Down the Darkest Road

5

“I can’t believe I said yes to this,” Lauren muttered.

“You don’t have to go if you don’t want to,” Leah said, sulky. “I could just go with them.”

Lauren glanced over at her daughter in the passenger’s seat. “I’m supposed to send you off with people I have never met before just now, people I know nothing about?” she said with an unmistakable edge of anger in her voice.

“Anne’s husband used to work for the FBI.”

“Forgive me if that doesn’t impress me,” Lauren said, staring at the back of Anne Leone’s minivan as they made their way back to town. She paid no attention to the scenery—the horse farms, the lavender farm, the roadside vegetable stand that also sold miniature bonsai trees.

“Do you know how many FBI agents I’ve dealt with in the last four years?” she asked. “Did any of them bring your sister home? Did they do one thing to put Roland Ballencoa behind bars?”

Leah didn’t answer. She looked down at her hands in her lap. Finally she said, “You should have just said no.”

“You don’t want to go now?”

“I want to go.”

“You don’t want me to go.”

“Not if you’re just going to be pissed off the whole time.”

Lauren sighed. What was she supposed to say? Was she supposed to tell her daughter that she was on edge because she had imagined she’d seen Roland Ballencoa in Pavilions today? Or that she’d lost her mind and rammed her shopping cart into a total stranger? That she’d chased Ballencoa through the streets of Oak Knoll, or that she’d been pulled over by a cop who probably should have taken her driver’s license away from her?

None of those seemed like good choices or information she should share with her fifteen-year-old. As a single parent she thought she should try to present some semblance of sanity to her child, to give her some sense of stability. She wanted those same things for herself. Maybe pretending to be normal would help toward that end, even if the idea of dinner with other people was the last thing she really wanted.

Think of your daughter, Lauren. She deserves a normal life.

“I promise not to embarrass you,” she said at last.

From the corner of her eye she could see that Leah was neither convinced nor happy, and it made her feel guilty on top of all the other shitty emotions she was drowning in.

“I’m glad you’re making a friend in Wendy,” she said. “She seems like a nice girl.”

What she actually wanted to say was, Who the hell is Wendy Morgan, who are her parents, what’s their story? And on the heels of that, she hoped to God they served alcohol at this pizza parlor.

“She is,” Leah said.

“Will she be in your classes at school?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“She’s younger than me.”

“That’s too bad.”

Still looking at her lap, Leah barely lifted one slender shoulder to shrug. She was tall, like her father, and willowy, with legs that went on forever. The boys of Oak Knoll were going to follow her around like puppies—not that Leah would enjoy that. She was almost painfully shy—so unlike her older sister. By fifteen, Leslie had already mastered the art of tying boys around her little finger and dancing them around like puppets.

“Are you going to pout all through dinner?” Lauren asked. “Because that will be almost as pleasant as me being pissed off. Maybe we could do both and really make a good impression on people we’ve never met before.”

No bite from the sullen teenager.

If only I hadn’t lost my mind in the supermarket, Lauren thought. She would have purchased the poached salmon and the orzo salad, and she would have had a valid excuse to say no to dinner out. They could be on their way home right now, and she would be free to spend the evening fretting and obsessing.

She followed Anne Leone’s minivan into the parking lot of the same shopping center as the Pavilions store that had been the scene of her first crime of the day.

Great. If she was really lucky, the people who worked the afternoon shift at the supermarket moonlighted at the pizza place. She could only hope she had run into the ladies’ room so quickly they hadn’t gotten a good look at her earlier in the day.

And then she could cap off the evening by seeing Ballencoa eating a calzone across the room.

She took a slightly shaky deep breath as she got out of the car and followed her daughter to the restaurant.

Leah and Wendy went in with the Leone children and headed straight for the kids’ playroom on the far side of Marco’s, where half a dozen other children were enjoying the jungle gym and the coin-operated rides. Lauren watched them go, wishing she could follow, dreading that she was now left alone with someone she would have to explain herself to.

The restaurant smelled like an Italian heaven. Tomato sauce and oregano. The décor was exposed brick, red leatherette booths, and long family-style tables set across a field of dark green tile. A Dodgers game was playing on several big-screen televisions stationed around the main room.

The place was busy and noisy. Lauren scanned the faces. No Ballencoa. This was the first place in town she hadn’t imagined seeing him today. Maybe her spell of crazy was wearing off.

“So what do you do for a living, Lauren?” Anne Leone asked as they claimed a large corner booth.

“I’m an interior decorator.”

“That’s great. Will you be opening a shop here in town?”

“No,” she said, then realized the rules of conversation dictated that she offer a little more than a monosyllable. “I’m taking some time off.”

“Giving yourself some time to settle in. That’s nice. This is such a great place to enjoy the summer. We’ve got the music festival coming up, and the art fair in the fall. Although I guess it’s hard to beat Santa Barbara.”

Lauren tried a smile, knowing it probably looked like she had a lip full of Novocain. “We needed a change of scenery.”

The waitress interrupted with menus and to take drink orders. Anne Leone ordered ginger ale for herself and her kids, and a Coke for Wendy. Lauren ordered a Coke for Leah, then hesitated.

“They feature wines from the local vineyards here,” Anne said. “If you’re a wine lover, I recommend them. I’d have a glass of the Merlot myself, but I’m not allowed. I found out a few weeks ago baby number two is on the way.”

“Number two?” Lauren asked, confused.

“Haley is adopted. Have the Merlot.”

“I’ll have the Merlot,” Lauren told the waitress. She felt an almost embarrassing sense of relief. She glanced at Anne. “Do I look like I need it?”

“Not at all,” Anne said with a smile that was maybe just a little too kind, too understanding.

Lauren figured she had ten years on Anne Leone, but there was something in Anne’s dark eyes that spoke of wisdom won at the cost of hard experience. She had a story too.

Lauren found a certain comfort in the reminder that she wasn’t the only person to ever go through hell. That road was well traveled.

Anne ordered a big salad for the table and requested extra garlic bread.

“I’ll give up wine for now, but no one is going to stop me from eating garlic bread,” she joked. “I don’t care if I’m as big as a house by the time this baby comes.”

Lauren chuckled. “For me it was chocolate chip ice cream. I couldn’t get enough. More so with Leslie than with Leah.”

The reminder was bittersweet. What an insanely happy time that had been—her pregnancy with Leslie. Lance had been over the moon to become a father, and he had doted on Lauren and catered to her every whim.

As ecstatic as he had been to become a father, he had been equally devastated by the loss of their daughter. For both of them it had been like falling from the highest peak of the highest mountain and plunging into the deepest, darkest crevasse.

“I know about your missing daughter,” Anne admitted quietly. “Wendy mentioned it, but Vince and I followed the case in the news when it happened. I’m so sorry, Lauren. As a mother, I can’t even begin to imagine how terrible that must be.”

Lauren glanced away, uncomfortable. There was never any way of avoiding this conversation, and she never became more comfortable having it.

“But I do know what it is to be the victim of a violent crime,” Anne went on. “I know the sense of helplessness and anger that brings. I work with a victims’ group at the Thomas Center for Women—”

Lauren shook her head and raised a hand to stave off the rest. She wanted to get up and run away. “No, no. No, thank you. I don’t play well with others.”

“Fair enough,” Anne said. “I’m not trying to push. I just want you to know that if you need to talk or you need a connection in the system here, please don’t hesitate to call me. It’s what I do, it’s what I know.”

She fished a business card out of her purse and slid it across the table. “End of spiel. I promise. What kind of pizza do you like?”

Lauren picked up the card and looked at it to avoid having to make eye contact. Anne Leone: child psychologist, victim counselor, and court-appointed special advocate. Busy lady.

“I don’t mean to be rude,” she murmured.

Anne shook her head, unfazed. “You’re not rude. You’re dealing with a nasty load of crap as best you can. Believe me, I get it.”

“Thank you for the offer.”

“You’re welcome. It stands,” Anne said as the waitress brought their drinks. “Try that wine. If you decide you want another, I’ll drive you home.”

Lauren laughed. “Most therapists don’t recommend self-medicating.”

Anne shrugged. “Two glasses of wine never killed anybody. And I’m not most therapists. You seem on edge. That’s not a fun place to be.”

“It’s been a long day,” Lauren admitted. She wondered what the psychologist would have to say if she related her afternoon’s drama. Anne Leone would probably write her a prescription for a long stay in a padded room.

She took a sip of the wine. It was warm and velvety on her tongue, and went down as smooth as silk. She looked to the playroom to see Leah and Wendy laughing at the antics of Anne’s little boy as he danced around in a sea of large, colorful plastic balls.

“That’s nice to see,” she said. “Leah hasn’t found a lot to smile about lately.”

“That’s a tough age to move,” Anne said. “I’m sure she misses her friends. But she’s found a good new friend in Wendy.

“Wendy’s been through a lot in the last few years too,” Anne explained. “I was her fifth-grade teacher. She and several of her classmates stumbled onto a murder victim. It was a rough time that opened a Pandora’s box of trouble. She lost her best friend. She was attacked by another student. Her parents ended up getting divorced.”

“That sounds like a lot of damage done,” Lauren said.

“No doubt about that. And it’s hard for kids who have gone through these kinds of things. All they want is to be like everyone else their age, but they’re not. They’ve had experiences other kids can’t understand or relate to.”

“I feel the same way,” Lauren confessed. “And I’m forty-two.”

“You belong to a club nobody wants to join.”

“The dues suck,” she pointed out.

“And there are no benefits,” Anne added.

“Aren’t we lucky?” Lauren said, giving a little toast with her glass.

“Speaking for myself,” Anne said, “yes. My alternative was to be dead. I’d rather be a live victim than a dead one. At least there’s room for things to improve.”

And I’d rather be dead if it meant bringing Leslie home safe, Lauren thought, but didn’t say. She’d shared enough for one night.