she’d tired of her life in The Hollows and moved on without her children. She’d as much as told him that she’d been seeing someone else. Claudia Miller had watched her get into a black sedan, carrying a suitcase.

Maybe that night was just the last straw. Michael told Mack that another man had been in the house, and they’d fought. Maybe Marla had called her boyfriend and finally left, as she so desperately wanted to. She’d taken her beauty and her charm and left her suburban hell. If Henry had been a different kind of man, he’d have been the one to take her away. If he weren’t Henry Ivy, bully bait-turned-high-school teacher, living in his parents’ house, he’d have been the man to take her to New York City or Hollywood. But he was Henry Ivy, and try as he might, he had never been able to make himself into anything else.

Now he had to consider the idea that if he hadn’t left her that night, he might have saved her life. He wasn’t sure if he could live with that.

He forced himself to concentrate on the screen in front of him. He scrolled through the absences listed on the spreadsheet and saw that both Cole Carr and Jolie Marsh had not been in school for two days. Willow Graves had been in class-focused and attentive, if quiet, according to her teachers. He was glad for that. Henry knew that Willow was having a hard time, having problems adjusting to her parents’ divorce, her new school. But he didn’t think she was troubled, or at risk like Jolie Marsh. They could lose Jolie Marsh, as they’d lost her brother, Jeb. He’d make a call to each family. Neither absence had been explained with a phone call or an e-mail.

Thinking about the three young people made him remember their afternoon in the woods. He and Jones had discussed the legend told to Bethany Graves by Michael Holt. Henry had offered to research it, but he hadn’t done anything more than a cursory Internet search that had, not surprisingly, yielded nothing. He’d even looked up Mack Holt online, wondering if some of his papers or research had been digitally archived at the university. But he found nothing except the man’s obituary, sad and perfunctory. He’d died alone, estranged from his children. The only reason Michael Holt had returned at all, according to the endless Hollows rumor mill, was that he was still asking questions about his missing mother-questions that might be answered now, by the discovery of human bones in a clearing in the woods.

Henry reached for the phone to call Maggie. But he couldn’t bring himself to dial her number. Maybe he should talk to Jones, tell him what he hadn’t told them years ago. But how could he say it now? That he was there that night, holding Marla Holt? How could he explain keeping that secret all these years, revealing it only now, when her bones turned up? How could he expose his terrible cowardice? He’d always wondered why Michael Holt had never mentioned that he was there, had never told the police or his father. Then he’d heard that Michael had no memory of the night and what had happened to his mother.

When the boy started high school, Henry feared that Michael would recognize him, that it would jog his memory. But the boy had never even seemed to notice him. He’d never had Michael in his AP history class. When they passed in the hall, the boy only glanced at him in blank unrecognition, even though they had lived in the same neighborhood for years.

But this was all so long ago. A lifetime, it seemed. Until that afternoon in the woods with Jones, it had been years since he’d thought about Marla. She was just another woman he’d wanted who remained out of reach.

His intercom buzzed.

“Mr. Ivy, Bethany Graves on line one.” He almost told his assistant, Bella, to take a message. But he couldn’t do that. He wouldn’t.

“Thanks, Bella.”

He took a deep breath and picked up the phone. “Ms. Graves? What can I do for you?”

She giggled a little, and he felt a warmth rise inside him.

“You sound so… like a principal,” she said.

He glanced over at the door. Bella was on the phone, probably talking to her boyfriend, who was a rookie cop with the Hollows PD. Bella was the one with the inside information about the bones found at the Chapel. And the girl, sweet and efficient as she was, never stopped talking.

“Sorry,” he said. He allowed himself a smile. “I’m looking forward to tonight.”

“Me, too,” she said. “I was just wondering about allergies. Or if there’s anything you hate.”

“Nope,” he said. “I’m wide open.”

He wasn’t going to tell her that he was nearly a vegetarian, eating meat less than once a month. He didn’t love spicy foods; they made him sweat unattractively and go red in the face. He tried to avoid dairy. Certain wines gave him heartburn. Women didn’t like it when you were fussy about food.

“Good,” she said. “Food is life.”

“So true,” he said. He liked that; he did think it was true.

“I had another reason for calling.” Her tone dropped, went more serious. He prepared himself for whatever disappointment was coming.

“Oh?”

“Do you know Cole Carr well?” she asked. “The boy from the woods the other afternoon?”

“He’s new to the school,” Henry said. “But he does fine. All of his teachers seem to think he’s a good kid, if a little reticent and withdrawn. Why?”

“Well, he stood Willow up last night. He was supposed to come by and never did. She’s crushed.”

Henry glanced at the boy’s name on the screen, the two red absence marks by his name. “I was just about to call his family. He’s been out of school for the last couple of days. Maybe he’s sick. Or there’s some family emergency. The parents haven’t called.”

There was a pause on the line.

“Willow said she saw him yesterday. That’s when they made plans.”

He heard worry and disappointment in her voice. And even though he knew that it didn’t have anything to do with him, he felt responsible.

“He might have been here but not attending class,” he said. “He has a car.”

“I’m sure he was,” said Bethany. She didn’t sound sure at all. “I really don’t think she was lying.”

Henry knew all about Willow’s issues with the truth. Lots of teenage girls lied; it was a self-esteem thing. They generally grew out of it.

“I’ll be reaching out to the family in a while,” he said. He wanted to make her feel better somehow. “I’ll let you know what I learn.”

“Okay.”

“Try not to worry, Beth.” He liked the way her name sounded on the air. There was a beat where he wondered if he had been too familiar. When she spoke again, he heard that warmth in her voice.

“You’re a good man, Mr. Ivy,” she said. Somehow when she said it, it didn’t feel like a punch to the gut.

The Regal Motel wasn’t the worst place Jones had ever seen. Some motels like this-a depressing concrete U of shabbily appointed rooms-were nests of illegal activities, drugs in one room, prostitution in another. Recently a place like this closer to The Hollows had burned to the ground after the explosion of a small methamphetamine lab.

But the Regal was at least clean on the outside, with a fresh coat of paint. There was a decently maintained pool area, chairs and pool covered for the winter. The shrubbery along the sidewalk was trimmed. Someone was taking the time to keep the place in order, which meant management was also keeping an eye on the guests. The sign could use a little work. The g was missing, so from a distance it read THE RE AL MOTEL.

A little bell announced his entry into an orderly, quiet office. It was cool, the heat not yet on. A large woman with a head of tight gray curls tapped on a keyboard behind a desk. She didn’t look up to acknowledge him right away. So Jones glanced around the room. Fake plant. A dingy love seat and coffee table. A magazine rack with overused, outdated women’s magazines. The dark, wood-paneled walls were inexpertly studded with photographs of children in various poses of play, certificates from various agencies announcing compliance or excellence. There were some amateur line drawings of area sights. The carpet was stained, and a path was worn thin from the door to the desk.

“Help you, sir?”

She still hadn’t looked up from her computer.

“I’m looking for a friend. I heard she was staying here. Robin O’Conner.”

She lifted her eyes from the screen then, pushed her glasses up to the bridge of her nose, and gave him a cool once-over.

“Cop?” she said. She had the aura of proprietorship; she was not an underling or a worker. She had authority here, wouldn’t be worried about her job. This could be a good thing or a bad thing.

“No,” said Jones.

“Retired,” she said. She wasn’t asking.

Jones offered a slow shrug. With a woman like that, it was better to stick to the truth. “I’m doing a favor for a friend. Robin’s got a boy who’s missing her.”

“You can leave a message. I’ll see that she gets it.” She turned back to the screen. He could see blue and white reflected in the lenses. She was on that social network. It was weird how into that everyone appeared to be. More into it than the real world, it seemed.

Jones waited. He walked over to the wall, peered more closely at the certificates. When he was a cop, he’d do things like that to unsettle. If the documents were fake or out of date, people would get nervous, start chattering.

“I run a clean place here,” she said. When he looked back at her, she was staring at him hard. He was annoying her. She wanted him to leave. Good.

“I can see that, ma’am,” he said politely. A little too politely, almost but not quite mockingly so.

“What time is it?” she asked.

Jones glanced at his watch, an old Timex he’d had since college. “Just before noon.”

She gazed toward the window. Jones looked to see a small diner across the road. “She’ll be headed over there soon, if she’s not there already. She works the lunch shift.”

Robin O’Conner must have been working off the books, or it would have popped on her credit report. The woman hefted herself from the chair, and it hissed with relief. She had a slight limp as she moved through a door behind the desk. Jones took this to mean that he’d been dismissed. He could just have left, but curiosity got the better of him.

“Her card was declined here yesterday,” he said. He raised his voice a bit so that she could hear him in the next room. There was silence, and he didn’t think she would come back, but then she filled the doorway.

She wore a deep frown. “I thought you said you weren’t a cop.”

“I’m not.”

She took her glasses off and rubbed the bridge of her nose. He could see the red impression of her frames.

“Sometimes people need a break. Don’t you think?” she said.

“I do,” he said. “But in this business I wouldn’t think you could afford to give too many of them.”

“True. And I don’t. But Robin’s a good girl. She’s not our usual patron.”

“Care to elaborate?”

“Why don’t you go see for yourself?”

This time when she disappeared through the doorway, he knew she wouldn’t come back. He liked people like that, solid, sure of themselves. They were good judges of character, good witnesses. He remembered what Paula had said about Cole, that he was a good boy, that someone had loved him and done a good job raising him. It jibed with the old woman’s assessment of Robin O’Conner.

He knew her right away, because her son had inherited all her beauty, the raven hair and almond-shaped eyes. She looked tired and too thin, her collarbone straining against the skin, the knobs at her wrists too prominent. Something about that made him think of Eloise, then in turn about Marla Holt. And he wondered how he had wound up with all these missing and injured women in his sights. You never could resist a damsel in distress, Maggie had said. Maybe she was right.

Robin O’Conner was working the counter. There was one trucker there, with more food on his plate than Jones had eaten in two days-eggs, hash browns, bacon, sausage, and two biscuits drowning in gravy. And yet the guy, stooped over his meal and eating with gusto, was about the size of one of Jones’s legs. Was there any justice in the world?

She came over and leaned on the counter with a sweet smile. “Help you?”

“Just a coffee,” he said. “Thanks.”

“Are you sure? You look hungry.”

Jones glanced over at the trucker. “I’d have what he’s having. But I’d drop dead on the spot.”

“And just look at him,” she whispered. “I bet he looks better in a skirt than I do.”

“I doubt that.” But he said it in a gentle, fatherly way. Non-intimidating, nonsuggestive.

“Charmer,” she said with that same sweet smile. “I’ll get you some egg whites and toast.”

“Sounds good.”

When the trucker left and Jones had finished his meal, they were alone in the diner, except for whoever was cooking in the back. He could see why she couldn’t make rent. There were no businesses in the area to attract a lunch crowd. The diner was perched across from the motel on a lonely two-lane road. Truckers pulling off the highway, motel guests, the stray tourist heading up to the mountains for camping or hiking-that was probably the extent of their clientele.

“Can I get you anything else?” she asked.

“I’m not here just for the meal. Can we talk?”

Fear pulled her face long. She looked toward the back, stepped away from the counter.

“Don’t be afraid,” he said. He lifted a hand. “Paula Carr asked me to find you.”

She still didn’t say anything. He decided to go on. “The best I can figure is that she wanted to get away from her husband, but she didn’t want to leave your boy behind.”

He watched her eyes fill with tears.

“But now she’s gone. I don’t know where.”

“And where’s Cole?” Her voice was a tight whisper.

Jones hadn’t considered that point. Stupid. “I’m assuming he’s still with his father.”

“He wouldn’t have left his dad,” she said. A single tear fell down her cheek, and she batted it away. “He loves Kevin.” He heard sadness and not a little bitterness in her voice.

“I saw Cole the other day,” he said. “He seemed healthy, well cared for.”

She offered a relieved smile. “I miss him so much.”

“Kevin told Paula that you had asked him to take Cole because your new boyfriend couldn’t be bothered. He implied that there were drug and alcohol problems.”

She started to sob in earnest then. “No,” she managed. “No, never.”

He motioned for her to come sit at one of the booths, and she came around from the counter and sank into one of the red vinyl seats. No one came from the back to see what was happening. The parking lot was empty of cars.

“I have to pull myself together,” she said. She took a napkin from the dispenser and wiped her eyes, blew her nose. She was pretty even while crying. “Who are you?”

“I’m Jones Cooper,” he said. “I’m an investigator hired by Mrs. Carr.”

The words felt like a lie, even though they were as close to the truth as possible. She seemed to accept his answer without question. He guessed he fit the part.

“It was just supposed to be for the summer,” she said. She stopped then, laced her fingers, and seemed to consider how to go on. “Cole and I were battling constantly. He was hanging out with thugs at school. I found a joint in his backpack. We were fighting every day. It was terrible. I was thinking of sending him to one of those discipline camps.”

Jones found himself watching her body language, the lacing and unlacing of her fingers, rubbing at her forehead. The inside points of her eyebrows turned up in the middle. She was stressed and sad.

“Then Cole told me he’d gotten in touch with his dad, even though we hadn’t heard from him in years. He wanted to spend the summer away. Away from me.”

“And you agreed?”

“Cole wanted to go. Kevin showed up in his shiny car and laid on the charm. Said all the right things, like how he’d been an absent father, maybe that’s why Cole was so out of hand. Maybe a summer together would straighten him out. He wanted the chance to be a better dad, for Cole to know his half brother and sister. After all, I couldn’t really afford to send him to one of those camps.”

She stopped, looked out the window. “And honestly, I was tired. Working so hard just to meet our bills, fighting every day with him. Cole is smart, wants to go to college. I had no idea how I was going to pay for that. Kevin said he’d pay. He always knew how to say what I wanted to hear. I should have known. In my heart maybe I did.”

“Known what?”

“That either you go along with Kevin when he’s being nice or he gets ugly and you go along the hard way.”

“Meaning?” But Jones had a feeling he knew exactly what she meant.

“At the end of the summer, the day Cole was supposed to come back, Kevin came alone. He said he wanted Cole to finish school in The Hollows. And if I let him do it, Kevin would pay for college.”

“I said no. I wanted my boy back. Even though it was a relief in some ways to have him gone for the summer, I missed him terribly. It was like an ache in my heart to walk past his room and see it empty.” Her eyes filled again, but she seemed stronger.

“You have kids,” she went on. “I can tell. You love them so awful, don’t you? It takes everything to raise them well, but, man, that love fills you up.”

“So true,” he said. And it was. “Did he get ugly with you when you said no?”

“Not at first,” she said. “He implied he’d come alone because Cole was so happy in The Hollows. He loved Paula and the kids; they had such a stable, loving family. He said it like he was trying not to hurt my feelings, but that’s what he was trying to do. And he did. It cut me deep. I thought about letting Cole stay. But no, that was my son. Plus, we’d been talking and e-mailing. He’d said he missed me, was ready to come back and do better at school. I knew my boy. We fought, but we always had a good relationship at the core. Lots of love.”

She told him how Kevin had seemed to accept this, left a while later, and said he’d come back with Cole tomorrow. But he didn’t. She started calling Kevin’s office, his cell phone that night, but the calls went straight to voice mail. Then strange things started to happen. First Cole’s cell phone number was disconnected. And her e-mail messages to him bounced. She figured he was avoiding her.

But then her phone was disconnected. She called from a neighbor’s house, and the phone company told her that records showed she’d called to have her service turned off; the caller had had her Social Security number and password. It would take a few days for service to be restored.

“That’s when I started to get scared,” she said. “I got in my car to drive to The Hollows. I was going to get my son back. I had legal custody, and I would fight for my boy. I remembered what Kevin was, why I’d left him. He was cold. Cold at his center. I mean, he doesn’t feel. People don’t change. How could I have forgotten?”

“We always want to think the best of people,” said Jones. “It’s normal.”

But she didn’t seem to hear him. Her face was pale with anxiety, her words rushing out as though she’d been holding them all back for too long.

“Next my car wouldn’t start. When the mechanic came out to tow it, he told me that the motherboard, the main electrical component that controlled the car, had been fried and that it would take days and thousands of dollars to fix.”

She shook her head as though she were still incredulous about it.

“I was in a state of pure panic. For three days I had to call in sick to work.”

Jones thought of what he already knew about Robin O’Conner. “So you lost your job.”

He thought she would start to cry again. But she didn’t. “I’d already missed so much time because of my problems with Cole. I was on thin ice. I think Kevin knew that. I think I’d even told him.”

“So there you were with no job, no phone, no car.”

“My credit cards were already close to the limit. I didn’t have much money saved. I’ve never been good with finances, you know? I’ve been living paycheck to paycheck for as long as I can remember.”

So many people were on the edge like this; it just took a single push to send someone’s life into free fall.

“I knew I wasn’t going to be able to make my rent that month. I’d already missed payments over the last couple of years. The management company said they wouldn’t make any more allowances.”

“So… what? You left your apartment and came here?”

He looked out the window at the motel, then at the woman sitting across from him. She was a good mother, a hard worker-at least that’s how she seemed to Jones, just as the motel owner had said. He didn’t like to see it. Jones, same as everyone, wanted to believe that people who fell on hard times deserved it, had made mistakes that led them to a place like the Regal Motel.

“Kevin came to see me. Just when I was at my lowest. Just when I was about to get a ride from a friend and make a scene at his house, call the police.”

“Why wasn’t that the first thing you did?”

“What-call the police? Make a scene?”

“Yeah.”

She looked at him as if he were a moron. “Because of Cole. I didn’t want him to see me freaking out like that. He chose his dad.”

“Or so Kevin said.”

She blinked at him, then looked down at the tabletop. It was clean-spotless, in fact-as though it had just been wiped.

“He asked how I could take care of Cole now with no job and no car. Didn’t I want to see him with a good family, living in a nice house? Didn’t I want to see him go to school? I did. I do want those things for Cole.”

“So you just let Cole go? Even though you had every reason to believe that Kevin had your phone turned off, destroyed your car?”

She didn’t say anything. But she straightened up a bit, turned her dark eyes on him.

“Listen,” she said. “I don’t have anyone. My mom is in a nursing home in Florida; I haven’t been able to afford to see her in over a year. She was a single mother, had nothing to give me but love and encouragement. That didn’t get me into college. If I’d had the money for an education, I might not have spent the rest of my life drifting from one stupid job to another. I wanted Cole to have better than this. He’s smart, way smarter than I am. He deserves a leg up.”

He heard the logic in her words. But he thought they weren’t the words of a fighter. She’d given up on herself. She didn’t think much of herself or her abilities. Perfect prey for someone like Kevin Carr. The sun moved from behind the clouds, and a milky light shone in on them. She turned her face to the window, a flower seeking the sun.

“He was Prince Charming until I got pregnant, every girl’s dream. Handsome, wealthy, intelligent. Beyond that, you never see until it’s too late. It’s not until you get older that you realize only kindness matters, the courage to love and be loved. All the rest of it is a lie.”

In all that time, not a car had passed on the road. No one peeked out from the back of the restaurant to see what she was doing. She seemed small and young. He wanted to take her home and tuck her in somewhere, bring her some tea.

“You want your boy back?” he asked.

She drew in a sharp breath, looked at him with some mingling of hope and fear. “I do.”

He told her about what Paula Carr had said, how she knew that the things Kevin said about Robin couldn’t be true, because Cole was such a good boy. He told Robin how Paula said that Cole was so sad, missed his mother so much.

“It was more than just letting Cole go,” she said. She wiped tears from her eyes with the napkin folded on the table.

“You were afraid of Kevin.”

“Yes.”

“Did he hurt you?”

She shook her head. “It’s not like he gets physical. There’s a strange blankness to him, like he’d be willing to do anything to get what he wants. When he was in my apartment, I was terrified. I couldn’t tell you why. He never threatened me, never put his hands on me.”

Jones knew that it was the blankness that terrifies. When you look into the eyes of the sociopath, either you see the mask or you see the abyss. That’s what’s so frightening, just the absence of anything warm or familiar, anything human.

“Paula was afraid of him, too.” Jones said.

“And now she’s gone,” she said.

Jones felt that angry rise he fought so hard to control. He thought it might be time to pay a little visit to Kevin Carr.

“How long can you stay here?” he asked.

“I don’t know,” she said. She wiped her eyes again. “I’m already living on Patty’s good graces.”

“Well, the service here is excellent,” said Jones. He had a hundred dollars in his wallet, his weekly “allowance.” He gave it to the girl; his wife would find this annoying, but not out of character. Besides, he knew she’d do the same thing.

“I can’t take this,” she said. She pushed it back across the table. But he stood up.

“Just stay here until I call you. This should keep you a couple of nights, right?”

She looked at the money sadly. “Thank you,” she said. “Thank you so much.”

“I’ll be in touch,” he said, and moved toward the door.

“Are you going to bring him back to me?”

He didn’t like to make promises. The world conspired against the heroic statements he often wished he could make. “I’m going to try.”

They both knew it was the best he could do.

chapter thirty

Mercifully, the children slept. It wasn’t late, not yet seven thirty. But they were exhausted. Claire was in her portable crib in the corner of the large room, and Cameron sprawled, belly exposed, on the double bed beside her. The room was okay. Not hideous, clean. She had the shades drawn and the light beside her bed on dim, and she just lay there, looking up at the ceiling. Her parents wanted her to come back home. But she couldn’t do that. She’d taken the children. Legally it was kidnapping. She’d left the family home. There was no evidence of physical abuse. In fact, in their final conflict Kevin had borne the brunt of the injuries. He could say that she’d assaulted him and taken their children. Technically he was right. She had the gun.

It was possible that he had called the police, that even now they were looking for her car. But a kind of numbness had settled over her. She’d been weeping at night after the children went to sleep. The days were hard, drifting from one restaurant to another, finding playgrounds so Cameron could play, nursing Claire in the backseat of the car while Cameron whined and complained in his car seat: Where’s Dad? I want to go back to school. This is the worst vacation ever. Why can’t we go to Disney World again?

But tonight she didn’t have the energy to cry. She had to get strong, think about where they were going. She had a friend in Maine, her old college roommate. They’d reconnected on Facebook last year. Come by and see me anytime you’re in the area! Paula wondered if she’d meant it.

The blue truck had taken Kevin’s right leg out from under him and sent him crashing to the floor. The gun had sailed through the air and landed harmlessly on the couch. She ran for it, but he turned and grabbed her ankle, bringing her heavily to the floor as well, landing hard on her right knee. She heard a snap, ugly and loud, then a rocket of pain up her thigh. He straddled her, sitting on her hips, holding her hands over her head, immobilizing her.

“Paula, let’s talk about this,” he said. The words came through gritted teeth, a horrible grimace.

She turned her face away and started to weep. He was so strong she couldn’t even move her arms.

“Okay,” she said. She took a deep, shuddering breath. “I’m sorry.”

He looked at her a moment, suspicious. She tried for a sad smile. And after a moment he released her left arm to wipe the sweat from his face.

“Okay, good,” he said. “I don’t want it to be like this.”

She couldn’t believe how rational, how normal he sounded, as if this were any old argument a married couple might have. He smiled down at her, pitying, sympathetic. She felt a lash of rage, and it was over before she realized that she’d clenched her fist and slammed it against his face, purposely aiming her big diamond ring for his eye. She was thrilled to hear him wail in pain, his weight reeling off her. She ran for the gun. When she turned around with it in her grasp, he was right there. He stepped back, put his hands up. A thick line of blood ran down his face; his eye was red and already swelling. She’d hit him hard. But not hard enough.

“Paula,” he said. “Be reasonable.”

Her voice came out in an unintelligible shriek. “Get away from me!”

She backed up the stairs; the baby’s wailing had reached a fever pitch. It was like a siren in Paula’s head. In slow motion they moved up the stairs, her backing up one step at a time, him pacing her.

“This is not good, Paula,” he said. His voice was a warning. “What are you going to do, huh?”

She took a deep breath, willed her voice calm. No more screaming; it made her feel out of control. She held the gun; she had the power now.

“Don’t make me kill you, Kevin,” she said. “Please. I don’t want to. But I will.”

She wasn’t even sure what he saw on her face or heard in her voice but he stopped in his tracks. She would kill him; he knew it. And he knew she could, too. She knew how to use a gun; her father had taught her. She knew she had a Glock in her hand, a semiautomatic without a safety feature. She knew there was a round in the chamber and nine in the magazine. She was a good shot; she knew to aim at center mass.

He stood in the doorway of the nursery while she gathered the baby in her arms. Claire stopped crying against Paula’s chest, started rooting, rubbing her mouth against Paula’s breast. Her chest ached with engorgement.

“If you let me leave here, I’ll call the bank once I’m safe, and give you access to that account. You can have the money if you let me leave with the kids.”

He blinked at her, considering.

“My mother is the beneficiary on that account,” she said when he didn’t answer. “If you kill me, it will go to her.”

That part wasn’t true; it wasn’t even possible. She’d tried to do that at the bank, and they’d told her that she’d need written consent from her husband. All assets transferred to the spouse in the event of her untimely demise. But maybe he didn’t know that.

He lifted his palms, offered an appeasing smile. “You’re overreacting, baby. Let’s talk this through.”

What was weird was, even in that moment she could almost believe that she was overreacting, that she was acting like a crazy person. He’d come after her with a gun and she’d effectively defended herself, and now she was wondering if she’d lost her mind. That’s how good he was. Or how weak she was. At this point who could tell?

Everything was in the car. She’d packed enough for all three of them. It had been sitting there for months. Stroller, portable crib, toys, clothes, diapers, wipes, even a breast pump. She backed her way there, holding the baby in one arm, the gun in her free hand. He trailed her slowly, talking to her softly.

“I love you, honey. Don’t do this. Look at me. I’m bleeding.” He started to cry. “Don’t take my children from me.”

“Don’t call the school. Don’t call the police,” she said. “And when I’m safe, I’ll get you access to that money.”

Inside her was a hurricane of terror and guilt, hatred and sorrow. But when she caught sight of herself in the mirror, her face looked hard and cold. She didn’t even recognize herself.

Getting the baby into the car seat was tricky with one hand, but she did it. Mothers could do almost anything with one hand. Once the doors were locked, she stowed the gun under the front seat and backed down the driveway slowly, as if it were any other afternoon and she was off to get Cammy. She pressed the button on the visor to close the garage door. It came down, erasing the sight of her monster of a husband, who was no longer crying but smiling.

The baby shifted in her sleep, sighed. Paula wanted so badly to call her mother. It had been three days and three nights that they’d been traveling. She’d read on the Internet that you should avoid using credit cards and cell phones, because that was how the police tracked people. So she’d been using the cash she had stashed in the car. She’d been very careful-until tonight. Tonight she’d had to use her card to book the room in this hotel. It was much nicer than the dumps they’d been staying in, horrible motels off the highway. Last night she’d stayed up all night with the gun under her pillow, listened to people walking by, voices raised in the other rooms, a television blaring. The police probably weren’t looking for her. After all, she’d made her deal with Kevin. A deal she had no intention of keeping.

This hotel wouldn’t accept cash without a credit-card guarantee. She’d offered a cash deposit for incidentals. But they said it was their policy to allow check-in only with a card, even though she could pay in cash when she left. And she had to get a good night’s sleep. She was frayed and edgy with the kids. So she’d used her old card, one she hadn’t used in years. Maybe it wouldn’t show up until she checked out, though she’d seen them run it through a machine. And maybe no one was watching after all.

She fought a few more minutes and then picked up the phone to call her mother collect.

“Paula,” her mother said. “Honey, where are you?”

“We’re okay, Mom. Has he called you?”

“No,” she said. “He hasn’t. But a man named Jones Cooper has been leaving messages.”

She’d forgotten all about him. How had he gotten her parents’ phone number? Why was he looking for her? There was only one explanation: Her husband had seen his number on her cell phone records and called him. Now Jones Cooper was looking for her.

“Don’t tell him anything,” Paula said. “He’s a private detective.”

“He said he wanted to help you. Do you think Kevin hired him?”

“I don’t know.”

She was getting that panicky, confused feeling she’d had on and off for days. They’d been driving in circles; she probably wasn’t more than two hours from The Hollows. She had no idea where she was going to go or what she was going to do.

“Paula,” said her mother. Her voice was stern now. “You need to come home to us with those children. I’ve been making some calls. I found a lawyer, a good one who specializes in situations like this. He says you need to come home and file for divorce, get emergency temporary custody of the children, and file a complaint and a restraining order with the police. Let’s work this out the proper way.”

It sounded right, a good course of action. But she was so afraid.

“But what if he comes after us? Like that man in California. He came to the house during that Christmas party and killed all those people.”

Her mother was silent on the line for a minute. Then, “At least we’ll all be together. I can’t have you out there by yourself with Cameron and the baby. I’m sick with it. Let us help you and protect you. We’re your parents, for God’s sake. We have to be safer together than you are alone.”

Paula didn’t say anything. She wanted to go home. She needed to go home. The truth was, she wasn’t equipped to run with her kids, to stay in some shelter, hiding from her husband. She felt a wave of relief.

“Okay, Mom,” she said. “I’ll come home in the morning.”

She heard her mother release a long, relieved breath. “We’ll come get you right now. Where are you?”

“It’s okay. I need to get some sleep, and then, first thing, I’ll load up the kids and come home. Maybe you can make an appointment with that lawyer for tomorrow afternoon?”

“Are you sure?” her mother said. “We’ll get in the car right now.”

She looked at Cameron and Claire, sleeping so peacefully. They needed to rest, and so did she. She couldn’t stand the thought of waking them up.

“I’m sure.”

She told her mother where they were staying, so that her mother could call if she wanted to, if she got worried in the night. Then she hung up, feeling better, as if everything somehow was going to be all right. She got up and checked the locks on the door. Then she placed the desk chair under the knob. She kept the light on but got under the covers and closed her eyes. For the first time in three nights, she slept, the gun in the drawer beside her.

chapter thirty-one

Just when it seemed to Willow as if her life couldn’t get any worse, Mr. Ivy came to dinner. Really? Really? Was she really supposed to put up with this? Once upon a time, wouldn’t it have been socially unacceptable, morally wrong, for your mother to be dating? Widowed, divorced-why didn’t she just give up?

And to have it sprung on her like it was nothing. Oh, Willow? Did I tell you I invited Mr. Ivy to dinner?… What? When?… Um, tonight. And then Willow noticed that her mother was wearing a dress and not her usual leggings and big sweater. That her hair was down, not up in a bun. And she was wearing makeup! Oh, my God-do you like him?… I’m not a teenager, Willow. It’s just nice to have a friend… So he’s your friend… He’s not anything right now… Then why are you wearing perfume?

And now he was sitting across from Willow. Eating. Slowly, deliberately-as of course he would. He was probably chewing everything twenty bites, just the way every mother in the world told you to do. He was that kind of guy. At least he’d lost the argyle sweater. He wore a denim shirt that was halfway cool. His hair wasn’t completely dorky. Maybe this was his date look, not his principal look. Because it was a date. They didn’t talk about Willow or how she was doing in school. The conversation wasn’t focused on her, though they had tried to include her.

But he was literally hanging on her mother’s every word, leaning forward, laughing, smiling. Oh, they were having a grand old time. Over salad she could still convince herself that this was a big nothing, that her mother was just trying to be sociable. By the time they were finished with dinner (Bethany’s special Chilean sea bass in hoisin sauce with baby bok choy, which was so good that even Willow liked it), she knew. Willow realized by the blush on her mother’s face-and an interesting smile that Willow wasn’t sure she’d ever seen before-that Bethany did in fact like Mr. Ivy. By dessert Willow wanted to be sick. She couldn’t take it anymore.

“So what time is Richard coming this weekend?” she asked. “Didn’t you say he was coming? That he might spend the night?”

Her mother looked at her with a cool smile. They knew each other so well.

“Richard’s my ex-husband, Willow’s stepfather,” Bethany said to Mr. Ivy, who had stopped chewing. “And no, he won’t be spending the night. Nor has he ever, as Willow well knows.”

Bethany and Mr. Ivy exchanged a look, a kind of knowing smile.

“It was her second marriage,” said Willow. “Did you know that?” Oh, she felt it, that dark meanness, that black hole inside her. She was chastened for a minute by the look on her mother’s face. It wasn’t anger; it was pain.

“Um,” Bethany said. Her mother looked down at her plate for a second. She had a death grip on the napkin in her hand. Willow noticed that Mr. Ivy had leaned back in his chair and looked down as well.

“My first husband,” Bethany said finally, “Willow’s father, died when she was three.”

He looked up at her, but she didn’t meet his eyes. “I’m so sorry,” he said. “That must have been… really difficult.”

Bethany issued that little embarrassed laugh she had when things weren’t funny but she was trying to make light. “It was a long time ago.”

“Yes,” said Willow. “She’s forgotten all about him.”

When Bethany looked up again, Willow saw her awfulness reflected in her mother’s eyes. Willow knew she was a terrible girl for saying that; her mother missed her father every day. She knew that; Bethany talked about him all the time. How he had a beautiful singing voice, how he loved to clown around and make them laugh, how he could cook, how he loved to read and always believed that Bethany would be a successful writer, long before she’d finished her first novel. Willow knew all this, and she couldn’t stand to see that look on her mother’s face.

I’m sorry, she could have said. I’m sorry, Mom. And her mother would have accepted her apology and put on a good face for the rest of the meal. Then she’d come to talk about it all later. But Willow didn’t apologize. She just looked down at her plate, pushed around the bok choy she had no intention of eating. She wouldn’t put a bite of her mother’s food in her mouth, even though she liked it and was really hungry.

Outside, the rain that had been threatening for days with an on-and-off drizzle had finally committed. It was hitting the roof and windows so hard that it sounded like the pounding of feet.

“Wow, that rain is really coming down,” said Mr. Ivy. He cleared his throat and rubbed his forehead. He probably had a sinus headache.

“Isn’t it?” said Bethany. She jumped on the sentence like a drowning person looking for a lifeline. Her voice sounded tight and faint.

Willow let her silverware clank to the plate, and she pushed her chair back loudly. “Can I be excused?” she asked.

Her mother looked at her darkly. “Please, Willow, be my guest.”

She made as much noise as possible stomping from the room. She pretended to storm up the stairs, but then she snuck back down to stand in the hallway outside the door to listen.

“I’m really sorry, Henry,” said Bethany after a minute.

“No, don’t apologize. Really,” he said. “I get it.”

“It’s my fault. I did kind of spring it on her,” she said. “I don’t know what I was thinking.”

“Maybe you were thinking we’d all have a good time,” he said. His voice was soft and comforting.

“I was hoping.”

“Should I go?”

Willow heard her mother sigh.

Yes! Yes! Go! Get out and don’t come back.

“You know, Henry, I can see why you’d want to. And probably I should tell you yes, for Willow’s sake. But I don’t really want you to go. And I’m not sure Willow should act that badly and get what she wants. I think it might be time, though I know things have been hard for her, that she grows up a little.”

There was a moment of silence. They were touching; she could feel it. Maybe they were holding hands. Or, God forbid, kissing!

“I’d like to stay,” he said. “Can I help you clear the table?”

If Willow could have shrieked with rage, she would have. Instead she went quietly back upstairs. Inside her room she flung herself on her bed and started to weep. She couldn’t even say why she was so upset. Eventually she cried herself out and lay spent on the bed, hating her mother, hating The Hollows, hating her whole miserable existence. Was there anyone on earth more miserable than she was right now? She doubted it.

The rain was hammering on her window. The sound of it was frightening and depressing, so she turned on the television but found that the cable was out. Of course it was. She threw the remote across the room, and it landed harmlessly on the basket of laundry she was supposed to have put away before dinner. She sat on the edge of her bed, feeling trapped and sorry for herself. Then at the window a flashing light caught her eye. A rhythmic flashing-light, then dark. Light, then dark.

She walked over to the window and looked down. In the glow from the front porch stood Cole and Jolie, under a large umbrella. Cole was flashing the light, and Jolie was holding the umbrella. She had that smile on her face, the one that Willow just couldn’t resist. It promised a good time, no matter how awful everything else was. And then there was Cole. His smile promised something else altogether. She waved to them both and held up a finger. She grabbed her raincoat from her closet and moved quietly down the stairs. She could hear her mother and Mr. Ivy laughing. She didn’t feel the slightest twinge of guilt as she slipped out the front door.

“How is it that you’ve never married, Mr. Ivy?” She’d been alternating between calling him Henry and Mr. Ivy. He liked the way his name sounded from her mouth. Usually the question would bother him, make him feel self-conscious. But there was something about her, something so wide open and nonjudgmental that he found himself really thinking about it.

“I don’t know,” he said. “Always in the wrong place at the wrong time or never in the right place.”

He’d successfully pushed back his thoughts about Marla Holt to come to dinner. He’d decided after he hung up the phone with Bethany that whatever cosmic force had decided he wasn’t allowed to be happy could just fuck right off. He liked Bethany Graves, and she seemed to like him. And he’d be damned if he was going to go home and brood over what had happened to Marla and what he might have done to prevent it. What good did that do now?

Then, on the way over, he’d heard on the radio that the medical examiner had confirmed that the bones found did in fact belong to Marla. She was up there. She had been up there all this time. Even that he’d managed to put into a box within himself. He’d look at it later.

“Have you ever been in love?” Bethany asked.

He’d had too much to drink, which for him was more than two glasses of wine. He was on his third, and he had that warm, light feeling. From the flush on Bethany’s face, he’d say she was feeling the same. They’d been touching since Willow went upstairs. He’d dared a soft caress to her arm. There was a quick lacing of fingers while she told him about her husband who’d died so young, leaving her with a small child. Since they’d moved from the table to the couch in the living room, the desire to kiss her was almost an ache. The air between them was electric.

“I have been in love,” he said. “Yes.”

She frowned when he said it, put a hand to his face. “Love shouldn’t make you look so sad,” she said.

It was something about that sentence. Or maybe it was her tenderness, the openness of her expression. Everything that he’d been tamping down rose up inside him.

“It’s not that,” he said.

The music playing in Willow’s room, something predictably raucous and angry, drifted down the stairs. He looked around the living room-the tall shelves of books, the flat-screen television, the warm amber recessed lighting. They sat close on the plush sectional, her leg pressing against his. He could sink into this place, this moment with her. If only he could shut off his mind.

“Tell me,” she said. “Really, tell me. It’s not like we can do anything but talk, with Miss Willow in seek-and-destroy mode.”

Her smile was wide and trusting. She was expecting him to tell her about his unrequited love, or the one he’d lost, or how hard it was to meet someone in a small town. Something normal.

“Did you hear about the bones?” he said. “Back in the Hollows Wood.”

A shadow crossed her face, like she was recalling something that disturbed her. And it was then that he remembered. It was Willow, really, who had found Marla Holt. If Willow hadn’t run from school that day, made her way home through the woods, she would never have stumbled on Michael Holt near the Chapel. She never would have brought her friends back there, leading Henry, Bethany, and ultimately Jones Cooper to that place. If Jones Cooper hadn’t gone back there and alerted the police, those bones might never have been discovered by anyone other than Michael. It struck Henry as almost funny, even as a blistering headache debuted behind his eyes.

“The bones?” she said. “What bones?”

It was almost too much for him to get his mind around. Marla and Bethany. Michael and Willow. It was some kind of cosmic joke. Here he was with this smart, beautiful woman, with the first romantic feelings he’d had in so long. And because Bethany Graves’s child and Marla Holt’s child had crossed paths, he couldn’t simply sit here, maybe kiss her, tell her how pretty he thought she was and how much he enjoyed just talking with her. That it was enough. It was more than enough. He wasn’t allowed even that simple thing.

“The police found bones back by the Chapel,” he said.

She took in a breath. “Back where Willow was?”

He nodded, and the frown she was wearing deepened. He told her everything.

chapter thirty-two

Ray came in from the rain, soaked and cranky. Eloise took his jacket and hung it in the laundry room. Then she put on a pot of tea.

“Dental records confirm that the bones belonged to Marla Holt,” he said. He sat heavily in the chair. She handed him a towel, and he used it to mop himself off.

She already knew that, of course. Not that anything was ever certain in her line of work. But she was as close to being sure of that as she was of anything.

“And Michael?”

Ray shrugged. “It’s my second night out there looking for him, walking through those goddamn woods calling his name. Tonight I finally convinced Chuck Ferrigno to send some men out. After all, Marla Holt’s body was out there, so there will have to be an investigation. Michael’s a witness, at the very least.”

Eloise sat across from Ray.

“Did he kill her, Eloise? He was just a kid. Did Michael Holt kill his mother?”

“I couldn’t say.”

“But what do you think?”

She didn’t say anything. He knew better. She wouldn’t speculate. She’d told him everything Marla Holt had said to her. It would be easy to jump to conclusions.

“How could I have missed it? It never even crossed my mind.”

“Don’t be so hard on yourself.”

The kettle started to whistle, and she got up to pour the hot water into the teapot.

“He walked in on her with someone, went into a rage, and killed her. But he adored her, couldn’t stand what he had done. So he repressed the memory.”

Eloise knew that Ray was just talking, sounding it out.

“There was another man there, too,” she reminded him. She looked at the steeping pot, the blue and white flowers on porcelain. It had been a gift from her daughter. Eloise missed her girl so much. For whatever reason, in that moment, the ache of it was almost unbearable. Eloise was going to call her. They needed to talk. Maybe she would go to see her daughter, invited or not; maybe it would help Amanda not to have to come to this house where so many ghosts lived and visited.

“Mack.” Ray’s voice brought her back. She wanted to be present for him, but somehow she couldn’t stop thinking about what Jones Cooper had said to her. His words had wormed their way into her thoughts about who she was, about what she was doing, about her relationship to Ray, whom she really did love.

“He was working that night,” she said.

“Maybe he came home? Maybe he covered for Michael all these years. That’s what sent him over the edge. A fourteen-year-old boy wouldn’t have the wherewithal to bury his mother.”

“Maybe not.” She didn’t want to think about these things anymore tonight.

“Michael thought the answers were in that house,” Ray said. “He also suspected that Claudia Miller knew more than she ever said.”

“So maybe you should pay her one more visit,” Eloise suggested. “Tell her about the bones.”

“You think she’ll talk now? Now that we’ve found Marla Holt?”

Eloise had no idea. She just knew she didn’t want to talk anymore-not about death, not about murder, not about pain and suffering and decades of lies.

“Maybe,” she said.

He didn’t need much more encouragement; he was in that agitated state. He wouldn’t rest, wouldn’t eat, wouldn’t sit still until he knew he’d exhausted every avenue. And then he’d brood. Karen was right to have left him. He’d never cared as much about anyone as he’d cared about this work. Not even Eloise.

He was walking past her then, to get his coat from the laundry room. And then he was at the door. Before he left, he glanced at her.

“Are you okay?” he asked. His hand rested on the doorknob.

She took a step toward him. “You know, Ray, I’m thinking about taking a little time off. Maybe I’ll go to Seattle to see Amanda and the kids.”

Something played out on his face, a pull of sadness, a shade of regret. She expected him to argue, to remind her about their waiting list, about their responsibilities to everyone who needed justice and answers. But no.

“That sounds like a great idea, Eloise,” he said. He gave her a warm smile, came back to hold her wrist lightly in his hand. “You should do that. It would be good for you. It would be good for Amanda.”

“Ray.”

He drew her into a quick, tight embrace and then opened the door. She was about to ask him if he’d consider going with her. But by the time she got the words out, he was gone.

“Did you hear?” said Jolie. “About the bones?”

Jolie was sitting in the front seat with Cole. The car reeked of stale cigarette smoke. It lived in the upholstery, tickled the back of Willow’s throat, made her sinuses ache. Jolie lit another cigarette, let the smoke drift from her mouth into her nostrils.

“Crack the window,” Cole said. She rolled her eyes at him but did as he said. Willow watched as the smoke was sucked out in a thin, flat line.

“What bones?” asked Willow. She was already there, in that place of regret she knew so well. It sat in the pit of her stomach. In the rearview mirror, she saw Cole staring at her, though he’d barely acknowledged her since she slipped out to meet him. She hadn’t asked him why he didn’t show up the other day. She wouldn’t give him the satisfaction.

“Out by the Chapel,” Jolie said. She had the ghost-story face. A gleeful, wide-eyed menace lit her gaze. “Where you saw that freak Michael Holt digging? They found bones.”

Willow felt the tingle of curiosity. “Just like he told my mom.”

“No,” said Jolie. “The bones belonged to his mother. Everyone thought she’d run off ages ago. Turns out she was murdered.”

Cole brought the car to a stop by the side of the road, and Willow saw that they were back at the awful graveyard. Oh, no. What’s wrong with me? Why do I do things like this?

“What are we doing here?” Willow asked.

“Don’t you want to see where he was digging?”

“No,” she said.

“He’s still back here,” said Jolie. “He ran off when they found the bones. They think he went down into the mines, that he might be living down there.”

“Yeah, like the mole people,” said Cole. “Did you ever hear about that? People live in the abandoned subway tunnels beneath New York City.”

“That’s an urban legend,” said Willow, even though she knew it wasn’t. Her voice came out more sharply than she’d intended. She didn’t like it when people who’d never lived there pretended to know things about New York City. He was still staring at her in the mirror, but she forced herself to look at Jolie.

“You don’t want to go?” said Jolie. She seemed incredulous.

“Last time we were out here, you thought I was lying,” Willow said. “You didn’t believe me.”

“Well, I believe you now.”

Cole turned to look at Willow; his face was pale in the dim light. He had dark shiners of fatigue under his eyes. If she didn’t hate him, she’d have asked him if he was okay. But she did hate him, a little. The rain was drumming on the roof of the car. Out the window she could barely see the tombstones. Why would anyone want to go tramping through the dark woods in the pouring rain when a crazy murderous freak could be lurking out there? She asked Jolie as much, and Cole issued a laugh.

“That’s what I said,” said Cole.

Jolie started to get sullen. “That’s the problem with this place. Everyone is so fucking dull, dull, dull. Where is your sense of adventure?”

Willow found that she didn’t really care what Jolie thought of her anymore. The whole enterprise was asinine. It was stupid, and beyond that, she had been so awful to her mother and now she was out here in the middle of a huge storm with these two. She’d run off on her mother again, let her down again. She didn’t have her cell phone. When her mother discovered she was gone-and it wouldn’t be long-she was going to be terrified.

“Those kids are lost,” her mother had told her. “No one’s looking after them. You might think that’s cool. But you’re wrong. It’s sad.” In this moment Willow finally understood what her mother meant. But it was probably too late. Her mother was never going to forgive her for this night. She looked at Cole in the rearview mirror.

“Can you take me home?” she asked.

“Sure,” he said. He turned on the ignition.

“What?” said Jolie. Her voice went shrill, her eyes narrowing to two small points of anger. “You guys are such pussies.”

And in the next second, Jolie pulled on her hood and stepped out into the rain. Willow saw the bouncing of her flashlight beam in the night as she stalked off.

“She’s crazy,” said Willow. She rolled down the window. “Jolie!” she yelled. “This is nuts! Come back!”

“Fuck you guys!” Jolie’s voice sounded small and childlike in the rain, barely a whisper on the air. Willow brought the window back up when the beam disappeared into the trees. Cole was looking out after Jolie, too.

“Let’s go get her,” said Willow, yanking up her hood.

“Hold on,” he said. “She’s going to be back in like one minute. Trust me.”

She didn’t say anything, watching the night, willing Jolie to come back. Otherwise Willow knew they were going to have to go out after her. They wouldn’t leave her out there. And Jolie knew it, too.

“I’m sorry,” Cole said after a moment.

“For what?” Now he was looking at her over the seat. Willow tried not to stare at him. Those eyes thick with lashes, that nice soft mouth.

“For not coming to your house the other day,” he said. “I wanted to, but…” He didn’t finish the sentence. He just blew out a long breath, looked down at his nails.

“But what?”

For a second she thought she was dreaming. Sitting here alone with him, the rain beating down outside-it felt like something she could make up.

“I lied to you,” he said. “About my mom.”

Willow knew that. She remembered that she thought he was lying.

“She’s not in Iraq?”

“No,” he said. “I don’t know where she is. My dad said she’s living with some guy and doesn’t want me around for a while. She wants me to finish school here, stay with my dad’s family.”

“I’m sorry.” She was sorry. She knew what it had felt like when Richard went off to live with that stripper, even though he and her mom were divorced. She knew what it had felt like when her mom was having a good time with Mr. Ivy. It felt like a betrayal. It hurt, made you unsure of your place in your family, in the world. She reached a hand over the seat, and Cole took it. She felt the heat move into her body.

“But now my stepmom and my half brother and half sister? They left, too. I guess Paula ran off on my dad. He said she hurt him, took the kids.” He leaned away from her, against the driver’s-side door.

“But?”

“But she’s so nice, such a good mom,” he said. “I just can’t see her hurting anyone.”

She couldn’t quite see his face, obscured as he was now by the seat. She climbed over the center console and came to sit beside him in the place Jolie had occupied.

“You think he lied?”

He shook his head. “Maybe. I don’t know. And if he lied about that, did he lie about my mom, too?”

“Can’t you call her?”

“Her phone got disconnected. She got fired from her job. She hasn’t answered any of my e-mails.”

Willow found herself thinking of her own mother, how she really had to get home. But then she saw that he was crying. A single tear trailed down his face. He wiped it quickly away. She reached out for him, and he moved easily into her embrace.

“It’s okay,” she said, even though she had no reason to believe that was true. Everything about him felt good-his arms around her, his face on her neck, his hair against her fingers. “Where’s your dad now?”

He pulled away from her suddenly, turned around to peer out into the darkness. “Did you hear that?”

Willow’s heart started pounding as she listened past the beating rain. Then she heard it, too, faint and far away, the sound of someone screaming. Maybe. They both exited the car at the same time, into the buckets of falling rain. Willow came to stand beside Cole. They looked in the direction of the woods but didn’t hear anything more. There was only darkness and rain, as far as Willow could see. Maybe it was their imagination. Maybe they hadn’t heard anything at all. But Willow knew she wouldn’t leave her friend out there alone.

“Let’s go get her,” said Willow.

“Okay.”

The thin beam of Cole’s flashlight was the only light they had.

Michael heard yelling. A woman’s angry voice ringing out over the rain, and he moved toward it. He’d been wandering in a kind of fog for so long, he didn’t know how long-dwelling in the mines, dozing there. There were some PowerBars and a few bottles of water in the knapsack he had with him, and he’d lived on those. He was happy where it was dark and quiet, where there were no eyes looking and no mouths talking. The darkness didn’t judge him or want anything from him. It didn’t care what he did or didn’t do; it didn’t care what he had done.

He heard more shouting; it sounded like the calling of birds. From the same direction, the rushing of the river seemed impossibly loud. He kept moving toward the voices. How long ago had it been since he had broken through the mine entrance and gone down, down, down into the world beneath? A day, two days-a week? Time had no meaning in there, just as he remembered when he used to go with his father. They’d descend in the day, and return in the night. It seemed as if they’d gotten into a spaceship and landed on a distant moon.

On his website, Michael called himself a caver and spelunker. He claimed that he gave tours and was a consultant. But, honestly, he wasn’t any of those things, didn’t do any of that. He was willing, of course. But no one had ever contacted him via the site he’d built. He didn’t have any formal training, other than following Mack on his research journeys. Michael was just a drifter, a loser. He could never get a hold on anything, could never build a life in the world up above-or down below.

Since college, Michael had been drifting from one meaningless job to the next. First he worked as an admin at a website development company, which is where he learned how to develop and maintain sites. He was competent enough, but he just couldn’t get the social stuff. He couldn’t talk to people. He sometimes just blanked out in meetings, went catatonic in his boss’s office. And, then, one day he found he just couldn’t go back.

He attempted other kinds of work. He was a custodian in an office building for a while, then a grocery store stocker. The longest job he’d held was as a night watchman. He didn’t have to see or talk to anyone, other than fielding the occasional call or visit from his supervisor, who’d seemed just as reluctant to have a conversation as Michael was. He could simply wander long, dim, empty hallways and feel something akin to peace. He had time to work on his website, the place where he was all the things he couldn’t be in real life. And the night was suitable cover, wasn’t it?

As he had entered the mines, with Ray chasing after him, he didn’t have any plans to return. But after so many days wrestling demons, he had to come up for air. Now, in the woods, he was lost-in every sense of the word. He could still hear something, more faintly, and he followed. He had to tell someone what he had done. It was time for confession now, and punishment.

The dark had spoken to him. It whispered that it was safe to remember, that it was time. And then he was back, on his bike riding through the old neighborhood. He was a wraith, quiet and fast. And the night was silvery and slick. On reaching home, he dropped his bicycle on the driveway, and left it where it twisted.

Inside, he could feel that the energy was different and strange. He heard music. He heard his mother’s voice. He felt powerfully that he didn’t belong there in that moment and that he shouldn’t have come home. But he was drawn toward the unfamiliar sounds… a man’s tender voice, a strange cadence to his mother’s words, a song he’d never heard before. And when he moved toward the light of his mother’s drawing room, he saw her in the embrace of a man, not his father.

Inside him something shifted, went black and ugly. Why? He didn’t know. But he went to that blank space he had within him-where there was just the rushing of blood in his ears and the sound of his own breathing. The man, a faceless stranger, left in a hurry. And Michael was left alone with his mother.

“Michael,” she said. “Why are you looking at me like that? He was just a friend.”

“You sent me away,” he said. He knew his tone was bitter, vicious. “So that you could be with him.”

He saw the shame on her face. But there was also anger.

“Michael,” she said. “I am your mother. You don’t speak to me that way.”

Then there were the lights of his father’s car in the driveway. And inside Michael, a familiar slow, simmering rage was starting to brew. He knew it well-he’d felt it before tantrums as a child, before fights at school, during screaming battles with his father. But he’d never felt it for his mother, never directed it at her. She’d always been the one to talk him through those rages. Breathe, sweetie. Breathe.

She was backing away from him when his father walked in.

“What’s going on?” Mack said. He laid his briefcase and coat on the couch. He looked weary.

“She had a man here,” said Michael. “She was in his arms. She’s a whore just like you always said.”

And Mack had said that so many times. Michael heard his father yell it during arguments and whisper it at the dinner table. And Michael had railed against him, always defended her and protected her. But Mack was right.

The stinging slap his mother landed on his face sent a shock through Michael. It was white lightning, electrifying him. Then she was running up the stairs, with Mack bounding after her. Michael heard her shrieking.

“I hate you! I hate this place! I hate this life!”

Michael stood there stunned, feeling the heat on his face, listening to them screaming at each other. What were they saying? He didn’t even know. He was in that place where all the anger seemed to build from inside his belly, boiling and rising up into his brain. She’d hit him. She’d taken all her love away from him. She was going to leave them, leave Michael.

Marla came down the stairs with her packed suitcase. He knocked the bag from her grasp and the clothes spilled out on the floor… her lacy underthings, a pair of shoes, a few skirts and blouses. He knew he had to stop her, and he grabbed her hard by the shoulders.

“Don’t leave me,” he said. He was sobbing, sounding just like a child.

“Michael,” she said. Her eyes were wild and desperate. “Let go of me. I’ll come back for you and your sister.”

But she was lying. He knew that. She’d come back for Cara, but not for him-now that she knew what he was inside, now that she knew that his rage could be directed at her. He outweighed her by fifty pounds at least, was already much taller at fourteen. She could never control him.

“Michael,” she said. Her voice was just a jagged inhale. “You’re hurting me.”

Mack stepped in. “That’s enough, Michael.”

But Michael couldn’t. He wouldn’t let go of her. His grip on her grew so tight that she cried out. Somehow, in a struggle among the three of them, she broke away. She ran out the back door and into the Hollows Woods, the place where he now wandered.

She had been fast. All those years of trailing her on his bicycle, he knew how fast she was, even though she thought of herself as slow and clumsy. He was after her. There was no thought in his head at all, no malice really. He just wanted her, needed her to stay with him.

She turned into the clearing, and he was right behind her. But Mack caught up quickly. His father caught ahold of Michael with strong arms, tried to keep him back.

“Stop it, son,” he’d said. His voice was a cough. Mack was panting, sweat pouring down his face and neck. “What do you think you’re doing? You need to calm yourself.”

Mack had a hard lock on Michael’s wrist. But then Michael punched him mercilessly in the stomach, and Mack doubled over, falling. He moaned and writhed on the ground as Michael ran into the chapel. In the total darkness, he could see nothing. He could only hear her weeping.

“Mom,” he said. “Mommy. Don’t cry.”

He thought of all those nights he’d slept beside her while Mack was working, or sleeping on the couch after they had been fighting. And Michael would lie there and listen to her crying, pretending that he was asleep. She would hold onto him, seeking warmth and comfort from him. And he cherished those moments with her, because she belonged only to him. He could see that she didn’t need Cara in the same way, that Marla didn’t draw the same kind of comfort from her that she did from him. She needed him. She couldn’t leave him. What was he? Who was he without his mother?

He might have come back to himself if she hadn’t tried to run from him again. But she burst from a hidden corner and tried to make it to the door. He caught her easily and his hands wrapped themselves around her neck. It was so small, so delicate under his powerful fingers.

From another place, another world, he watched himself. He watched her flail and struggle. He listened to her horrifying rasp for air, felt her weak pounding at his arms and kicking at his legs. He watched her eyes go wide, bulge, redden. And then he watched them go blank. Her body slackened, and all the fight, all the life, drained out into his hands. But it hadn’t happened to him. It didn’t happen at all. It was a dream, a terrible dream. It happened to someone else, another Michael-one who didn’t even exist on a normal day.

He didn’t remember anything at all after that. Even now, wandering in the rain, carrying the memory of what he had done to his mother, he remembered nothing else of that night. What had his father done? Why had Mack hidden it all from the police, from Michael himself? Why? He could never answer those questions for his father. He could never make amends to his mother. There was no more chance of his ever living in the light again.

It was then that he saw her running.

“Don’t go,” he said. “I just didn’t want you to go.”

He walked out into her path, and she stopped short, stared up at him with blank, nearly uncomprehending terror. On some level, he could see that it wasn’t his mother. It was just some girl, a stranger who couldn’t hold a candle to Marla because no one could. She issued a panicked scream that sent a jolt of fear through him. And she started to flee, nearly tripping once in her panic to get away from him. But this time, he didn’t give chase. He wouldn’t. He’d let her run, just like she had wanted so long ago.

“Heavy rainfall in the region tonight,” the radio announcer said. “We have reports of flooded streets. Some local roads are washed out completely.”

Jones hated the way newscasters always seemed to enjoy giving bad news. They had this faux-somber delivery that wasn’t in the least bit sincere. “It’s been thirty-five years since the Black River overflowed its banks. But authorities say the levels are rising. Folks, I’m sure I don’t have to say it, but I will: If you don’t have to go out tonight, stay home.”

Jones brought the SUV to a stop in front of the Carr house and sat. He remembered the hours spent waiting and watching, sometimes alone, sometimes with a partner, the endlessness of it. Though often, when Ricky was young, he’d cherished the silence and solitude of it. But sometimes being alone with his own thoughts was the last thing he wanted. It was in those quiet, empty spaces that all the things you didn’t want to think about paraded before you, demanding to be noticed.

Maggie had already called twice, first to ask him when he’d be home. She was worried about him out in the weather. Next she called to ask him to look in on her mother. Cell phones were working, but some of the landlines in the older parts of town were out. Elizabeth’s phone was always one of the first to go in a storm. And of course, like the stubborn old mule that she was, she refused to get a cell phone-because that would make things easier on Maggie and Jones.

“No problem,” he told Maggie. “I got it covered.”

“And don’t fight with her.”

“I won’t.” And he wouldn’t-unless Elizabeth started with him. Jones had always had a somewhat contentious relationship with his mother-in-law. But since the events of last year, it had gotten much worse. They could barely make it through a meal without arguing. It was another thing Maggie was angry with him about, even though he didn’t think it was entirely his fault.

“Even if she starts with you, Jones,” she said. “And see if she’ll come back to the house with you.”

“She won’t.”

“Just ask,” she said. “And where are you now?”

During their last conversation, he’d told her about Robin O’Conner and the money he’d given her. You old softie. Was she cute? He’d told her about his trip to the doctor, what the other man had said about Jones finding his father. It’s true we don’t talk about your father much. Maybe he’s right-it bears looking into. Now he told her that he was sitting in front of the Carr house. It was a dark, empty space in a street of warmly lit homes. In other houses he saw open garage doors, television screens flickering. Somewhere he heard the faintest sound of a ringing phone.

“What are you going to do?” she asked.

“I haven’t gotten that far. It doesn’t look like anyone’s home.”

“What would Columbo do?”

“Columbo? Really? All the sexy, tough-as-nails television detectives out there, and that’s who I remind you of?”

“I don’t watch much television. Besides, I always found him kind of appealing,” she said. “Do you have your gun?” His wife, the pragmatist.

“No. Just the Maglite.” On the job you had your gun, your blackjack, and your Maglite, the favored flashlight of police officers everywhere. About three pounds of metal, including D batteries, it could do some damage in a pinch.

“Hmm,” she said, sounding uncertain. He watched the house for movement in the windows. There was nothing.

“Just be careful. Okay?”

She used to say that to him every time he left for work. Even though he was only a small-town cop in a place where things were quiet most of the time, she’d always worried about him. She’d get mad at him back then if he didn’t call when he was supposed to or if he got hung up with overtime and came home late. Don’t worry, he’d tell her. They’ll come to the door if there’s really something wrong… Is that supposed to make me feel better? He’d liked it that she worried. He liked it now that she wanted him to come home.

“You mean you still love me?” he said.

“Don’t be silly.” She had that warm, flirty tone in her voice.

“You were pretty mad at me the other night.”

“Not mad,” she said. “Concerned.”

“No. Mad.”

“Okay,” she said. “Angry. Upset.” He remembered that she didn’t like the word mad. That it implied insensibility, something out of control. “But I do love you. You know that, don’t you?”

He did. He did know that. He told her so.

“This is the part where you tell me you love me, too.”

He had a hard time with those words. They felt so awkward, so inadequate on his tongue. Abigail had demanded that he say it over and over to her, day after day. I love you, Mommy. It was like she’d used the words up. He’d said them so many times, not meaning them, saying them only to appease and escape, that the words seemed fake. And they were never enough for her. Nothing was ever enough for Abigail.

“I do,” he said. “You know I do.”

Maggie understood. She never hassled him about it. She didn’t need him to say it. What Maggie needed was a lot of touching, a lot of holding. He hadn’t always been good at that over the years, either.

“Seriously,” she said. “What are you going to do?”

“I guess I’m going to ring the bell and see if anyone’s home. Go from there.” He’d been sitting and watching for the better part of fifteen minutes now. He’d come to believe over the years that an empty house had an aura; you could tell somehow when no one was home. It was more than just a lack of the lights and movement. It was like a lack of breath.

“Hmm.”

“I know. Brilliant, right?”

“Just be careful,” she said again.

There was no answer at the door. Jones went around back through the heavy rain and was bold enough to walk up onto the deck, peer into the living room. The light was on over the stove in the kitchen. Nothing out of place, no furniture overturned, no blood on the walls. Good. Another light shone in an upstairs window. He tried the sliding glass door, but it was locked. Not that he’d have entered, maybe just called inside. He reminded himself that he had no right to be there. He was not a cop; he was a trespasser.

He walked around the side yard. It was thick with trees, sparing him a little bit of the rain that fell. There were no cars in the driveway; he’d seen that on arrival. He cupped his hands and peered into the narrow window on the side of the house that looked in on the garage. There were no vehicles there, either-not the Mercedes SUV he knew that Paula Carr drove, not the old BMW the kid had with him, either. He didn’t know what Kevin Carr drove.

He tried the knob on the side door, and when he found it unlocked, he pushed his way inside. He wouldn’t have done that as a cop, unless he had line-of-sight, meaning he saw something that looked incriminating or dangerous or had reason to believe that someone was in danger inside. Though he supposed he could make that argument if it came down to it. As a cop he’d always stuck to the letter of the law. Otherwise what was the point? As a private investigator, he wouldn’t have that obligation-he wouldn’t have to think about warrants and inadmissible evidence, cases thrown out of court because of evidence gained illegally. Of course, now he could also be arrested for illegally entering a home.

The garage was organized and tidy. Bicycles hung on a wall rack, sports equipment-tennis rackets, boxing gloves, roller skates in various sizes and colors-all sat orderly on shelves. The floor was painted a slate gray, free from the dirt and dust that would have been normal. Jones felt his heart thump, bent down to see if the paint on the floor was wet. But it wasn’t. It was dusty, in fact, and dirtier than it had looked. He noticed that he’d left a trail of water from the door as the rain had sluiced off his jacket.

When his phone rang, he practically had a heart attack, adrenaline rocketing through him. Note to self: When illegally entering a home, turn off the cell phone. He didn’t recognize the number.

He walked outside to answer, started making his way quickly back to the car. The rain had let up for a minute, slowed to a fine drizzle.

“Jones Cooper,” he answered.

“Jones, it’s Henry Ivy.” He sounded upset. “Sorry to bother you, but we have a problem.”

Henry told him about Willow Graves running off.

“I’m kind of in the middle of something here,” Jones said. It wasn’t exactly true. There was no one home at the Carr house. He had no other leads on Paula Carr. He was at another dead end. At this point he’d go check on Elizabeth and then go home.

“This is my fault,” said Henry. He’d lowered his voice, told Jones about his night with Bethany Graves and Willow’s unhappy response. As soon as Jones got back into his car, the rain started coming down hard again.

“You think she ran off on foot in a storm like this?” he asked.

“Maybe not.”

“She has friends with cars?”

Then Jones remembered that Willow Graves knew Cole. Cole had a vehicle, and he wasn’t at home. Jones wasn’t a big fan of coincidence, but here he was again. He was looking for the kid. It would be a good thing to find him away from the father, have a word with him in private about his mother.

“Beth called Jolie’s mother, who said that Jolie was out with Cole Carr. We think they all might be together.” Jones heard Bethany say something in the background. But he couldn’t make it out. “We checked around at some of the local spots like Pop’s Pizza and the Hollows Brew. No one’s seen them.”

“Okay,” said Jones. “You don’t think they’d have gone back there? To the Hollows Wood?”

“Maybe, if they heard about the bones,” said Henry. “Bethany seems to think it’s possible. We’re headed there now.”

“All right,” said Jones. He looked at his watch. It was still early, just after eight thirty. “I’ll meet you at the graveyard.”

“Thanks, Jones.”

“When did I become the guy to call?” Jones muttered to himself. Of course, if he was honest, he had to admit he liked it. Anyway, it was at least a detour from dropping in on the old crank. As he pulled out, he thought briefly about Eloise, her predictions for him. But he pushed them quickly and totally away. By the time he reached the main road, he’d forgotten about them completely.

She was swimming, and the water felt good. When was the last time she’d been submerged in water? Dipped her body into crystal-blue pool water or tasted the salt of the ocean? She and Alfie used to take trips to the beach, lie on the sand beneath a big blue-and-green striped umbrella. They’d drink beer from the cooler and listen to the gulls and catch up on their reading. Then they’d jump into the cool, gray Atlantic waves. That was before the kids, when it was just them. When they could just sit and be quietly together.

The water was cold, murky. She found that she didn’t need to surface for air, that she could just drift beneath, her fingers grazing against stones and drifting ribbons of weeds, branches. River water, that’s what it was. If clean had a feeling, light and cold against her skin… It had been so long since she’d done anything that gave her pleasure. Why had she been punishing herself all these years?

The other psychic she’d known, the one who’d taught her everything, had warned her. You must not forget to live. Spending all our time with the dead, something about it drains the life from us if we let it. Be out in the world, Eloise. Don’t bury yourself for them.

But she hadn’t listened, had she? She pitied Ray for giving up everything for their work. She thought because she’d already lost everything that she had nothing left to give. But she’d given herself, all of herself. She used to love to garden, to feel her hands in the earth, to bring fresh flowers and vegetables into the kitchen. She used to read. And knit. She’d made almost every blanket, scarf, and hat in the house. When was the last time she’d made anything? She didn’t even cook anymore, living on salads and cans of tuna fish.

Ahead of her, she saw the reedy form, long and black, floating. She swam faster, but the form floated away just as quickly, as though her own movements were pushing it farther from her. She fought harder, and found herself against a swift current. Now she was getting breathless, her chest tightening, painful.

Eloise could see her then. It was just a girl, her hair spread around her. A mermaid with opalescent skin, long arms spread like wings. It was just a girl, so young and pretty, just like her girls had been; prettier yet because they didn’t know their own beauty. She was still-eyes sleeping, mouth slack.

It’s just a girl. There was that voice in her head. That’s why. He’ll have no choice but to save her.

She felt afraid then, personally. She’d inexplicably come to like Jones Cooper. And he’ll die saving her? she asked without speaking. She had never asked anything of the voice before. She’d asked things of the dead who came to visit. But never of the voice in her head. And now she knew why. It didn’t answer. It would never answer.

She woke up drenched in sweat, sitting in a bathtub dry of water. How she’d gotten there she didn’t even know. The last thing she remembered was saying good-bye to Ray.

She lifted herself from the tub and headed downstairs, took her raincoat from the closet, took her purse from the table by the door. She walked out into the rain.

chapter thirty-three

Bethany felt numb, even as beneath that numbness there was a whirring panic, like a siren in the back of her head. She didn’t know why Willow punished her like this. She could hardly love her child more. True, she’d made mistakes. Even now Richard was calling and calling on her cell phone, after she’d asked him not to. She’d alerted him on the off chance that Willow would go to him, knowing that the stripper had left him. Why can’t you keep track of her, Bethany? he’d asked. It was cruel, ridiculous. How could she ever have married someone who would dream of saying something like that? She’d hung up on him.

“It’s okay,” Henry said. “We’ll find her.”

They saw the Beemer sitting by the side of the road, the headlights burning. For a second she thought they were all sitting in the car. And she nearly fainted with relief. But they weren’t. Henry pulled over, and they both got out in the rain, started shouting.

“Willow!” Her voice broke, and she started to cry. She remembered that night still so vividly, racing around New York City, looking in Willow’s favorite places, calling her friends. She’d been so frantic she’d felt unhinged. But this was so much worse somehow. Willow gone in this dark, wet place where the rain took Bethany’s voice and the beam of Henry’s flashlight was eaten by the impenetrable darkness.

She wouldn’t hate herself for inviting Henry to dinner, even for springing it last minute on Willow. Her mistake here was that Willow thought she had a right to act like that, to abuse Bethany and then to run out into the night. Bethany had been too soft on her, too yielding and ready to take blame for Willow’s unhappiness. That was going to change.

She didn’t realize until Henry came up and put his arms around her that she was sobbing. They were both soaked to the skin. The wind had picked up, but she leaned into him, was grateful not to be alone this time.

“We will find her,” he said. She let herself believe him.

The lights of an approaching car had them both moving toward the road. Bethany saw Jones Cooper in the driver’s seat as he brought his SUV to a stop. He stepped out wearing a dark raincoat that was already wet.

“Mrs. Graves,” he said. That natural air of authority had put Bethany, irrationally, at ease. “I’m going to ask you to wait here with the car.”

“No,” she said. “I can’t just sit here.”

“Someone needs to be here if they come out of the woods,” he said. He put a soothing hand on her arm.

“Mr. Cooper-”

“It’s just that Henry and I grew up here,” he said. “We know these woods. It’ll be faster if we go alone.”

She wanted to argue, but he was shepherding her toward the car, telling her to keep her cell phone on her lap. They’d call as soon as they found anything. “Lock the doors. If anyone but the kids approaches the vehicle, call the cops and lean on the horn.”

“What do you mean?” she asked. “Like who?”

“Like Michael Holt.”

Bethany took a deep breath and did as she was told. She watched Henry through the window. He lifted a palm in an “it’s okay” gesture. Then they were gone, swallowed by the trees. The wind was picking up, bending the tips of the pines against the night sky, whistling around the car. Bethany wished she were a religious person. She wished that she could pray.

The clearing at the Chapel was empty. The crime-scene tape around the hole had blown away and wrapped itself around a nearby tree. They walked the perimeter, calling out for the kids. But only the wind answered them. Henry returned to Marla’s grave, stood at the edge peering down into the emptiness. It looked to him like the loneliest, coldest place on earth. Jones came to stand beside him.

“I heard tonight that the ME confirmed the bones were Marla Holt’s,” said Henry.

“I heard, too. On the radio,” Jones said. “I wish I’d known back then. I wish I hadn’t let her lie out here all this time.”

Henry was surprised to hear Jones say something like that. Henry turned to look at the other man. Rain was making rivers down his face. The wind was getting wild, whipping at their slickers.

“I was her friend,” Henry said. “I should have known she wouldn’t run off on her children. I believed the worst of her, like everyone else.”

Jones didn’t say anything, started to move away from the site. Henry grabbed his arm, and Jones turned back toward him.

“I was there that night, Jones,” Henry said. He cast his eyes to the ground. The words felt like the release of a breath held too long. “I’m sorry I never told you, or anyone. I loved her.”

When Henry could bring himself to look at Jones, he saw that the other man was staring at him. Jones Cooper had a chilly, assessing gaze that made people question themselves. What did he see when he looked at Henry? A coward, surely. A fool. Henry squared his shoulders, told him about the night and what had happened.

“I never touched her, except to hold her as she cried that night. She told me that she was unhappy, that there was someone else beside her husband. Michael came home and caught us in an embrace. It was very awkward. I left.”

Henry paused to breathe. “I never thought… she was in danger. I wouldn’t have left her if I had.”

Jones glanced around the clearing, scanning the night with his flashlight.

“Why now?” Jones said. “Why are you telling me this now?”

Henry had a thousand answers. I thought she’d run off with someone else. How could I admit to loving another woman who would never love me? I was ashamed. I was angry. I never thought she’d come to harm. He issued some jumble of those things, couldn’t even bring himself to look at Jones.

“It doesn’t much matter at this point.” Jones had to raise his voice over the wind.

“But would it have mattered then?” Henry asked. He was practically yelling. “Would you have looked at her case differently had you known?”

Jones rolled his head to the side, seemed to ease some tension out of his neck. “I might have looked at you a little harder.”

“But not at Michael. Or Mack?”

“It’s hard to say,” he said. Jones started moving back to the path.

Henry followed. “After my run I went back. I saw Mack’s car in the driveway. Claudia Miller was sitting in her window, watching. Whatever happened that night, she must have seen it. Maybe she lied about the sedan.”

“Why would she lie?”

“That’s what I thought then, too. But who knows why we lie? A hundred reasons big and small.”

“We’ll talk about this later,” said Jones. “We’re wasting time. If those kids are out here in this weather, we need to get them home.”

Jones was walking more quickly now, with a sudden purpose.

“Where are we going?”

“To the river.”

“The Black River?” said Henry, even though there was no other river he could have meant. “Why?”

“Don’t ask,” said Jones. “Just move faster.”

Jones felt as if he were dreaming. Was he? A year ago he’d found himself in the woods on a night like this one. Back then he was trying to bury his past, to protect an awful secret he had hidden for decades. Tonight he was following the path of predictions he didn’t even believe. He could smell the rotting vegetation, slick in the rain, beneath his feet. The rain falling on his hood, the rushing river off in the distance, it all created a cocoon of sound around him. Even though Henry trailed behind him, Jones could believe he was alone in this place. He could turn around at any time, say to Henry that they needed to call the police, conditions were too harsh, the night was too dark. Those kids could be anywhere. And no one would have questioned that. But he didn’t. The irony, of course, was that if Eloise hadn’t come to him, it might never have occurred to him to check the banks of the river.

The Black River wasn’t normally deep or fast. But tonight it could be, according to the news, a full two feet over its normal depth. The river worked its way through a glacial ravine lined with hemlock and pine, its rocky bed studded with boulders. Even in the summer, the water was cold.

As Jones crested the rise, he saw that the river was high. And down below on the banks, he saw the beams of two flashlights bouncing like fireflies. The path before them, the one that would switch back all the way to the riverbank, was washed away with rainwater. It would be faster, possibly safer, to cut down through the trees.

But it would be treacherous; he thought about telling Henry to go back and call for help. But then he was making his way down the side, gripping onto wet trees, feet slipping beneath him. He crashed his knee against a rock. He heard Henry making a similarly graceless descent.

The voices below, raised and frantic, carried over the sound of the river. But Jones couldn’t hear what they were saying. He cupped his hands around his mouth and yelled at them to stay where they were. But then he saw the flashlights start to move downriver fast. They were running.

The bank of the river was gone; he had to make his way through the trees that usually stood high above. Up ahead he saw the flashlight beams bouncing, and he and Henry followed. Henry pulled ahead of Jones. He was lighter and stronger. Jones was already panting with effort, feeling the fact that he was as out of shape as his doctor kept telling him. Did you know, his doctor asked, that survival in extreme circumstances can come down to how long you are able to hold your own hanging body weight? How many pull-ups do you think you can do? Three, Jones could do three pull-ups, maybe four if he’d had a light lunch.

As they drew closer, he saw the three slender forms. He heard Henry yell something, but Jones couldn’t make it out. And what happened next seemed like a memory, as though he had already been there so many times. And each time the events unfolded in exactly the same way, no matter what he did to try to alter them. He had the thought that maybe that’s just what life was, after all. Maybe you repeated it over and over again until you finally did the right thing-even though it was never really clear what the right thing was. He moved closer to them, called out to them again. But his voice was lost.

He watched, helpless, as the smallest form moved too close to the water and lost her footing. He watched her cling for a second to a thin branch, which broke off in her hand. The other two forms bent toward her like reeds, arms outstretched. He watched her fall into the cold, rushing water. And then, a second later, while everyone else stood stunned and rooted, sound and distance isolating them all from one another, he raced down what was left of the incline and jumped in after her.

The cold hit him like a freight train, sending a shock through his body. The rushing water churned around him, then pushed him toward the surface, where he gulped at the air before going down again. He could hear her yelling in front of him. He tried to swim, but the current carried him along, knocking him against the rocks. He wouldn’t have thought this river could be so powerful, that his physical strength would be nothing against it. There are things more powerful than your will. Isn’t that what Eloise had said? He still didn’t believe it, even now when it proved to be true.

And then everything suddenly seemed to quiet. The girl had stopped yelling, the current slowed. He could still hear voices on the bank. He dove below the surface. At first there was nothing but a rushing flood of cold. Then he saw her floating up ahead. Or rather he saw something darker than the rest of the darkness. He used all his strength to reach her, to be faster than the water that pulled her along, too.

Finally he was able to put his hand on her; her arm was impossibly thin and cold, her fingers so small. He tried to pull at her, to take her up with him. But something held her fast. He grabbed hold of her leg and dragged himself down to where he could feel that her foot was wedged between two large rocks. He yanked at her calf, his chest growing painful with his held breath. When he realized he wouldn’t be able to free her, he started working on the laces of her thick leather boots. He could only feel them beneath his fingers. He could see nothing now. All he wanted to do was surface and take the air into his lungs, but he knew if he did, the current would take him and he’d never find her again in the dark water, never be able to fight his way back to her.

When he finally untied the lace, her foot drifted free. Just as it did, there was a flood of light. And she seemed to lift away from him, pulled from the water by unseen hands. Was it the current taking her down the river? Where was the light coming from?

He let her go because he didn’t have any strength left, and he was bone tired suddenly, numb with cold. And it was so easy to just stop moving. He’d always heard that drowning was a peaceful way to die, though that seemed like a strange idea. How could anyone ever know such a thing? But as the darkness closed around him in a cold embrace, he knew it was right.

chapter thirty-four

It was the light that brought him back. It was not a soft and heavenly light, beckoning him to the great beyond. It was the harsh white of a floodlight. There was someone pumping mercilessly on his chest and then breathing hard down his throat. He choked up a river of water and bile, took in a ragged breath that felt like swallowed razor blades. When he opened his eyes, he didn’t see the face of God. It was Chuck Ferrigno, looking like some combination of determined and desperate. Behind Chuck stood Eloise Montgomery, holding a gigantic police-issue flashlight. Her expression was serene, as though the outcome of everything were already well known to her. Or possibly she just didn’t care. It was hard to tell which.

“Jones,” the other man said, kneeling back. “Christ. You are too old to be jumping into the river like that.”

All Jones felt was cold. “Where’s the girl?”

“She’s here,” said Chuck. “She’s okay.”

The kids sat under the tree, all three of them wrapped in a blanket. Willow Graves was soaking wet. She leaned her head on the shoulder of the other girl, who held her tight. Cole Carr just looked lost beside them, blank and staring off at nothing. The rain had slowed to little more than a drizzle.

“You pulled us out?”

Chuck, too, was soaked and shivering. “You wouldn’t have thought I had it in me, right? I wouldn’t have been able to do it without Henry and the kid. They held me. I grabbed the girl, then you.”

“How did you find us?” Jones asked. But he supposed he already knew the answer. Chuck glanced back at Eloise.

“Eloise came to my house. She said there was trouble.”

“And you believed her?” Jones was irrationally angry at this. How could someone like Chuck, so grounded and pragmatic, listen to Eloise Montgomery?

Chuck offered a quick lift of his shoulders. “Hey, I’m a New Yorker. Nothing surprises me. Anyway, she wouldn’t leave unless I came with her, said I’d have to arrest her. I’d rather go out in a storm than spend all night filing paperwork against the town psychic.”

Jones looked at Eloise in her giant yellow slicker and big flashlight. He supposed he should thank her. But he couldn’t bring himself to do it. Wasn’t it her fault he was here in the first place?

“I told you that you wouldn’t be able to manage the risk,” she said. She wasn’t smug, but almost.

Up above them they heard voices, saw lights. Jones hauled himself to his feet, fighting nausea and light-headedness. He didn’t want people to find him lying on the bank of a river. From where he sat now, it didn’t look that wild. It certainly didn’t seem like the churning, rushing nightmare to which he’d nearly surrendered.

“You called for backup?”

“I did. The kids said they saw Michael Holt up at the dig site. He chased them down here. That’s why they were running along the bank.”

“Where’s Henry?”

“He went back to get the girl’s mother,” said Chuck. “And to call Maggie.”

Jones made his way over to the kids. Cole had his arm around both the girls, and they leaned into him.

“Are you okay, Willow?”

She looked up at him, her eyes full of fatigue and sadness. “You almost died trying to save me. I’m so sorry. I shouldn’t even be here.”

He put a hand on her shoulder, and she pressed her cheek against it. “Thank you,” she said again.

“Thanks for helping to get us out of there, kid,” Jones said to Cole. Cole gave him a shy nod, looked down at the ground as though he were embarrassed.

“I’ve been looking for you,” Jones said.

The boy glanced up at him quickly, startled. “For me?”

“I saw your mother today.”

Cole leaned forward. Jones saw how young he was then. Teenagers looked like grown-ups sometimes. They occupied such an awkward, uncomfortable space between childhood and adulthood. In that moment, wet and scared, Cole Carr looked far closer to boyhood than manhood. “My mom? Where?”

“I thought you told us your mom was in Iraq,” said Jolie. Willow shushed her.

Cole stood up. “Where did you see her?”

A young man walked up behind Jones and wrapped a blanket around him. The paramedics and other officers had clambered down the hill and were forming a group around Chuck. The dark night was filled with light and voices.

“Sir, you should have a seat,” the paramedic said. Jones recognized him from his time on the job but couldn’t place his name. He looked just like Ricky, with spiky dark hair and a ring in his nose.

“Okay,” said Jones. “In a second.”

Between breaths he told Cole about his mother, where she was and what had happened. Jones told Cole how much his mother missed him and wanted him to come home. He thought the boy would cry, but he didn’t. He just looked at the ground and hunched his shoulders forward in a protective stance.

“Do you want to go back to her, son?”

“I do,” he said. “I want to go back to my mom.”

“I’m going to take you to her,” Jones said. “Do you know where your father is?”

Cole shook his head. “I don’t know. I think he went looking for my stepmother. She’s been gone for a couple of days.”

“Did he know where she was?” Jones felt a surge of fear for Paula.

“I don’t know. He was watching her credit card online, to see if she charged anything.”

“Did she?”

“I don’t know.”

Jones put his hand into a jacket pocket filled with water and retrieved his phone, which was ruined. He stared at it, helpless. Then he let the paramedic lead him over to a large, flat rock, where he sat while the young man shone a penlight in his eyes. Above him the thick cloud cover that had persisted for days preceding the rain was breaking apart, and Jones could see the white of the moon. He called Chuck over and told him about Paula.

“I’m going to get someone on it right now,” Chuck said.

“I’ve got a contact at the credit bureau who’s been watching her card for me,” he said. Jones gave Chuck the name.

“I know Jack,” said Chuck. “We’ll find her.”

“Find her fast,” said Jones. He kept looking up at the path, expecting to see Henry and Bethany. But no one came. What was taking them so long?

“How did you wind up in the middle of all this, Jones?” said Chuck. “I thought you retired.”

But Jones didn’t get a chance to answer, because Chuck’s call went through. He walked off, and Jones heard him inquiring about Paula Carr’s credit-card charges. Jones heard Chuck say, “Jones Cooper said he was working with you.”

Eloise walked toward him.

“You like it,” said Eloise. “All of this. You’re happier today, having nearly drowned, than you were the day I first came to see you.”

He was about to argue with her. But what was the point? “I guess we all have our calling. This happens to be mine.”

“I know what you mean.”

He watched her then. She looked as small as a child in her big rain slicker. Her hair was matted with the wet. The lines on her face were as deep and dark as valleys. But he noticed for the first time that there was a light to her skin, an odd youthfulness. She seemed lit from within. He remembered the pictures he’d seen in her home from a time when she was young and happy. He could still see that prettiness in her. He’d Googled Eloise. He knew now that she’d lost her husband and child in a terrible accident, nearly died herself. He knew now that people from all over the world consulted her on their cases, for the sight that seemed to come after surviving the car wreck. He found himself with a grudging respect for her.

“Did you know,” said Eloise-she was looking up at the clearing night sky-“that the oxygen in our lungs, the carbon in our muscles, the calcium in our bones, the iron in our blood, was created inside a star before the earth was ever born?”

He followed her eyes up.

“Do you know where Paula is, Eloise?” He hated himself for asking. But he would have hated himself more for not asking. She didn’t say anything right away. She just looked up at the moon, shifting from behind the clouds.

Henry was moving fast, at a light jog in spite of the slick conditions of the path. Once Jones and Willow had been pulled from the river and Chuck arrived on the scene, Henry ran for Bethany and to call Maggie. He was halfway there when he stumbled on a rock and came down hard on his right knee.

He lifted himself up, and when he stood, Michael Holt blocked the path before him. It took him a minute to get his head around it. Jolie had told them that Michael Holt was out there. That he’d chased them from the dig site. But Henry figured he’d have run, knowing that more cops must be on their way. The guy was a giant, tall and wide in the night. And Henry found himself taking a step back.

“I know you,” Michael said. Henry heard the other man’s breath coming hard and fast.

“Yes,” said Henry. “You do.”

“You were there the night my mother died.”

“I was,” Henry said. Henry raised his palms. “But it was nothing more than what your mother told you. We were only friends.”

“You were holding her.”

“I was comforting her,” said Henry. “Your mother was… unhappy. I’m sorry.”

“Why?” asked Michael. His voice was desperate and childlike. “Why was she so unhappy?”

He wanted to sugarcoat it, to soothe Michael. But maybe there had been enough of that. Michael Holt needed the truth; he’d spent his whole life looking for it. And Henry felt at least partially responsible for that.

“I think she wanted more from life than what she had, Michael,” said Henry. He had a voice that he used with troubled students. Firm but gentle, soothing but not yielding.

“More than us?”

Henry forced himself to breathe before answering.

“She loved you and your sister very much,” Henry said. “But sometimes people have expectations of life, and life gives them something else. Most of us accept that. Some of us can’t.”

Henry saw Bethany then. She had come up behind Michael on the path and now stood behind him.

“She didn’t leave you and Cara, Michael,” said Henry. “She was taken from you. At least you know that now. She didn’t run away.”

“No,” said Michael. It was a sad and desolate grunt, the beginning of a sob.

Michael’s breathing came ragged then, and for a moment Henry thought it was rage. That he was going to have to defend himself against this concrete wall of a man. But Michael fell to his knees and started to wail, a horrible keening that filled Henry’s head. Bethany put her hands to her ears and started to cry as well. It was primal, the very sound of sorrow. Henry didn’t know what to do but kneel beside him and take Marla’s son in his arms. Even as the truth dawned on Henry, he let Michael rest against him.

Michael whispered to Henry, “All these years I thought it was my father. That he was hiding this awful secret, and I was his accomplice in silence. I couldn’t wait for him to die so that I could uncover his lies.”

Michael’s breath was foul; he reeked of body odor and rotting vegetation. Still Henry held him tight, for Marla. Even with what Michael had done, Henry knew that Marla would want him to help her son.

“Michael,” Henry said. A part of him didn’t want to hear the truth. Once it was said, there would be no more denial.

“All these years I thought he holed himself up in that house with all his garbage, that guilt was burying him alive. But it wasn’t guilt. It was grief.”

“Please,” said Henry.

But there was no stopping the words now.

“I killed her.” The words were a horrific howl, and they cut Henry to the bone. He heard Bethany sobbing. She was on her knees as well now. “When my father came home, I told him that there had been a man in the house. I was so angry. I felt so… betrayed. They fought, worse than they ever had.”

Henry wished Michael would stop. The biggest part of him didn’t want to know what had happened to Marla.

“I heard her slamming drawers in her room. She was screaming, ‘I hate you! I hate this place! I hate my life!’ I couldn’t let her leave. She must have known that.”

Michael’s voice dropped again to that hoarse whisper.

“I tried to stop her. Her suitcase spilled open. She ran from me, out the back door, into the woods. And I followed her. My father tried to stop me, but he couldn’t. No one could have stopped me.”

Michael took a deep breath. “And all these years, he kept that secret. He was protecting me.”

He was sobbing again. Weeping like a child, he put his head to the ground. There were lights and voices coming up the path. And a minute later they were surrounded. Michael looked up, as if surprised by the crowd.

“It’s over,” Michael said. There was a glassy, unhinged quality to his gaze.

And Henry supposed that it was true, that it must offer Michael some kind of relief to know. However tragic and horrifying the outcome was, Michael had finally found his mother.

chapter thirty-five

The woman working the hotel desk was the wrong side of forty. She wore thick, dark-framed glasses, had her hair pulled back tightly, fanning out from a dramatic white part in the center of her head. There was a flurry of acne below her cheekbones. No ring on her finger. But Kevin Carr could see she still had hope. That was a good thing. All women react to a handsome man carrying an extravagantly large bouquet of roses. But a woman like that would react more favorably than most.

He had his overnight bag slung over his shoulder. Had made a point to keep his suit jacket off while he drove, so that he would arrive looking pressed. He wore a bright pink tie, a light smattering of cologne. He’d dressed to make an impression. He’d shaved and styled his hair for the first time since Paula had left. He hadn’t been to work; hadn’t even called. His partners were panicking, because he was the only one staffed with a client. And the client was freaking. He hadn’t returned a call in days. Fuck them. Fuck them all. He’d been waiting for his bitch wife to make good on her promise. And, of course, she hadn’t. She wasn’t going to give him that money. But it was going to be his just the same.

Amelia, his girlfriend, was starting to get suspicious. His card got declined at dinner the other night; she’d had to pay. He made up some excuse about identity theft, but he could tell she wasn’t buying it. He’d been pretending to have the flu, told her that’s why he hadn’t seen her for a few days. He wasn’t sure she was buying that, either. She wasn’t smart like Paula. That’s what he’d liked about her. She was beautiful and desperate, not sharp. But even she was starting to wonder about him.

“Hey,” he said as he approached the counter. He tried to sound a little breathless, gave the girl (WELCOME, I’M CAROLINE!) a bright smile. And the look. There’s a look you can give a woman, a warm smile, a kind gaze. It’s a look that says, I find you so attractive. Most of them smile back. The girl at the counter beamed.

“I’m so late meeting my wife and kids,” he said. “She’s gonna kill me.”

“They’re staying here?” she asked. Her hand fluttered to the heart-shaped locket at her neck.

“Checked in a few hours ago,” he said. Idiot. He knew she’d use that card, that old American Express she still had open in her name. He’d been watching it, pressing the “refresh” button every hour or so. He knew she’d get tired of motels, want something nicer. She was a spoiled brat and had been since the day he met her.

The girl at the counter was too shy to hold his gaze for long. Her eyes drifted to the roses and then down to the screen in front of her. “What room are they in?”

“I was hoping you could tell me?” He pulled down the corners of his mouth, lifted his eyebrows. He was going for sheepish. “She told me, and I can’t remember.”

“If you give me her name, I’ll call the room and let her know you’re down here.”

“Hmm,” he said. He wrinkled his forehead a bit. “What time is it?”

He looked at his watch and saw her noticing it.

“The kids will be sleeping,” he said. “If you call up there, you’ll wake them.”

“I’m sorry, sir,” she said. “I can’t tell you the room number. That’s our policy.”

“Oh, I understand,” he said. He made a show of trying to figure out a solution. He pretended to text his wife. They waited. He could tell that the girl wanted to please him, to help him out. But she was still clinging to that policy.

“You’re too young to have kids, I’m sure,” he said. He saw her blush; the red came up unattractively from her neck. “But when you do, and they’re asleep? You’ll remember this encounter. Trust me, I’d rather sleep on that couch right there than wake them up.” He pointed to the lobby sitting area.

“My sister has kids,” she said. She smoothed out her hair, which was thick and wooly, probably the bane of her existence. “I hear you.”

He looked at the phone again. “Poor thing,” he said. “She’s probably sleeping, too. She’s exhausted. I’ve been so worried about her lately. She’s under so much stress with the kids.”

He looked lovingly at the roses. “It’s our anniversary. Ten years. Hard to believe.”

“Oh,” she said. “That’s so sweet.”

“Yeah,” he said with a little laugh. He gave her a funny eye roll. “If she doesn’t kill me for being late.”

“What was the name?” she said. He’d made a point of staying at the counter, not sitting in the sitting area. The immediacy of the situation would help move things along. Nobody wanted some person with a need hovering around. And this girl was too much of a mouse to get rude, to call her manager.

“Paula Carr,” he said.

She turned to smile at him, put a finger to her mouth as she made him a key card. “They’re in Room 206.”

He gave her a wide smile, pulled one of the roses from the bouquet, and handed it to her.

The woman started to giggle, girlish and sweet. “Oh!” she said.

“Thank you so much,” he said. “I can’t even tell you. You just saved my life.”

The hallway was quiet except for the sound of someone’s television, the volume up too high. That always aggravated him, people who kept the volume up too loud, like the people who put their seats all the way back on airplanes. Or the people who let the door close behind them in a public place without looking to see if there was someone there. What was wrong with those people? Inconsiderateness was a national blight.

She’d have the secondary latch on as well. But he’d found a video on YouTube about how to unlatch a chain with a rubber band. There was a tool that looked like a crowbar, which easily undid the folding metal latch. He had one of those, too. Something he’d fashioned himself in the garage.

He’d have the upper hand. She wouldn’t hurt him in front of Claire and Cameron. And if she called the police, he’d accuse her of kidnapping the children, tell them how depressed she was, that he was afraid of what she’d do to herself and their babies. She’d get hysterical, and they would believe him. People always believed Kevin Carr. Not that he wanted the kids; they were a major pain in the ass. But it would be worth it to really zing it to Paula.

He stood at the door, put his ear against the cool surface, and heard only silence. He put the roses and his bag down on the floor and took the key from his pocket.

“What do you think you’re doing, son?”

He didn’t recognize the man at the end of the hall.

“Excuse me?”

The guy reminded Kevin of a side of beef, tall and solid. He wore a barn jacket and a pair of jeans, thick brown lace-up boots.

“I said, what do you think you’re doing?”

“I’m not sure it’s any of your business.”

The other man smiled a bit. “I disagree.”

Kevin lifted his palms. “I think there must be some misunderstanding.”

“I don’t think so,” said the other man. He was moving slowly down the hallway now. “You need to step away from the door and keep your hands where I can see them.”

He was one of those men, the no-bullshit kind. The one you couldn’t charm or manipulate; he was the one who had no vanity to be flattered, no illusions to be bolstered. He was the guy who saw right through the mask. Kevin really hated people like that. Kevin didn’t see a weapon on him. Was he a cop? Was that a police siren he heard off in the distance? His heart started to thump. He stepped back from the door.

“My name is Jones Cooper. You wanted me to find your wife,” he said. “Well, I found her.”

It took Kevin a second to place the name. He had called this dog. It seemed like a hundred years ago and he’d forgotten all about it.

“Look,” said Kevin. He lifted the roses. “Thanks, but Paula and I have worked things out.”

“No,” said Jones. He had a kind of snide half smile on his face. “You haven’t.”

Kevin heard the siren grow loud and come to a stop somewhere outside. The door opened then, and Paula stepped into the door frame.

“This woman kidnapped my children,” he said. He took his voice up an octave. “I’m here to get them back. She’s suffering from postpartum depression. I’m terrified of what she’ll do to herself and our babies.”

Paula just stared at him. “You’re a liar, Kevin.”

“Where are my children?” he yelled. He even managed to force some tears down his face. A door opened up down the hall; a man with tousled hair stuck his head out and then disappeared quickly.

“They’re safe,” she said. Her voice was soft, almost a whisper. “I have a lawyer now.”

He turned to look at her, but she was stone cold.

“I haven’t done anything wrong,” said Kevin. He turned back to Jones. “You can’t call the police.”

“You threatened me with a gun,” said Paula. “I fled in fear for my life. And now you’ve come after me.”

Someone had obviously coached her, told her what to say. Ever since she’d started having kids, she’d been so foggy and addled. She didn’t seem that way now, more like she had when he’d first met her.

“That’s a lie,” he said. “She’s the one with the gun.”

“I have documented your affair.” Paula went on as though he hadn’t spoken. “I have printed copies of e-mails to your girlfriend and the lies you’ve been telling about me. I also know that you’ve been stealing money from your company to pay your debts.”

How could she know that?

“Meanwhile, today I had a little chat with Robin O’Conner,” said Jones. “I know what you did to her.”

The elevator door opened then, and two uniformed officers stepped out, a bald and lanky black man and a petite blond female. Both rested their hands on the large semiautomatics at their waists. Behind them the girl from the counter emerged, along with a man who looked like he must be her manager.

“That’s him,” said Caroline. Her warm smile and goo-goo eyes were gone.

Jones stepped to the side.

“Everyone needs to keep their hands where we can see them,” said the female officer.

Kevin had had moments like this before, ugly, dark moments when he was backed into a corner. The sinking hole in his center opened. It was the place where all the selves he created and put out there met. And there, where the real Kevin should have been, there was nothing.

chapter thirty-six

Ray was waiting for her in the driveway when she got home. She pulled up beside him and saw that he was sleeping. The car was running with the heat on, and he had his head leaned back, his mouth gaping open. He could have gone inside. The door was unlocked.

She got out of the car and walked over to his Cadillac, tapped on the window. He startled awake, looked over at her, and frowned. He rolled down the window.

“Where were you? Out partying with your new best friend, Jones Cooper?”

“Not exactly,” she said. “Do you want to come in?”

He turned off the car and followed her into the house. Oliver greeted her at the door, immediately started purring and weaving himself between her legs. She’d forgotten to feed him.

As she opened up some food for Oliver and changed his water, Eloise told Ray about her night. He made some coffee while she did, even though it was way too late for coffee.

“I thought you were retiring,” said Ray. He hadn’t looked at her the whole time she was talking. He’d busied himself fussing with the cabinet door that always came off its hinge. He’d pulled a Swiss Army knife from his pocket and was trying to tighten the screw, his brow furrowed with concentration.

“Vacationing is not the same thing as retiring,” she answered. She checked the lock on the back door and the window over the sink. “Anyway, what choice did I have? I couldn’t just let him drown.”

“I thought you had a policy about speaking your vision but not getting physically involved. You know, after what happened in Kansas.”

She didn’t like to think about Kansas. “I changed my policy,” she said. “Just this once.”

“Because of Maggie Cooper?”

A lifetime ago Eloise had given a prediction to Maggie’s mother, Elizabeth Monroe. This prediction may or may not have saved Maggie’s life-it was hard to say in the way that these things were. Other unintended possible results of her conversation were that a not-quite-innocent man had committed suicide in prison and Jones Cooper had built his life around a terrible secret. After living in the city and getting her education there, Maggie returned to The Hollows and married Jones. Eloise had always known that Maggie would one day come to her with questions. And last year she had. Since then Eloise had felt an odd connection to Maggie. And then she’d started having her vision about Jones. Ray knew all this. He knew everything about her, she realized.

Eloise sat down at the kitchen table, and Oliver rubbed against her before heading over to his food bowl.

“Maybe,” she said. He came behind her and put his hands on her shoulders, began kneading at her tight muscles. She felt heat and release down her back.

“What about your visit with Claudia Miller?” she asked.

“She wouldn’t talk to me. And the Holt house? I poked around in there some. The place is a nightmare. I couldn’t get out of there fast enough.”

“Some boxes stay locked.”

She didn’t know if he’d heard that Michael had confessed. She wasn’t sure she wanted to be the one to tell him. She’d seen Michael sitting in the back of the patrol car as she left the Hollows Wood. For the first time since she’d known him, he didn’t look haunted. Sometimes a confession is as good as an exorcism.

“I guess you heard,” he said.

“About Michael?” she said. When he didn’t reply, she said, “Yes, I heard.”

“You knew all along, didn’t you?”

“I suspected.”

“She told you.” He meant Marla. He was the only one who believed in her wholly and completely, without question.

“She hinted.”

His hands moved down her arms, and she felt her body relax beneath his palms. “This is ugly work, Eloise.”

She wasn’t sure if she agreed with this. Death was life. Maybe it wasn’t the end people thought it was. Maybe it was worse than that. People did horrific, unspeakable things to one another. And there was so much pain. But it was just one part of this gorgeous, hideous, chaotic, and wonderful mosaic they experienced from the moment they drew their first breaths until they drew their last and beyond. And wasn’t it a gift, in some ways, to see all the colors, all the sharp and broken bits, the ones from which all others turned their eyes? According to the Kabbalah, every human soul is just a fragment of the great world-soul, just a tiny piece of the cosmos, linked to every other piece. Eloise liked the idea of this and felt that it could be true. And that was as close to faith as she thought she was apt to get.

“So,” said Ray when she didn’t answer him, “I’ve never been to Seattle.” He cleared his throat. “I heard it was nice. Lots of rain, but good coffee.”

For the first time in forever, Eloise smiled.

chapter thirty-seven

Claudia Miller watched them come, as she knew they would. She’d known as soon as she saw the For Sale sign in the yard. First there was a single patrol car. Then a black unmarked cruiser. Then more. Eventually the others, her neighbors with their too-loud, bratty children, came to stand on porches and stoops, watching, too. She could feel their nervousness, their excitement. Of course, none of them had even come to the window when the paramedics took Mack from that house. No one came to stand beside her at the ambulance while they’d wheeled him down his overgrown walk and carried him away. No one cared about an old man leaving his home for the last time.

The neighbors all stood. A group of them eventually gathered in the street. Finally the lawyer with the black Mercedes (the one who snuck a cigarette in his side yard at night when he was taking out the trash) walked over to the uniformed officer standing in the drive.

“Can you tell me what’s happening, Officer?” His voice was strident in the cold, chill air. Now that the rain had stopped pounding on her roof and windows, the neighborhood seemed so quiet.

The officer lifted a hand and shook his head. But Claudia couldn’t hear what he said.

“We have a right to know,” said the lawyer. She knew he’d get peevish if he didn’t get his way. She knew why the police were there. Claudia Miller knew lots of things.

She knew that the pretty blond girl (what was she? maybe sixteen?) climbed out her window some nights, using one of those rope fire-escape ladders that people keep under their beds. Her boyfriend picked her up on the corner, brought her back a few hours later.

Claudia knew that the big-chested woman at number 180 was having an affair. She was a popular area real estate agent, flitting in and out of her house all day like a bee bringing honey back to the hive. But every Wednesday at lunchtime, she met a man at her house. Claudia would watch as each of them went casually in, casually out. Sometimes the woman’s husband didn’t get home until after midnight.

Claudia knew that the cat Misty wasn’t really lost, despite the sad signs on lampposts and pinned up on the supermarket bulletin board. It had slipped outside while the housewife at 183 got the mail. Later Claudia watched it get hit by a car, stagger up to the curb, and die. Later still, the housewife came out and saw it lying there and wept in the street. Then she carried the body gingerly and laid it on top of the trash. The truck came soon after. The kids were still looking for their dead cat, hoping Misty would come home.

Claudia knew their secrets. Each one was like a gem she locked away in a box. They belonged to her, because she was vigilant.

She’d been watching the night Marla Holt disappeared. Claudia had been waiting for Mack to come home. She waited every night to see him pull in to the drive in his sensible car. What was it that he drove then? She couldn’t remember things like that anymore. He’d climb out slowly, retrieve his satchel from the backseat. She watched him mow the lawn on Saturdays, wash the cars on Sundays. She enjoyed it when he played basketball in the driveway with his boy (even though the sound of that ball almost drove her crazy). She liked to watch him stroll with the baby in the carriage on the nights she was fussy. With his broad shoulders and perpetually tousled hair, Mack reminded her of a man she’d loved once. The one her sister had married, if the truth be told. Married and then drove him to an early grave with her spending and demands for this and that. At least that’s the way Claudia saw it, even if no one else did. She moved far away from all of them, rather than watch it unfold.

Mack Holt was the only person on the block to ever show her any kindness. He never failed to wave hello when he saw her, or to offer her a smile. He brought her newspaper to the porch from the sidewalk on rainy Sunday mornings. And so she kept an eye on things for him.

She was at her window that night. Mack was late in coming home. And instead Henry Ivy came walking up the drive. It was their night to jog. (Claudia thought it was unseemly for a married woman to flaunt herself around the neighborhood like that with another man. But she suspected Marla Holt of much worse.)

She saw the boy Michael come home, drop his bicycle in the yard. Henry Ivy left. And then the yelling started. Soon Mack came home. There was more yelling, the sound of something breaking. Then Claudia saw the woman run from the back door, the boy and husband chasing after her. She could have called the police, even put her hand on the phone. Nothing good could come of what she’d seen. But a woman like that, always putting on airs, flaunting herself, having men into her house while her husband was out working. Well, maybe she deserved what she got.

Later, hours later, Mack and Michael came back. The boy was sick, or drunk. Mack was practically dragging him. He brought the boy inside, and a few minutes later he returned to the back deck, leaned heavily against the rail, and looked out into the night. She could see him in the amber light over his kitchen door. But she had her lights out; he couldn’t have seen her, hidden as she was behind the curtain.

Then he turned and looked over at her house, as though he knew she was watching. He looked at her house for a long, long time. And she knew that he wanted her to be quiet. And because Mack Holt reminded her of what it felt like to be young and in love, because he had shown her kindness when others couldn’t be bothered, she made a silent promise to him that she would take what she’d seen that night to her grave. And she would, even though Mack was gone now. She’d keep their secret, no matter who came calling.

When the police knocked on her door all those years ago, she’d told them that she’d seen a black sedan, that Marla Holt had gotten into it and ridden away. She had seen that, many times. The vehicle would come to a stop outside the house, and Marla would run outside and climb in, always dressed up pretty. Once she’d had a small valise. Claudia had seen that, just not the night Marla went missing.

Among all her secrets, her little bits of stored knowledge, this had been her most precious. Watching from her window as the lights went on inside the Holt house, lights she hadn’t seen burning in years, she knew that someone had discovered the truth. And she felt angry, bitter, as though something had been stolen from her.

She shut the blinds and went to bed.

chapter thirty-eight

THE HOLLOWS SUCKS. Willow wrote this in her notebook as Mr. Vance handed back their essays about A Separate Peace. She barely glanced at it as he put it on her desk. An A, of course.

“Nice work, Miss Graves.” She looked up at him, and he smiled at her, the way he used to. And she smiled back. He leaned in to whisper, tapping on her notebook, “It’s not that bad.”

They spent the rest of the class talking about the essay question. Willow stayed silent until the end, when Mr. Vance glanced in her direction.

“Willow wrote an extraordinary essay,” he said. “Would you care to share your thoughts about the book? You’re uncharacteristically silent today.”

Everybody was looking at her in the way they had been for the last couple of days. Everyone, it seemed, knew about her running away, falling into the Black River, being fished out by the police. They thought that she’d been chased by Michael Holt. (In fact it was only Jolie who claimed to have seen him. That’s why she was screaming. But Willow wasn’t sure it was true.) They’d really been chasing Jolie, trying to get her to come in from the rain.

In some rumors Michael Holt had confessed to Willow about murdering his mother. (She’d never even seen him. By the time her mother and Mr. Ivy got her back to the car, he’d been taken away already.) They all knew now that she’d been the one to see him digging in the Hollows Wood. They’d stopped sneering and laughing at her, for some reason. Everyone wanted to talk to her, to hear about that night in the woods. And Willow was happy to tell the tale for them. Finally she had something to say that was harrowing and extraordinary, and not a lie at all.

“I think Gene did knock Fin from the tree on purpose,” said Willow. “He bounced the branch.”

“But they were friends, best friends,” said Mr. Vance.

“True. But sometimes we hurt the people we love, and we do it because something inside us is hurting,” she said. “It doesn’t even have to do with the other person. Sometimes there’s just this ugly, unhappy place inside us. And everything bad-anger, jealousy, sadness-it all lives there.”

Mr. Vance was looking at her so intently that she almost stopped talking. Everyone was looking at her.

“Go on,” Mr. Vance said.

“And sometimes you go there-you live in that place. And when you’re there, you might do and say terrible things. Because things that are good and happy and bright seem ugly and cause you pain. You want to smash those things. You want other people to hurt, too. So you hurt them, even if you love them.”

“Very insightful, Willow,” said Mr. Vance.

She shrugged. “It’s just a book.” When she glanced up at him, he was smiling, but he still looked sad. She was sad, too. He was one of the people she had hurt, and they couldn’t be friends, not like they used to, anymore.

“Story is life, Miss Graves,” he said. She’d heard him say that a million times. She finally understood what he meant.

Out in the hallway after class, Cole was waiting for her. He took her backpack and walked her to her locker.

“How was class?” he asked.

She held up her essay.

“Brainiac,” he said. He leaned in to give her a kiss on the cheek. “Want a ride home?”

“I have to ask my mom,” she said. She gave him a roll of her eyes.

“So call her,” he said. “I’ll wait.”

“How was it today?” she asked him.

He shrugged, looked down at his feet. “Fine.” He wasn’t much of a talker.

It was his first day back at school since the night in the woods. His father had been arrested for embezzlement or something like that. And Cole had been reunited with his mother. They were both staying with his stepmother and his half siblings-which Willow thought must be the weirdest possible situation. She tried to imagine her and her mom living with Brenda the stripper. It would not be okay. But Cole seemed happy with it. His mom needed a place; he wanted to stay in The Hollows and be close to Claire and Cameron-and to Willow. So, for now, it worked. When his mom got a good job, they’d get their own place.

“Cole asked if he could give me a ride home,” she said when she reached her mom. The hall was thinning out, people heading to the buses. They started moving toward the door, in case she said no.

“Willow.”

“We’ll come straight there,” she said.

Willow had been sure she was going to be grounded for life after the woods. But instead she and Bethany had stayed up all that night talking. They talked about things they’d never really discussed-the night Willow first ran away in New York City, the lies she’d told that alienated all her friends, how lost she felt, and how much blame she had felt after Bethany’s divorce from Richard. She’d just wanted to disappear, not die, not end her life. She wanted to dissolve, be invisible. It was hard to explain, but her mother seemed to listen and understand.

When Willow had chased Jolie in the rain, trying to get her to come back to the car, she’d slipped and fallen into the water. And after the shock of the cold, panic set in. And as the water took her away from Cole and Jolie, who chased her through the trees and finally fell behind, she screamed for her mother.

In her frightened mind, she believed that her mother could always hear her when she called and would always come for her. That her mother was just like the mom in that story she loved. And she’d realized she believed that because it had always been true; her mom was always there. Even if she did invite Mr. Ivy to dinner. But she also believed that she had to stay close by for her mother to hear her. And Willow had strayed very far. Her mother couldn’t hear her calling for help.

And then her foot got stuck and she was pulled under. She didn’t remember much after that, except opening her eyes on the bank, seeing Jolie and Cole looking at her in horror like they thought she was dead.

She told her mother all this. And her mother, amazingly, didn’t cry. And because she didn’t, because she seemed strong, Willow told her about that dark, angry place she had inside sometimes. The place that helped her understand Gene in A Separate Peace. She’d been in that place when she was so mean to her mom at dinner with Mr. Ivy. She had never told anyone about that.

They went to see Dr. Cooper together the next day and talked to her about what had happened, how they could move forward together in a better way, what they could do to earn each other’s trust. Grounding for eternity was not on the list of things to do.

She was actually breaking one of her promises right now, by calling in to question a rule her mother had made. No riding in cars with boys.

“Sorry,” she said. “I’ll take the bus.”

“He can meet you here,” she said. “We’ll bake cookies.”

She was about to make some smart comment about how they weren’t three years old and cookie baking had lost its charm. But she didn’t. She still loved to bake cookies.

“I have to take the bus,” she said to Cole. She stuffed the phone into her bag. “She said you could come over.”

She felt that anxiety well up, that fear that he would think she was a giant dork and that he’d rather be with Jolie, who could go anywhere and do anything she wanted to do.

“Cool,” he said. “See you there.”

He read something on her face, gave her that quick, shy smile he had. “I’ll be there this time. Promise.”

And then he was gone. Mom thought he was too old for her. Next year he’d be a senior and she’d be a sophomore. Mom thought he had too many problems. He’s got a lot on his plate for a kid. His dad’s in jail. His mom is out of work. I don’t want his baggage to become yours. What did that even mean? And then, of course, there was the big talk about sex. And how Willow wasn’t ready, and how it was a special thing that she was too young to understand, and how she shouldn’t make the choice to share herself that way yet. And that she had to promise to talk to Bethany if she was thinking about it, and not to do anything until she did. How disgusting was it to talk to your mother about things like that? Anyway, Willow so wasn’t there. She didn’t even want to think about that.

“Are you going to have sex with Mr. Ivy?” Willow had asked. She drew out his name into a playful taunt.

“Willow!” Bethany had said. Bull’s-eye. Willow was off the hook. A high red blush lit up her mother’s face. “Please! That is so not your business.”

“Are you going to see him again?” she asked. Because that’s what she really wanted to know.

“At the moment we’re just friends.”

“But you like him like him, right? You don’t just friend like him.”

Honesty, that was the other promise. No secrets and half-truths. No lies. Her mother looked away. “Yes, I like him like him. But there’s no guarantee he feels the same way. Our first date did not exactly go seamlessly.”

“He likes you,” Willow said. “I can tell.”

“Whatever,” Bethany said. “Whatever it winds up being, it’s going to be very slow. So you don’t have anything to worry about. It’s not going to affect your life at all.”

Willow got on the bus and sat in the back. She put her earbuds in and listened to Lady Gaga as the bus wound its way home. They passed the silver-gray pond surrounded by trees losing their leaves. And the sky above was blue with high white clouds, and the light was already going golden. The days were growing short. As the bus pulled to a stop in front of her drive, a flock of birds startled and fluttered noisily away. When she stepped outside and the bus pulled away, she was left with that silence she’d grown to appreciate and the smell of pine, somewhere the scent of burning wood. Maybe Mr. Vance was right. The Hollows wasn’t that bad.

chapter thirty-nine

Jones was behind on the leaves. The lawn was almost covered with them. Maggie wanted him to get a leaf blower, but he liked the exercise of raking. Going to the gym and logging miles on a machine seemed like a waste of time. Everyone was pounding away on some piece of equipment, staring at a television screen, with headphones in ears. That couldn’t be healthy, could it? At least when he was raking, he was outside, taking in the air, accomplishing something. But it seemed like he’d been raking for hours. And he hadn’t even scratched the surface.

To his dismay and annoyance, the mourning doves had made a nest in the upper corner of the porch roof. He’d heard them cooing when he came out to get the paper and looked up to see them nestled together in a small pile of twigs and scraps of newspaper on a little ledge that Jones hadn’t even noticed before.

“Oh, leave them,” said Maggie. “They’re so cute, and it’s going to be cold this winter. Maybe we should hang a bird feeder.”

“No,” he said. “No way. They have to go.”

“Don’t be such an old crank.”

“They carry lice, you know.”

“Oh, Jones.”

Now the doves sat on the rail, cuddling together, looking sweet. They knew they had Maggie on their side, didn’t they? If he got rid of their nest while they were out doing their mourning-dove things, he’d be in trouble. He leaned his rake against the tree, dropped his gloves on the ground, and walked inside through the garage so that he wouldn’t have to walk past those smug little birds. He’d find a nice way to relocate them, just move the nest somewhere. Maybe when Maggie was over at her mother’s later.

Inside, on the old table in the kitchen sat a copy of the Hollows Gazette. There was an article in there about the discovery of Marla Holt’s remains. He’d been mentioned in the article as the retired cop-turned-private investigator. He didn’t know where the reporter had gotten her information. The phone started ringing a couple of hours after the paper hit the driveways. There was no mention in the article of the circumstances under which Jones had retired. And it seemed that no one remembered or cared.

Maggie had been taking messages. A woman wanted to find her sister who had been missing since 1985. A man wanted his wife followed-you know, just to be sure she was faithful. There were a couple of others-someone wanted a background check on his daughter’s boyfriend. One lady’s dog had run away, and could he help? PI work was not glamorous.

“I told you you’d be surprised,” Maggie had said after he’d read through the stack.

“I’m not taking jobs like that,” he’d said.

“Jobs like what?”

“You know, following cheating spouses, checking up on boyfriends, tailing people collecting Workers’ Comp. That’s lower than I’m willing to go.”

Maggie put her hand on his face, delivered a kiss to his forehead. “Just do what moves you.”

Holding the newspaper in his hand, he thought about that sentence. What moved him? He wasn’t sure he knew. Rather, he wasn’t sure he could put it into words. He figured he’d know it when he found it.

A couple of hours later, he was in Dr. Dahl’s office running down the week’s events.

“So I guess we know what phase two is,” said the doctor. “Is private-investigative work where you want to put your energies?”

Jones picked up on something from the doctor. Was it disappointment?

“Is there something wrong with that?” he asked.

“No,” said Dr. Dahl. “Of course not. I just wondered if there was anything else you wanted to look at. You haven’t made any firm decisions. We’d talked about woodworking.”

Somehow Jones just couldn’t see himself making bookshelves for a living. It’s not like he had some drive to be a designer or any real passion for it. He had some native ability, enjoyed working with his hands. But it wasn’t something that fascinated him, not in the same way that police work had. He told the doctor as much.

“Well, good,” he said. He smoothed out his perfectly creased charcoal slacks, fixed Jones with a warm smile. “Passion is important. I just wonder if it’s not the darkness of it all that calls you, Jones.”

Jones didn’t know what to say to that. Something about it smarted, made him feel the rise of that anger.

“It’s gritty work,” the doctor said. “There’s danger. You said yourself you could have died.”

“But I didn’t,” he said. “I saved that girl. If I hadn’t freed her foot, she would have drowned. That means something to me.”

“Of course it does,” said the doctor. “Of course.”

Since the night of his near drowning, the nightmares had ceased. He hadn’t been waking up sweating, yelling, gasping for air in a full week. Maggie had moved back into the bedroom and stayed the whole night. He wouldn’t say that he’d conquered his fear of death; it was a specter that lingered. It snuck up on him when he least expected, and he’d be struck wondering, what would it be? A slip in the shower? A car accident? Murder? Maybe he would be murdered by someone like that psycho Kevin Carr. But then it would pass. It was a specter that lingered for everyone, wasn’t it?

Maybe the night terrors would come back. But maybe they wouldn’t, now that he knew what he was supposed to be doing with his life. He was meant to be helping people-and not just checking their mail and watering their plants. He knew that as surely as he knew anything. And the fact that he knew with such clarity made him think that maybe, after all, there was something larger than himself. Maybe.

“When last you were here, we talked about your father,” said Dr. Dahl. He was apparently looking to pick at some scabs. Maybe Jones seemed too happy today. The doctor was afraid he’d be out of a job. “Have you done any thinking about that?”

“Some,” Jones said. “I’ve thought about it some.”

He had thought about it some. But he wasn’t ready to talk to the doctor or anyone about it, not even Mags.

“Would you care to share your thoughts?”

Jones looked at the clock. “I think our time is up, Doc,” he said. It was up-a little over, in fact.

“Ah, yes,” said Dr. Dahl. “Next week, then.”

“Definitely.”

At the reception desk, he paid his bill. As he waited for his receipt, Jones watched some other guy about his age walk into Dr. Dahl’s office. He wondered what that guy’s problem was. He looked depressed.

Jones had promised his wife that he’d keep seeing Dr. Dahl, and he would. He knew it helped him, kept him thinking about and working on the things that he might otherwise avoid. Maggie needed that, deserved that, and so did he. And more than that, Maggie was hot for him right now. She was digging the whole PI thing. She was proud of him for staying in therapy. She was sleeping in their bedroom. She wasn’t mad at him, had stopped giving him the look. She was a smart woman, and he’d do what she wanted. If he knew what was good for him.

Out in the car, he reached over to the file he’d left on the passenger seat. He’d written the name on the protruding tag: Jefferson Cooper.

It had taken him only a couple of hours to find his father. All these years, and all he had to do was pick up a phone. He dug through some of Abigail’s old papers and found his father’s Social Security number. Jones gave Jack a call at noon, and by three that afternoon he had an address, credit and employment history. He hadn’t decided what he was going to do with that. He hadn’t allowed himself to have a memory of his father-ever. Maggie had suggested once that he try to think of three good memories he had of the time he, his father, and his mother were all together. Every time he did this, he felt that headache come on, had the urge to run for the nearest burger joint, anesthetize himself with fat and simple carbs. He’d be taking his time with this. He wasn’t sure what he was going to do.

When he got back to the house, the sun was already low in the sky. The days were getting shorter. Ricky’s car was waiting in the driveway. Ricky would be home tomorrow. They’d already made plans to go look at a new stereo for the car, something the kid wanted for Christmas. Jones knew that it would probably be their only time together. Ricky would be seeing his friends who were home for the weekend, too, including Charlene, his son’s on-again, off-again girlfriend. At the moment they were only friends. She made Jones nervous, for a lot of reasons. Too much history there, like everything in The Hollows. Everything was tangled and connected across years and families. He wanted Ricky to get away, not be tethered here to this place as he was, as Maggie was now because of Jones.

Anyway, he’d make his time with Ricky count. He’d talk, wouldn’t get all tongue-tied and silent. He’d written some things down, questions to ask about MyFace, and e-mail, texting, too. He’d ask about Rick’s music. Did he find a band? And what were his favorite classes? Had he met any girls? Maggie had helped him come up with some topics. And listen when he talks. Try not to do any lecturing, even if you don’t agree with what he says.

On the porch he stopped to look up at the mourning doves. They both sat in their perch and stared at him. One of them issued an annoyed little chirp.

“Okay, fine,” he said. “One more night.”

He went inside. There was music playing, something classical (slow and depressing), maybe Chopin? He followed the sound and found Maggie in the kitchen, cooking-a rarity since Ricky had left home. She was making lasagna, their son’s favorite.

“My last patient canceled today,” she said when he walked in. “I thought I’d do something special, since Rick is coming home tomorrow.” She’d been better about calling him that; their son didn’t like “Ricky” anymore.

He walked up behind her and wrapped his arms around her, took in the scent of her hair, lavender and sage. And in the warmth of his own kitchen, with his wife in his arms, his son on his way home, his calling acknowledged if not exactly answered, Jones Cooper felt good. He felt alive, and grateful for it.

“Another call came in while you were out,” she said. “Eloise Montgomery.”

“Oh?” The sound of her name stirred something in him. It wasn’t anxiety, exactly. But it was something close.

“She asked if you’d return her call. In fact, what she said precisely was, ‘Will you ask him to please call, if he is so moved?’ ”

What had the doctor said? I just wonder if it’s not the darkness of it all that calls you, Jones. The doctor was right. The darkness did call to him, didn’t it? And he would answer. He spun his wife around and kissed her gently on the mouth. But he wouldn’t answer tonight.