The Boy from the Woods

Chapter One April 23, 2020

How does she survive?

How does she manage to get through this torment every single day?

Day after day. Week after week. Year after year.

She sits in the school assembly hall, her eyes fixed, unseeing, unblinking. Her face is stone, a mask. She doesn’t look left or right. She doesn’t move at all.

She just stares straight ahead.

She is surrounded by classmates, including Matthew, but she doesn’t look at any of them. She doesn’t talk to any of them either, though that doesn’t stop them from talking to her. The boys — Ryan, Crash (yes, that’s his real name), Trevor, Carter — keep calling her names, harshly whispering awful things, jeering at her, laughing with scorn. They throw things at her. Paper clips. Rubber bands. Flick snot from their noses. They put small pieces of paper in their mouths, wad the paper into wet balls, propel them in various ways at her.

When the paper sticks to her hair, they laugh some more.

The girl — her name is Naomi — doesn’t move. She doesn’t try to pull the wads of paper out of her hair. She just stares straight ahead. Her eyes are dry. Matthew could remember a time, two or three years ago, when her eyes would moisten during these ceaseless, unrelenting, daily taunts.

But not anymore.

Matthew watches. He does nothing.

The teachers, numb to this by now, barely notice. One wearily calls out, “Okay, Crash, that’s enough,” but neither Crash nor any of the others give the warning the slightest heed.

Meanwhile Naomi just takes it.

Matthew should do something to stop the bullying. But he doesn’t. Not anymore. He tried once.

It did not end well.

Matthew tries to remember when it all started to go wrong for Naomi. She had been a happy kid in elementary school. Always smiling, that’s what he remembered. Yeah, her clothes were hand-me-downs and she didn’t wash her hair enough. Some of the girls made mild fun of her for that. But it had been okay until that day she got violently ill and threw up in Mrs. Walsh’s class, fourth grade, just projectile vomit ricocheting off the classroom linoleum, the wet brown chips splashing on Kim Rogers and Taylor Russell, the smell so bad, so rancid, that Mrs. Walsh had to clear the classroom, all the kids, Matthew one of them, and send them all out to the kickball field holding their noses and making pee-uw sounds.

And after that, nothing had been the same for Naomi.

Matthew always wondered about that. Had she not felt well that morning? Did her father — her mom was already out of the picture by then — make her go to school? If Naomi had just stayed home that day, would it all have gone differently for her? Was her throwing-up her sliding door moment, or was it inevitable that she would end up traveling down this rough, dark, torturous path?

Another spitball sticks in her hair. More name-calling. More cruel jeers.

Naomi sits there and waits for it to end.

End for now, at least. For today maybe. She has to know that it won’t end for good. Not today. Not tomorrow. The torment never stops for very long. It is her constant companion.

How does she survive?

Some days, like today, Matthew really pays attention and wants to do something.

Most days, he doesn’t. The bullying still happens on those days, of course, but it is so frequent, so customary, it becomes background noise. Matthew had learned an awful truth: You grow immune to cruelty. It becomes the norm. You accept it. You move on.

Has Naomi just accepted it too? Has she grown immune to it?

Matthew doesn’t know. But she’s there, every day, sitting in the last row in class, the first row at assembly, at a corner table all alone in the cafeteria.

Until one day — a week after this assembly — she’s not there.

One day, Naomi vanishes.

And Matthew needs to know why.

Chapter Two

The hipster pundit said, “This guy should be in prison, no questions asked.”

On live television, Hester Crimstein was about to counterpunch when she spotted what looked like her grandson in her peripheral vision. It was hard to see through the studio lights, but it sure as hell looked like Matthew.

“Whoa, strong words,” said the show’s host, a once-cute prepster whose main debate technique was to freeze a baffled expression on his face, as though his guests were idiots no matter how much sense they made. “Any response, Hester?”

Matthew’s appearance — it had to be him — had thrown her.

“Hester?”

Not a good time to let the mind wander, she reminded herself. Focus.

“You’re gross,” Hester said.

“Pardon?”

“You heard me.” She aimed her notorious withering gaze at Hipster Pundit. “Gross.”

Why is Matthew here?

Her grandson had never come to her work unannounced before — not to her office, not to a courtroom, and not to the studio.

“Care to elaborate?” Prepster Host asked.

“Sure,” Hester said. The fiery glare stayed on Hipster Pundit. “You hate America.”

“What?”

“Seriously,” Hester continued, throwing her hands up in the air, “why should we have a court system at all? Who needs it? We have public opinion, don’t we? No trial, no jury, no judge — let the Twitter mob decide.”

Hipster Pundit sat up a little straighter. “That’s not what I said.”

“It’s exactly what you said.”

“There’s evidence, Hester. A very clear video.”

“Ooo, a video.” She wiggled her fingers as though she were talking about a ghost. “So again: No need for a judge or jury. Let’s just have you, as benevolent leader of the Twitter mob—”

“I’m not—”

“Hush, I’m talking. Oh, I’m sorry, I forget your name. I keep calling you Hipster Pundit in my head, so can I just call you Chad?” He opened his mouth, but Hester pushed on. “Great. Tell me, Chad, what’s a fitting punishment for my client, do you think? I mean, since you’re going to pronounce guilt or innocence, why not also do the sentencing for us?”

“My name” — he pushed his hipster glasses up his nose — “is Rick. And we all saw the video. Your client punched a man in the face.”

“Thanks for that analysis. You know what would be helpful, Chad?”

“It’s Rick.”

“Rick, Chad, whatever. What would be helpful, super helpful really, would be if you and your mob just made all the decisions for us. Think of the time we’d save. We just post a video on social media and declare guilt or innocence from the replies. Thumbs-up or thumbs-down. There’d be no need for witnesses or testimony or evidence. Just Judge Rick Chad here.”

Hipster Pundit’s face was turning red. “We all saw what your rich client did to that poor man.”

Prepster Host stepped in: “Before we continue, let’s show the video again for those just tuning in.”

Hester was about to protest, but they’d already shown the video countless times, would show it countless more times, and her voicing any opposition would be both ineffective and only make her client, a well-to-do financial consultant named Simon Greene, appear even more guilty.

More important, Hester could use the few seconds with the camera off her to check on Matthew.

The viral video — four million views and counting — had been recorded on a tourist’s iPhone in Central Park. On the screen, Hester’s client Simon Greene, wearing a perfectly tailored suit with a perfectly Windsored Hermès tie, cocked his fist and smashed it into the face of a threadbare, disheveled young man who, Hester knew, was a drug addict named Aaron Corval.

Blood gushed from Corval’s nose.

The image was irresistibly Dickensian — Mr. Rich Privileged Guy, completely unprovoked, sucker-punches Poor Street Urchin.

Hester quickly craned her neck toward Matthew and tried, through the haze of the studio spotlights, to meet his eye. She was a frequent legal expert on cable news, and two nights a week, “famed defense attorney” Hester Crimstein had her own segment on this very network called Crimstein on Crime, though her name was not pronounced Crime-Rhymes-with-Prime-Stine, but rather Krim-Rhymes-with-Prim-Steen, but the alliteration was still considered “television friendly” and the title looked good on the bottom scroll, so the network ran with it.

Her grandson stood in the shadows. Hester could see that Matthew was wringing his hands, just like his father used to do, and she felt a pang so deep in her chest that for a moment she couldn’t breathe. She considered quickly crossing the room and asking Matthew why he was here, but the punch video was already over and Hipster Rick Chad was foaming at the mouth.

“See?” Spittle flew out of his mouth and found a home in his beard. “It’s clear as day. Your rich client attacked a homeless man for no reason.”

“You don’t know what went on before that tape rolled.”

“It makes no difference.”

“Sure it does. That’s why we have a system of justice, so that vigilantes like you don’t irresponsibly call for mob violence against an innocent man.”

“Whoa, no one said anything about mob violence.”

“Sure you did. Own it already. You want my client, a father of three with no record, in prison right now. No trial, nothing. Come on, Rick Chad, let your inner fascist out.” Hester banged the desk, startling Prepster Host, and began to chant: “Lock him up, lock him up.”

“Cut that out!”

“Lock him up!”

The chant was getting to him, his face turning scarlet. “That’s not what I meant at all. You’re intentionally exaggerating.”

“Lock him up!”

“Stop that. No one is saying that.”

Hester had something of a gift for mimicry. She often used it in the courtroom to subtly if not immaturely undermine a prosecutor. Doing her best impression of Rick Chad, she repeated his earlier words verbatim: “This guy should be in prison, no questions asked.”

“That will be up to a court of law,” Hipster Rick Chad said, “but maybe if a man acts like this, if he punches people in the face in broad daylight, he deserves to be canceled and lose his job.”

“Why? Because you and Deplorable-Dental-Hygienist and Nail-Da-Ladies-69 on Twitter say so? You don’t know the situation. You don’t even know if the tape is real.”

Prepster Host arched an eyebrow over that one. “Are you saying the video is fake?”

“Could be, sure. Look, I had another client. Someone photoshopped her smiling face next to a dead giraffe and said she was the hunter who killed it. An ex-husband did that for revenge. Can you imagine the hate and bullying she received?”

The story wasn’t true — Hester had made it up — but it could be true, and sometimes that was enough.

“Where is your client Simon Greene right now?” Hipster Rick Chad asked.

“What does that have to do with anything?”

“He’s home, right? Out on bail?”

“He’s an innocent man, a fine man, a caring man—”

“And a rich man.”

“Now you want to get rid of our bail system?”

“A rich white man.”

“Listen, Rick Chad, I know you’re all ‘woke’ and stuff, what with the cool beard and the hipster beanie — is that a Kangol? — but your use of race and your easy answers are as bad as the other side’s use of race and easy answers.”

“Wow, deflecting using ‘both sides.’”

“No, sonny, that’s not both sides, so listen up. What you don’t see is, you and those you hate? You are quickly becoming one and the same.”

“Reverse this around,” Rick Chad said. “If Simon Greene was poor and black and Aaron Corval was rich and white—”

“They’re both white. Don’t make this about race.”

“It’s always about race, but fine. If the guy in rags hit the rich white man in a suit, he wouldn’t have Hester Crimstein defending him. He’d be in jail right now.”

Hmm, Hester thought. She had to admit Rick Chad had a pretty good point there.

Prepster Host said, “Hester?”

Time was running out in the segment, so Hester threw up her hands and said, “If Rick Chad is arguing I’m a great attorney, who am I to disagree?”

That drew laughs.

“And that’s all the time we have for now. Coming up next, the latest controversy surrounding upstart presidential candidate Rusty Eggers. Is Rusty pragmatic or cruel? Is he really the most dangerous man in America? Stay with us.”

Hester pulled out the earpiece and unclipped the microphone. They were already headed to commercial break when she rose and crossed the room toward Matthew. He was so tall now, again like his father, and another pang struck hard.

Hester said, “Your mother...?”

“She’s fine,” Matthew said. “Everyone is okay.”

Hester couldn’t help it. She threw her arms around the probably embarrassed teen, wrapping him in a bear hug, though she was barely five two and he had almost a foot on her. More and more she saw the echoes of the father in the son. Matthew hadn’t looked much like David when he was little, when his father was still alive, but now he did — the posture, the walk, the hand wringing, the crinkle of the forehead — and it all broke her heart anew. It shouldn’t, of course. It should, in fact, offer some measure of comfort for Hester, seeing her dead son’s echo in his boy, like some small part of David survived the crash and still lives on. But instead, these ghostly glimmers rip at her, tear the wounds wide open, even after all these years, and Hester wondered whether the pain was worth it, whether it was better to feel this pain than feel nothing. The question was a rhetorical one, of course. She had no choice and would want it no other way — feeling nothing or someday being “over it” would be the worst betrayal of all.

So she held her grandson and squeezed her eyes shut. The teen patted her back, almost as though he were humoring her.

“Nana?”

That was what he called her. Nana. “You’re really okay?”

“I’m fine.”

Matthew’s skin was browner than his father’s. His mother, Laila, was black, which made Matthew black too or a person of color or biracial or whatever. Age was no excuse, but Hester, who was in her seventies but told everyone she stopped counting at sixty-nine — go ahead, make a joke, she’d heard them all — found it hard to keep track of the evolving terminology.

“Where’s your mother?” Hester asked.

“At work, I guess.”

“What’s the matter?” Hester asked.

“There’s this girl in school,” Matthew said.

“What about her?”

“She’s missing, Nana. I want you to help.”

Chapter Three

“Her name is Naomi Pine,” Matthew said.

They were in the backseat of Hester’s Cadillac Escalade. Matthew had taken the hour-long train ride in from Westville, changing at the Frank Lautenberg Station in Secaucus, but Hester figured that it would be easier and smarter to drive him back to Westville. She hadn’t been out to visit in a month, much too long, and so she could both help her distraught grandson with his problem and spend some time with him and his mom, killing the allegorical two birds with one stone, which was a really violent and weird image when you stopped and thought about it. You throw a stone and kill two birds — and this is a good thing?

Look at me, throwing a stone at a beautiful bird. Why? Why would a person do such a thing? I don’t know. I guess I’m a psychopath, and whoa — I hit two birds somehow! Yay! Two dead birds!

“Nana?”

“This Naomi,” Hester said, pushing the silly inner rant away. “She’s your friend?”

Matthew shrugged as only a teenager can. “I’ve known her since we were, like, six.”

Not a direct answer, but she’d allow it.

“How long has she been missing?”

“For, like, a week.”

Like, six. Like, a week. It drove Hester crazy — the “likes,” the “you-knows” — but now was hardly the time.

“Did you try to call her?”

“I don’t know her phone number.”

“Are the police looking for her?”

Teenage shrug.

“Did you talk to her parents?”

“She lives with her dad.”

“Did you speak to her dad?”

He made a face as though that was the most ridiculous thing imaginable.

“So how do you know she’s not sick? Or away on vacation or something?”

No reply.

“What makes you think she’s missing?”

Matthew just stared out the window. Tim, Hester’s longtime driver, veered the Escalade off Route 17 and into the heart of Westville, New Jersey, less than thirty miles from Manhattan. The Ramapo Mountains, which are actually part of the Appalachians in every way, rose into view. The memories, as they have a habit of doing, swarmed in and stung.

Someone once told Hester that memories hurt, the good ones most of all. As she got older, Hester realized just how true that was.

Hester and her late husband, Ira — gone now seven years — had raised three boys in the “mountain suburb” (that’s what they called it) of Westville, New Jersey. Their oldest son, Jeffrey, was now a DDS in Los Angeles and on his fourth wife, a real estate agent named Sandy. Sandy was the first of Jeffrey’s wives who hadn’t been an inappropriately younger dental hygienist in his office. Progress, Hester hoped. Their middle son, Eric, like his father before him, worked in the nebulous world of finance — Hester could never understand what either man, her husband or son, actually did, something with moving piles of money from A to B to facilitate C. Eric and his wife, Stacey, had three boys, aged two years apart, just as Hester and Ira had done. The family had recently moved down to Raleigh, North Carolina, which seemed all the rage nowadays.

Their youngest son — and truth be told, Hester’s favorite — had been Matthew’s father, David.

Hester asked Matthew, “What time will your mom be home?”

His mother, Laila, like grandmother Hester, worked at a major law firm, though she specialized in family law. She’d started her career as Hester’s associate during summers while attending Columbia Law School. That was how Laila had first met Hester’s son.

Laila and David had fallen in love pretty much right away. They’d gotten married. They had a son named Matthew.

“I don’t know,” Matthew said. “Want me to text her?”

“Sure.”

“Nana?”

“What, hon?”

“Don’t tell Mom about this.”

“About...?”

“About Naomi.”

“Why not?”

“Just don’t, okay?”

“Okay.”

“Promise?”

“Stop it,” Hester said with a little snap that he needed her to say this. Then, more gently: “I promise. Of course, I promise.”

Matthew fiddled with his phone as Tim made the familiar right turn, then left, then two more rights. They were on a storybook cul-de-sac called Downing Lane now. Up ahead was the grand log-cabin-style home Hester and Ira had built forty-two years ago. It was the home where she and Ira raised Jeffrey, Eric, and David, and then, fifteen years ago, with their sons grown, Hester and Ira decided that it was time to leave Westville. They’d loved their home in the foothills of the Ramapo Mountains, Ira more than Hester because, God help her, Ira was an outdoorsman who loved hiking and fishing and all those things that men named Ira Crimstein were not supposed to like. But it had been their time to move on. Towns like Westville are meant for raising children. You get married, you move out from the city, you have a few babies, you go to their soccer games and dance recitals, you get overly emotional at their graduations and commencements, they go to college, they visit and sleep in late, and then they stop doing even that and you’re alone and really, like any life cycle, it’s time to put this behind you, sell the house to another young couple who move out from the city to have a few babies, and start anew.

There was nothing for you in towns like Westville when you got older — and there was nothing wrong with that.

So Hester and Ira did indeed move on. They found an apartment on Riverside Drive on the Upper West Side of Manhattan facing the Hudson River. They loved it. For almost thirty years they had commuted on that same train Matthew had taken today, changing in Hoboken back in those days, and now, in their advancing years, to be able to wake up and walk or quickly subway to work was heaven.

Hester and Ira relished living in New York City.

As for the old mountain home on Downing Lane, they ended up selling it to their son David and his wonderful wife, Laila, who’d just had their first child — Matthew. Hester thought that it might be odd for David, living in the same house he’d grown up in, but he claimed that it would be the perfect place to start and raise a family of his own. He and Laila did an entire renovation, putting their own stamp on the house, making the interior almost unrecognizable to Hester and Ira during their visits out here.

Matthew was still staring down at his phone. She touched his knee. He looked up.

“Did you do something?” she asked.

“What?”

“With Naomi.”

He shook his head. “I didn’t do anything. That’s the problem.”

Tim pulled to a stop in her old driveway at her old house. The memories didn’t bother swarming anymore — they just full-on assaulted. Tim put the car in park and turned to look at her. Tim had been with her for nearly two decades, since he’d first immigrated from the Balkans. So he knew. He met her eye. She gave him the slightest of nods to let him know that she’d be okay.

Matthew had already thanked Tim and gotten out. Hester reached for the door handle, but Tim stopped her with a throat clear. Hester rolled her eyes and waited while Tim, a big slab of a man, rolled his way out of his seat into a standing position and opened the door for her. It was a completely unnecessary gesture, but Tim felt insulted when Hester opened the door on her own, and really, she fought enough battles every day, thank you very much.

“Not sure how long we’ll be,” she said to Tim.

His accent remained thick. “I’ll be here.”

Matthew had opened the front door of the house and left it ajar. Hester shared one more look with Tim before walking up the cobblestone path — the same one she and Ira installed themselves over a weekend thirty-three years ago — and heading inside the home. She closed the door behind her.

“Matthew?”

“In the kitchen.”

She moved to the back of the house. The door of the huge Sub-Zero refrigerator — that hadn’t been there in her day — was open, and again she flashed back to Matthew’s father at that age, to all her boys during their high school years: Jeffrey, Eric, and David, always with their heads in the refrigerator. There were never enough groceries in the house. They ate like trash compactors with feet. If she bought food, it was gone the next day.

“You hungry, Nana?”

“No, I’m good.”

“You sure?”

“I’m sure. Tell me what’s going on, Matthew.”

His head came into view. “Do you mind if I just make a little snack first?”

“I’ll take you out to dinner, if you want.”

“I got too much homework.”

“Suit yourself.”

Hester wandered into the den with the TV. She smelled burnt wood. Someone had recently used the fireplace. That was strange. Or maybe it wasn’t. She checked out the coffee table.

It was neat. Too neat, she thought.

Magazines stacked. Coasters stacked. Everything in its proper place.

Hester frowned.

With Matthew busy eating his sandwich, she tiptoed up to the second level. This was none of her business, of course. David had been dead for ten years. Laila deserved to be happy. Hester meant no harm, but she also couldn’t help herself.

She entered the master bedroom.

David, she knew, had slept on the far side of the bed, Laila by the door. The king-sized bed was made. Immaculately.

Too neat, she thought again.

A lump formed in her throat. She crossed the room and checked the bathroom. Immaculate too. Still not able to stop herself, she checked the pillow on David’s side.

David’s side? Your son has been gone for ten years, Hester. Leave it be.

It took a few seconds, but eventually she located a light-brown hair on the pillow.

A long light-brown hair.

Leave it be, Hester.

The bedroom window looked onto the backyard and the mountain beyond. The lawn blurred into the slope and then faded away into a few trees, then more trees, then a full-blown thick forest. Her boys had played there, of course. Ira had helped them build a tree house and forts and Lord knew what. They made sticks into guns and knives. They played hide-and-seek.

One day, when David was six years old and supposedly alone, Hester had overheard him talking to someone in those woods. When she asked him about it, little David tensed up and said, “I was just playing with me.”

“But I heard you talking to someone.”

“Oh,” her young son had said, “that was my invisible friend.”

It had been, as far as Hester knew, the only lie David had ever told her.

From downstairs, Hester heard the front door open.

Matthew’s voice: “Hey, Mom.”

“Where’s your grandmother?”

“Right here,” he said. “Uh, Nana?”

“Coming!”

Feeling both panicked and like a total idiot, Hester quickly slipped out of the bedroom and into the hallway bathroom. She closed the door, flushed the toilet, and even ran the water to make it look good. Then she headed toward the stairs. Laila was at the bottom, staring up at her.

“Hey,” Hester said.

“Hey.”

Laila was gorgeous. There was no way around it. She dazzled in the fitted gray business suit that hugged where it should, which in her case was everywhere. Her blouse was a vibrant white, especially against the darkness of her skin.

“You okay?” Laila asked.

“Oh, sure.”

Hester made it the rest of the way down the stairs. The two women hugged briefly.

“So what brings you out, Hester?”

Matthew came into the room. “Nana was helping me with a school report.”

“Really? On what?”

“The law,” he said.

Laila made a face. “And you couldn’t ask me?”

“And, uh, also being on TV,” Matthew added clumsily. Not a good liar, Hester thought. Again, like his dad. “Uh, like, no offense, Mom, being a famous lawyer.”

“That a fact?”

Laila turned to Hester. Hester shrugged.

“Okay then,” Laila said.

Hester flashed back to David’s funeral. Laila had stood there, holding little Matthew’s hand. Her eyes were dry. She didn’t cry. Not once that day. Not once in front of Hester or anyone else. Later that night, Hester and Ira took Matthew out for a hamburger at ABG’s in Allendale. Hester had left early and come back. She walked into the backyard, into the opening in the woods where she’d seen David disappear countless times to go see Wilde, and even from there, even at that distance with the night wind howling, she could hear the guttural cries of Laila alone in her bedroom. The cries were so raw, so ripping, so pained that Hester thought that maybe Laila would break in a way no one could ever fix.

Laila had not remarried. If there were other men in the past ten years — and there had to have been many, many offers — she had not told Hester about them.

But now, there was this too-neat house and this long brown hair.

Leave it be, Hester.

Without warning, Hester reached out with both arms and pulled Laila in close.

Surprised, Laila said, “Hester?”

Leave it be.

“I love you,” Hester whispered.

“I love you too.”

Hester squeezed her eyes shut. She couldn’t keep tears back.

“Are you okay?” Laila asked.

Hester gathered herself, took a step back, smoothed her clothes. “I’m fine.” She reached into her purse and grabbed out a tissue. “I just get...”

Laila nodded. Her voice was soft. “I know.”

From over his mother’s shoulder, Hester spotted Matthew shaking his head, reminding her of what she’d promised.

Hester said, “I better go.”

She kissed them both and hurried out the door.

Tim was waiting for her with the door open. He wore a black suit and chauffeur cap to work every day, whatever the weather or season, even though Hester told him he didn’t have to and neither the suit nor the cap ever seemed to fit him right. It could be his bulky frame. It could be that he carried a gun.

As she slid into the backseat, Hester turned for one last look at the house. Matthew stood in the doorway. He looked at her. It hit her yet again:

Her grandson was asking for her help.

He had never done that before. He wasn’t telling her the whole story. Not yet. But as she wallowed in her own pity, in her own misery, in this awful hole in her own life, she reminded herself that it was a much bigger and more awful hole for Matthew, growing up without a father, growing up, especially, without that father, without that good and kind man, who had been the best of Hester and even more Ira — Ira, who died of a heart attack, she was convinced, because he could never get over the heartbreak of losing his son in that crash.

Tim slid back into the driver’s seat.

“You heard what Matthew said?” she asked.

“Yes.”

“What do you think?”

Tim shrugged. “He’s hiding something.”

Hester did not reply.

“So back to the city?” Tim asked.

“Not yet,” Hester said. “Let’s stop at the Westville police station first.”

Chapter Four

“Well, well, well, as I live and breathe. Hester Crimstein in my little station.”

She sat in the office of Westville police chief Oren Carmichael, who, nearing retirement at age seventy, remained what he’d always been — a grade-A prime slice of top-shelf beefcake.

“Nice to see you too, Oren.”

“You look good.”

“So do you.” Gray hair worked so well on men, Hester thought. Damn unfair. “How’s Cheryl?”

“Left me,” he said.

“Seriously?”

“Yep.”

“Cheryl always hit me as dumb.”

“Right?”

“No offense.”

“None taken.”

“She was beautiful,” Hester added.

“Yes.”

“But dumb. Is that insensitive?”

“Cheryl might think so.”

“I don’t care what she thinks.”

“Me neither.” Oren Carmichael’s smile stunned. “This back-and-forth is fun.”

“Isn’t it?”

“But I somehow don’t think you’re here for my middling repartee.”

“I could be.” Hester sat back. “What do the kids call it when you do more than one thing at a time?”

“Multitasking.”

“Right.” She crossed her legs. “So maybe that’s what I’m doing.”

Hester would say she’s a sucker for a man in a uniform, but that was such a cliché. Still, Oren Carmichael looked mighty fit in that uniform.

“Do you remember the last time you were here?” Oren asked.

Hester smiled. “Jeffrey.”

“He was dropping eggs on cars from the overpass.”

“Good times,” Hester said. “Why did you call Ira to pick Jeffrey up instead of me?”

“Ira didn’t scare me.”

“And I did?”

“If you want to use the past tense, sure.” Oren Carmichael tilted his chair back. “Do you want to tell me why you’re here, or should we keep with the banter?”

“Think we’ll get better at it?”

“The banter? Can’t get worse.”

Thirty-four years ago, Oren had been on the posse that found the young boy in the woods. Everyone, including Hester, thought that mystery would be solved quickly, but no one ever claimed Wilde. No one ever found out who left him in the woods or how he’d gotten there in the first place. No one ever figured out how long the little boy had lived on his own or how Wilde had survived.

No one — still, after all these years — knows who the hell Wilde really is.

She debated asking Oren about Wilde, just to get an update on him, maybe use that as a way to ease into the rest.

But Wilde wasn’t her business anymore.

She had to leave that alone, so she dove into the real reason she was here.

“Naomi Pine. You know who she is?”

Oren Carmichael folded his hands and rested them on that flat stomach. “Do you think I know every high school girl in this town?”

“How did you know she’s a high school girl?” Hester asked.

“Can’t get anything past you. Let’s say I know her.”

Hester wasn’t sure how to put it, but again the direct route seemed the best. “A source tells me she’s missing.”

“A source?”

Okay, so not so direct. By God, Oren was handsome. “Yes.”

“Hmm, isn’t your grandson about Naomi’s age?”

“Let’s pretend that’s a coincidence.”

“He’s a good kid, by the way. Matthew, I mean.”

She said nothing.

“I still coach the basketball team,” he continued. “Matthew is hardworking and scrappy like...”

He stopped before he could say David’s name. Neither of them moved. For a few moments, the silence sucked something out of the room.

“Sorry,” Oren said.

“Don’t be.”

“Should I pretend again?” he asked.

“No,” Hester said in a soft voice. “Never. Not when it comes to David.”

Oren, in his capacity as police chief, had gone to the scene the night of the crash.

“To answer your question,” Oren said, “no, I don’t know anything about Naomi being missing.”

“No one called it in or anything?”

“No, why?”

“She’s been out of school for a week.”

“So?”

“So could you just make a call?”

“You’re worried?”

“That’s putting it too strongly. Let’s just say a call would put my mind at ease.”

Oren scratched his chin. “Is there anything I should know?”

“Other than my phone number?”

“Hester.”

“No, nothing. I’m doing this as a favor.”

Oren frowned. Then: “I’ll make some calls.”

“Great.”

He looked at her. She looked at him.

Oren said, “I guess you don’t want me to do this later and call you with the results.”

“Why, are you busy right now?”

He sighed. Oren called Naomi’s house first. No answer. Then he called the school’s truant officer. The truant officer put him on hold. When the officer came back on the line, she said, “So far, the student’s absences have been verified.”

“You spoke to a parent?”

“Not me, but someone in the office.”

“What did the parent say?”

“It’s just marked as excused.”

“Nothing else?”

“Why? Are you requesting that I take a ride out there?”

Oren looked over the phone at Hester. Hester shook her head.

“No, I’m just checking all the boxes. Anything else?”

“Just that this girl will probably need to either repeat the grade or do extensive summer school. She’s been absent a lot this semester.”

“Thank you.”

Oren hung up.

“Thanks,” Hester said.

“Sure.”

She thought about it. “I get how you know Matthew,” she said slowly. “From me. From David. From the basketball team.”

He said nothing.

“And I know you’re very active in the community, which is commendable.”

“But you’re wondering how I know Naomi.”

“Yes.”

“I probably should have said why from the start.”

“I’m listening.”

“Remember the movie Breakfast Club?” he asked.

“No.”

Oren looked surprised. “You never saw it?”

“No.”

“Really? Man, my kids had it on all the time, even though it was before their time.”

“Is there a point?”

“Do you remember the actress Ally Sheedy?”

She bit back a sigh. “No.”

“Not important. In the movie, Ally Sheedy plays a high school outcast who reminds me of Naomi. In one confessional scene, the character lets down her guard and says, ‘My home life is unsatisfying.’”

“And that’s Naomi?”

Oren nodded. “This wouldn’t be the first time she’s run away. Her father — and this is confidential — has three DUIs.”

“Any signs of abuse?”

“No, I don’t think that’s it. More like neglect. Naomi’s mother walked out, I don’t know, five, ten years ago. Hard to say. The dad works long hours in the city. I think he’s just in over his head raising the girl alone.”

“Okay,” Hester said. “Thanks for telling me.”

“Let me walk you out.”

When they reached the door, they turned to each other full-on. Hester felt a blush come to her cheeks. A blush. Are you ever too old?

“So do you want to tell me what Matthew said to you about Naomi?” Oren asked.

“Nothing.”

“Please, Hester, let’s pretend that I’m a trained law enforcement officer who has been on the job for forty years. You casually stop by my office and ask about a troubled girl who happens to be a classmate of your grandson’s. The detective in me wonders why and concludes that Matthew must have said something to you.”

Hester was going to deny it, but that wouldn’t do any good. “Off the record, yes, Matthew asked me to look into it.”

“Why?”

“I don’t know.”

He waited.

“I really don’t.”

“Okay then.”

“He seems worried about her.”

“Worried how?”

“Again: I don’t know. But if you don’t mind, I’m going to look into it a little.”

Oren frowned. “Look into it how?”

“I think I’ll stop by her house. Talk to the father. That okay?”

“Would it matter if I said it wasn’t?”

“No. And no, I don’t think there is anything to it.”

“But?”

“But Matthew has never asked me for anything before. Do you understand?”

“I think I do, yes,” he said. “And if you learn anything while looking into it...”

“I’ll call you immediately, promise.” Hester took out her business card and handed it to him. “That’s my cell number.”

“You want mine?”

“That won’t be necessary.”

He kept his eyes on the card. “But didn’t you just say you’d call me?”

She could feel her heart beating in her chest. Age was a funny thing. When your heart starts beating like this, you’re in high school all over again.

“Oren?”

“Yes?”

“I know we are supposed to be all modern and woke and all that.”

“Right.”

“But I still think the guy should call the girl.”

He held up her business card. “And by coincidence, I now have your phone number.”

“Small world.”

“Take care, Hester.”

“Just the basics,” Tim said, handing sheets back to Hester. “More coming soon.”

They stored a printer in the trunk that hooked up to a laptop Tim kept in the glove compartment. Sometimes Hester’s paralegals downloaded information to her phone, but Hester still preferred the tactile reading experience of paper. She liked to make notes with a pen or underline important phrases.

Old school. Or just old.

“You have the address for Naomi Pine?” she asked him.

“I do.”

“How far away?”

Tim looked at the GPS. “Two-point-six miles, six minutes.”

“Let’s go.”

She skimmed the notes as Tim drove. Naomi Pine, sixteen years old. Parents divorced. Father, Bernard. Mother, Pia. Father had sole custody, which was interesting in and of itself. In fact, Mother had given up all parental claims. Unusual, to put it mildly.

The house was old and worn. The paint had at one time been white, but it was more a cream-to-brown now. Every window was blocked by either a thick shade or cracked shutter.

“What do you think?” Hester asked Tim.

Tim made a face. “Looks like a safe house from the old country. Or maybe someplace to torture dissidents.”

“Wait here.”

A red Audi A6 in mint condition, probably worth more than the house, sat in the driveway. As she got closer to the door, Hester could see that the house had at one point been a grand Victorian. There was a wraparound porch and detailed albeit worn crown molding. The house had been, she bet, what they used to call a Painted Lady, though the paint was scant and whatever feminine charms she had once possessed had long gone to seed.

Hester knocked on the door. Nothing. She knocked some more.

A man’s voice said, “Just leave whatever at the door.”

“Mr. Pine?”

“I’m busy right now. If I have to sign for it—”

“Mr. Pine, I’m not here for a delivery.”

“Who are you?”

His voice had a little slur in it. He had still not opened the door.

“My name is Hester Crimstein.”

“Who?”

“Hester—”

The door finally opened.

“Mr. Pine?”

“How do I know you?” he asked.

“You don’t.”

“Yeah, I do. You’re on TV or something.”

“Right. My name is Hester Crimstein.”

“Whoa.” Bernard Pine snapped his fingers and pointed at her. “You’re that criminal lawyer that’s always on the news, right?”

“Right.”

“I knew it.” He startled back half a step, now wary. “Wait, what do you want with me?”

“I’m here about your daughter.”

His eyes widened a bit.

“Naomi,” Hester added.

“I know my daughter’s name,” he half snapped. “What do you want?”

“She’s been absent from school.”

“So? Are you a truant officer?”

“No.”

“So what does my daughter have to do with you? What do you want from me?”

He looked the part of the man who’d just come home from a hard day’s work. His five-o’clock shadow was closer to seven or eight p.m. His eyes were rimmed with red. His suit jacket was off, the cuffs of his sleeves rolled up, the tie loosened. Hester would bet there was a glass of something in the spirit family already poured.

“May I speak to Naomi?”

“Why?”

“I’m...” Hester tried on her legendary disarming smile. “Look, I don’t mean any harm. I’m not here in any sort of legal capacity.”

“Then why are you here?”

“I know this is out of the ordinary, but is Naomi okay?”

“I don’t understand — why is my daughter any of your business?”

“She’s not. I don’t mean to pry.” Hester tried to consider all the angles on this and decided to go with the most personal and truthful reply. “Naomi goes to school with my grandson Matthew. Maybe she’s mentioned him?”

Pine’s lips tightened. “Why are you here?”

“I... Matthew and I just wanted to make sure that she was okay.”

“She’s fine.”

He started to close the door.

“Can I see her?”

“Are you serious?”

“I know she’s been out of school.”

“So?”

Enough with the disarming. She put a touch of steel in her voice. “So where is Naomi, Mr. Pine?”

“What right do you—?”

“None,” Hester said. “No right. Zero, zilch. But a friend of Naomi’s is worried about her.”

“A friend?” He made a scoffing noise. “So your grandson is her friend, is he?”

Hester wasn’t sure what to make of his tone. “I’m just asking to see her.”

“She’s not here.”

“Where is she then?”

“That’s really not your business.”

A little more steel in the tone now: “You said you’ve seen me on TV.”

“So?”

“So you probably know that you don’t want to get on my bad side.”

She glared at him. He stepped back.

“Naomi is visiting her mother.” His grip on the knob of the door tightened. “And Ms. Crimstein? My daughter doesn’t concern you or your grandson. Get off my property now.”

He closed the door. Then, as though to add emphasis, he bolted the lock with an audible click.

Tim was outside and waiting. He opened the car door as she approached.

“Douche-nozzle,” Hester muttered.

It was getting late. Night had fallen. The lighting out here, especially near the mountains, was near nonexistent. There was nothing more to be done about Naomi Pine tonight.

Tim slid into the driver’s seat and started up the car. “We should probably start heading back,” he said. “Your segment starts in two hours.”

Tim met her eye in the rearview mirror and waited.

“How long has it been since we’ve been to Wilde’s?” Hester asked.

“It’ll be six years in September.”

She should have been surprised at how much time had passed. She should have been surprised that Tim recalled the year and month so quickly.

Should have been. But wasn’t.

“Do you think you could still find his road?”

“This time of night?” Tim considered it. “Probably.”

“Let’s try.”

“You can’t call?”

“I don’t think he has a phone.”

“He may have moved.”

“No,” Hester said.

“Or he may not be home.”

“Tim.”

He shifted the car into drive. “On our way.”

Chapter Five

Tim found the turn on his third pass along Halifax Road. The thin lane of a road was almost entirely camouflaged so that it felt as though they were driving through a giant shrub. The vegetation scraped across the top of the car like those sponge noodles at a car wash. A few hundred yards south was the Split Rock Sweetwater Prayer Camp of the... what did they call themselves now? Ramapough Lenape Nation or Ramapough Mountain People or Ramapough Mountain Indians or simply Ramapoughs, with their murky genealogy some claim came directly from the indigenous people native to this area or maybe native tribes mixing with the Hessians who fought in the Revolutionary War or maybe runaway slaves that hid amongst the old Lenape tribes before the Civil War. Whatever, the Ramapoughs — she’d keep it simple in her own head — were now a reclusive albeit dwindling tribe.

Thirty-four years ago, when the little boy now called Wilde was found half a mile from here, many had suspected — many still did — that he had to somehow be connected to the Ramapoughs. No one had any specifics, of course, but when you are different and poor and reclusive, legends spring up. So maybe a tribeswoman had abandoned a child she’d had out of wedlock or maybe in some whacky tribal ceremony the child had been sent into the woods or maybe he’d wandered off and gotten lost and now the tribe was afraid to claim him. It was all nonsense, of course.

The sun had set. Trees didn’t so much line the sliver of road as crowd onto it, the top limbs bending up and over and reaching across like children’s arms playing London Bridge Is Falling Down. It was dark. Hester figured that they’d hit one sensor when they made the turn, probably two or three more as they coasted down the road. When they reached the dead end, Tim made a K-turn so they were now facing the way out.

The woods remained silent, still. The car headlights provided the only illumination.

“Now what?” Tim asked.

“Stay in the car.”

“You can’t go out there alone.”

“But can’t I?” They both reached for their door handles, but Hester stopped him with a firm “Stay put.”

She stepped into the silent night and closed the door behind her.

The pediatricians who’d examined Wilde after his discovery estimated his age between six and eight years old. He could speak. He had learned how, he claimed, via his “secret” friendship with Hester’s son David and, more directly, by breaking into homes and watching countless hours of television. Along with living off the land in the warmer seasons, that was how Wilde had fed himself — foraging in human beings’ garbage cans, checking wastebaskets near parks, but mostly sneaking (aka breaking) into summer homes and raiding the fridge and cupboards.

The child didn’t remember any other life.

No parents. No family. No contact with any human other than David.

One memory, however, did come back. The memory haunted the boy and now the man, kept him up at night, startling him awake in cold sweats at all hours of the night. The memory came to him in snap-flashes with no discernible narrative arc: a dark house, mahogany floorboards, a red banister, a portrait of a man with a mustache, and screams.

“What kind of screams?” Hester had asked the little boy.

“Terrible screams.”

“No, I understand that. I mean, are they the screams of a man? A woman? In your memory, who is screaming?”

Wilde had considered that. “I am,” he told her. “I’m the one screaming.”

Hester folded her arms, leaned against the car, and waited. The wait didn’t last long.

“Hester.”

When Wilde stepped into view, Hester’s heart filled and exploded. She couldn’t say why. It had just been that kind of day maybe, and seeing her son’s best friend — the last person to see David alive — just overwhelmed her yet again.

“Hi, Wilde.”

Wilde was a genius. She knew that. Who knew why? A child comes out hardwired. That was what you learned as a parent — that your kid is who he is and what he is and that you, as a parent, greatly overstate your importance in his development. A dear friend once told her that being a parent is like being a car mechanic — you can repair the car and take care of the car and keep the car on the road, but you can’t fundamentally change the car. If a sports car drives into your garage for repairs, it isn’t driving out an SUV.

Same with kids.

So part of it was, well, that was what Wilde was genetically hardwired to be — a genius.

But experts also claim that early development is hugely important, that something like ninety percent of a child’s brain develops by the age of five. But think about Wilde by that age. Imagine the stimulation, the experiences, the exposure, if as a small child he really did have to take care of himself, feed himself, shelter himself, comfort himself, defend himself.

What would that do to intensify a brain’s development?

Wilde stepped into the headlights so she could see him. He smiled at her. He was a beautiful man with his dark sun-kissed complexion, his build of coiled muscles, his forearms looking like high-tension wires straining against the rolled-up flannel shirt, the faded jeans, the scuffed hiking boots, the long hair.

The very long hair of light brown.

Like the strand she’d found on the pillow.

Hester dove right in: “What’s up with you and Laila?”

He said nothing.

“Don’t deny it.”

“I didn’t.”

“So?”

“She has needs,” Wilde said.

“Seriously?” Hester said. “‘She has needs’? So you’re being — what, Wilde? — a Good Samaritan?”

He took a step toward her. “Hester?”

“What?”

“She can’t love again.”

Just when she thought that she couldn’t hurt any more, his words detonated another explosive device in her heart.

“Maybe one day she can,” Wilde said. “But right now, she still misses David too much.”

Hester looked at him, feeling whatever had been building inside her — anger, hurt, stupidity, longing — deflate.

“I’m safe for her,” Wilde said.

“Nothing’s changed for you?”

“Nothing,” he said.

She wasn’t sure how she felt about that. At first, everyone thought that they’d find the boy’s real identify fast. So Wilde — an obvious nickname that stuck — had stayed with the Crimsteins. Eventually, Child Services placed him with the Brewers, a beloved foster family who also lived in Westville. He started school. He excelled in pretty much everything he tried. But Wilde was always an outcast. He loved his foster family the best he could — the Brewers even officially adopted him — but in the end, he could only live alone. Other than his friendship with David, Wilde couldn’t really connect to anyone, especially adults. Take whatever abandonment issues any normal person might have and raise them to the tenth power.

There had been women in his life, lots of them, but they couldn’t last.

“Is that why you’re here?” Wilde asked. “To ask about Laila?”

“In part.”

“And the other part?”

“Your godson.”

That got his attention. “What about him?”

“Matthew asked me to help find a friend of his.”

“Who?”

“A girl named Naomi Pine.”

“Why did he ask you?”

“I don’t know. But I think Matthew might be in trouble.”

Wilde started toward the car. “Tim still driving you?”

“Yes.”

“I was about to hike over to the house. Give me a lift and tell me about it on the way.”

In the backseat, Hester said to Wilde, “So this is a fling?”

“Laila could never be a fling. You know that.”

Hester did know. “So you spend the whole night?”

“No. Never.”

So, she thought, he really was the same. “And Laila is okay with that?”

Wilde replied by asking a question of his own: “How did you figure it out?”

“About you and Laila?”

“Yes.”

“The house was too tidy.”

Wilde didn’t respond.

“You’re a neat freak,” she said. That was a polite understatement. Hester didn’t understand official diagnoses or any of that, but Wilde had what a layman might consider obsessive-compulsive disorder. “And Laila is anything but.”

“Ah.”

“And then I found a long brown hair on David’s pillow.”

“It isn’t David’s pillow.”

“I know.”

“You snooped in her bedroom?”

“I shouldn’t have.”

“Yes.”

“I’m sorry. It’s just weird. You get that, right?”

Wilde nodded. “I get it.”

“I want Laila happy. I want you happy.”

She wanted to add that David would want that too, but she couldn’t. Probably sensing her discomfort, Wilde changed topics.

“So tell me what’s up with Matthew,” Wilde said.

She filled him in on the Naomi Pine issue. He watched her with those piercing blue eyes with the gold flakes. He barely moved as she spoke. Some had nicknamed him — probably still nicknamed him — Tarzan, and the moniker fit almost too well, as though Wilde were playing into that role, what with the build and the dark skin and the long hair.

When she finished, Wilde said, “Did you tell Laila about this?”

She shook her head. “Matthew asked me not to.”

“Yet you told me.”

“He didn’t say anything about you.”

Wilde almost smiled. “Nice loophole you found there.”

“A corollary of my occupation. Love me for all my faults.”

Wilde looked off.

“What?”

“They’re pretty tight,” Wilde said. “Laila and Matthew. Why wouldn’t he want her to know?”

“That’s what I’m wondering.”

They sat back in silence.

When he was eighteen years old, Wilde had gone to West Point, where he finished with all kinds of honors. The whole Crimstein clan — Hester, Ira, all three boys — had taken the forty-five-minute drive to the United States Military Academy for Wilde’s graduation. Wilde then served overseas, mostly in some kind of special force — Hester could never remember what it was called. It was secret stuff, and even now, all these years later, Wilde couldn’t or wouldn’t talk about it. Classified. But in a song with a too familiar refrain, whatever Wilde saw over there, whatever he did or experienced or lost, war had pushed him over the edge or maybe, in his case, it had awoken the ghosts of his past. Who’s to say?

When he finished serving and returned to Westville, Wilde gave up the pretense of trying to assimilate into “normal” society. He started working as a private investigator of sorts at a security firm called CRAW with his foster sister Rola, but that didn’t really pan out. He bought a small trailer-like dwelling that brought minimalism to a new level and lived off the grid in the foothills of the mountains. He moved the dwelling around a bit, though he was always within shouting distance of that road. Hester didn’t understand the technological minutiae of how Wilde knew when he had visitors. She just knew it had something to do with motion detectors and sensors and night cameras.

“So why tell me about this?” Wilde asked.

“I can’t be out here all the time,” she said. “I have court in the city. I have the TV appearances, obligations, stuff like that.”

“Okay.”

“And who would be better at tracking down a missing person than you?”

“Right.”

“And then there was that hair on the pillow.”

“Got it.”

“I haven’t been there for Matthew enough,” Hester said.

“He’s doing fine.”

“Except he thinks a girl who’s been missing from school is in serious danger.”

“Except that,” Wilde agreed.

When Tim made the turn, they both spotted Matthew walking away from the house. It was a teenage walk — head down, shoulders hunched protectively, feet scraping the ground, hands jammed aggressively deep into his jeans’ pockets. He had white AirPods in his ears and didn’t hear or see them until Tim nearly cut him off with the car. Matthew pulled out one of the earpieces.

Hester stepped out of the car first.

Matthew said, “Did you find Naomi?”

When he spotted Wilde getting out of the passenger door, Matthew frowned. “What the...?”

“I told him,” Hester said. “He won’t say anything.”

Matthew turned his attention back toward his grandmother. “Did you find Naomi?”

“I spoke to her father. He said she’s fine, that she’s visiting her mother.”

“But did you talk to her?”

“The mother?”

“Naomi.”

“Not yet, no.”

“Then maybe her dad is lying,” Matthew said.

Hester looked over at Wilde.

Wilde stepped toward him. “Why would you think that, Matthew?”

Matthew’s gaze darted everywhere but on theirs. “Could you just, uh, make sure she’s okay?”

It was Wilde who moved closer to the boy, not Hester. “Matthew, look at me.”

“I am.”

He wasn’t.

“Are you in trouble?” Wilde asked.

“What? No.”

“Talk to me then.”

Hester stayed back. Here was the main reason she worried so about this new relationship between Laila and Wilde. It wasn’t about David’s memory and the pain of him being forever gone — or at least, not only about that. Wilde was Matthew’s godfather. When David died, Wilde had been there. He answered the call, stepped up his role in Matthew’s life. He wasn’t a father or stepfather or anything like that. But Wilde was there, more as an involved uncle, and Hester and Laila had been grateful, believing, sexist as this might sound, that Matthew still needed a man in his life.

How would the romantic relationship between Laila and Wilde affect Matthew?

The boy wasn’t stupid. If Hester saw the signs in a few minutes, Matthew had to know about the romance too. So how was the boy handling his godfather shacking up some nights with his mother? What would happen to Matthew if the relationship went south? Were Laila and Wilde mature enough to make sure Matthew didn’t get hurt in the fallout — or were they being naïve in their thinking?

Matthew was taller than Wilde now. When the hell had that happened? Wilde put a hand on the boy’s shoulder and said, “Talk to me, Matthew.”

“I’m going to a party.”

“Okay.”

“At Crash’s house. Ryan, Trevor, Darla, Trish — they’ll all be there.”

Wilde waited.

“They’ve been picking on her more lately. On Naomi.” Matthew closed his eyes. “Supercruel stuff.”

Hester joined them. “Who has been picking on her?”

“The popular kids.”

“You?” Hester asked.

He kept his eyes on the ground.

Wilde said, “Matthew?”

Matthew’s voice, when he finally spoke, was soft. “No...” He hesitated. They waited. “But I let it happen. I didn’t do anything. I should have. Crash and Trevor and Darla played a prank on her. A mean one. And now... now she’s gone. That’s why I’m going to Crash’s party. To see if I can learn anything.”

“What kind of prank?” Hester asked.

“That’s all I know.”

A car driven by one teen with another riding shotgun pulled up to them. The driver honked the horn.

“I have to go,” Matthew said. “Please... just keep looking too, okay?”

“I’m having someone from my office trace down Naomi’s mother,” Hester said. “I’ll talk to her.”

Matthew nodded. “Thanks.”

“Is there anyone else we should talk to, Matthew? A friend of Naomi’s maybe?”

“She has no friends.”

“A teacher, a family member—”

He snapped his finger and his eyes lit up. “Miss O’Brien.”

Wilde said, “Ava O’Brien?”

Matthew nodded. “She’s, like, an assistant art teacher or something.”

“And you think—?” Hester asked.

The driver honked the horn again. Hester silenced it with a glare.

“I gotta go. I’m hoping to learn something at the party.”

“Learn what?” Hester asked.

But Matthew didn’t reply. He hopped into the backseat of the car. Wilde and Hester watched them drive away.

“You know this Miss O’Brien?” Hester asked Wilde.

“Yes.”

“Should I ask how?”

Wilde said nothing.

“That’s what I thought. Will she talk to you?”

“Yes.”

“Good.” When the car disappeared around the bend, Hester asked, “What do you think?”

“I think Matthew isn’t telling us everything.”

“Maybe Naomi’s mother calls me back. Maybe she lets me talk to Naomi.”

“Maybe,” Wilde said.

“But you don’t think so.”

“No, I don’t think so.”

They both turned and looked down the cul-de-sac toward the Crimstein homestead.

“I have to get back to the city to do my show,” Hester said.

“Uh-huh.”

“I don’t have time to get into this with Laila now.”

“Probably best,” Wilde said. “Do your show. I’ll talk to Laila, then I’ll talk to Ava O’Brien.”

Hester handed him a business card with her mobile number on it. “Stay in touch, Wilde.”

“You too, Hester.”

Chapter Six

When Laila answered the front door, she asked, “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing.”

“Then why are you using the front door?”

Wilde always came in through the back door. Always. He hiked through the woods that came up behind the Crimstein house. He’d been doing that since the days David sneaked him inside when they were little boys.

“Well?”

Laila had this passion and energy that turned her beauty into a living, breathing, pulsating entity. You couldn’t help but be drawn in, to watch, to want to be a part of it.

“I can’t stay for dinner,” he said.

“Oh.”

“Sorry. Something just came up.”

“You don’t owe me an explanation.”

“I can come back later, if you want.”

Laila studied his face. He wanted to tell her about Matthew and this Naomi situation, but after weighing the pros and cons, he’d decided that keeping his godson’s confidence trumped informing on him to his mother. For today anyway. For now. It was a close call, but Laila would understand.

Maybe.

“I have an early morning anyway,” Laila said.

“Got it.”

“And Matthew is out tonight. I don’t know what time he’ll get back.”

Wilde mimicked her in the gentlest way as he quoted her: “‘You don’t owe me an explanation.’”

Laila gave him a smile. “Ah, what the hell. Come back if you can.”

“Might be late.”

“I don’t care,” she said. Then: “You didn’t tell me why you’re using the front door.”

“I spotted Matthew on the street.”

Not a lie.

“What did he say to you?”

“That he was going to a party at someone named Crash’s house.”

“Crash Maynard,” she said.

“As in?”

“Yeah, the Maynard Manor. Son of Dash.”

“Dash has a son named Crash?”

“His father loved the movie Bull Durham or something. Can you believe that?”

He shrugged. “When your name is Wilde...”

“Touché.”

Darkness had fallen. The lullaby of crickets played, his constant comforting companion. “I better go.”

“Wait.” Laila dug into her jeans pocket. “No need to play mountain man.” She pulled out her key fob and tossed it to him. “Take my car.”

“Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.”

“I may not be gone long.”

“I’ll be here, Wilde.”

Laila closed the door.

Eight months ago, when Wilde first encountered Ava O’Brien, she was living off Route 17 in a sprawling condo development of dull grays and beiges. That night, as they stumbled under popping fluorescent streetlights back to her place, Ava had made a joke about how the condos looked so much alike that she often stuck her key in the wrong door.

Wilde had no such issue. He still remembered the exact address and location.

No one answered on the first knock. Wilde knew the condo layout. He checked the window on the upper right. The light was on. That didn’t mean much. He looked for a passing shadow. Nothing.

He knocked again.

Shuffling feet. A pause. It was nearly nine p.m. now. Ava O’Brien was probably looking through the peephole. He stood and waited. A moment later he heard a sliding chain. The knob turned.

“Wilde?”

Ava wore a big terry cloth robe. He knew the robe. He had even worn it.

“Can I come in for a second?” he asked.

He tried to read her face to see whether she was happy or sad to see him. Not that it would change anything. Her expression, however, seemed mixed. There was maybe surprise. There was maybe some joy. There was also something else — something in her expression that he couldn’t quite put his finger on.

“Now?”

He didn’t bother replying.

Ava leaned forward, met his eye, and whispered, “I’m not alone, Wilde.”

Ah, so now he could quite put his finger on it.

Her face softened. “Ah, Wilde,” she said in a voice too tender. “Why tonight?”

Maybe he shouldn’t have come. Maybe he should have left this to Hester.

“It’s about Naomi Pine,” he said.

That got her attention. She glanced behind her, stepped out onto the stoop, and closed the door.

“What about Naomi?” she asked. “Is she okay?”

“She’s missing.”

“What do you mean, missing?”

“She’s one of your students, right?”

“Sort of.”

“What do you mean, sort of?”

“What do you mean, she’s missing?”

“Did you notice she’s been absent?”

“I assumed she was sick.” Ava tightened the terry cloth robe. “I don’t understand. What’s your interest in this?”

“I’m trying to find her.”

“Why?” When he didn’t reply right away, Ava asked, “Did you ask her father?”

“My colleague” — easier than trying to explain about Hester — “did.”

“And?”

“He claims that Naomi is with her mother.”

“He said that?”

“Yes.”

Now Ava looked genuinely concerned. “Naomi’s mother hasn’t been a part of her life for a long time.”

“So we’ve been told.”

“How did you end up coming to me?”

“A source” — again easier — “claimed that you’re close to her.”

“I still don’t understand. Why are you looking for Naomi? Did someone hire you?”

“No. I’m doing it as a favor.”

“A favor for whom?”

“I can’t tell you. Do you have any idea where she is?”

The door behind her opened. A big man with one of those superlong beards filled the doorway. He looked at Ava, then at Wilde. “Hi,” he said.

“Hi,” Wilde said.

He looked back at Ava. “I better be going.”

“No need,” Wilde said. “This won’t take long.”

The bearded man looked at Ava some more. Then, as if he’d seen an answer there, he nodded to himself. “Rain check?” he asked her.

“Sure.”

He kissed her on the cheek, slapped Wilde on the back, and jogged down the steps. He slid into his GMC Terrain, headed out in reverse, and waved goodbye. Wilde turned back toward Ava and considered making an apology. She waved that away.

“Come on in.”

Wilde sat on the same red couch where he and Ava had first kissed. He quickly scanned the room. Nothing much had changed since he’d spent those three days here with her. On one wall, there were two new paintings hung the slightest bit crookedly — one watercolor of what looked like a tormented face, one oil painting of the Houvenkopf Mountain, which wasn’t far from here.

“The paintings,” he asked. “You do them?”

She shook her head. “Students.”

He had figured that. She didn’t like displaying her own work. Too personal, she’d told him when he asked. Too self-involved. Too easy to see all your flaws.

“Either of them by Naomi?”

“No,” Ava said. “But go ahead if you want.”

“Go ahead and what?”

She gestured to the walls. “Straighten them. I know how antsy it’s making you.”

At night, while Ava had slept, Wilde would go around, sometimes with a level, and make sure the paintings were indeed completely straight. It was one of the reasons why he was glad he had nothing hung up in his own abode.

As Wilde started to adjust the paintings, Ava took a seat in the chair farthest away from him. “You need to tell me why you’re looking for her.”

“No, I don’t.”

“Excuse me?”

He finished finagling with the mountain watercolor. “We don’t have time for explanations. Do you trust me, Ava?”

She pushed the hair back from her face. “Should I?”

There may have been an edge in the tone, he couldn’t be sure.

Then: “Yes, Wilde, I trust you.”

“Tell me about Naomi.”

“I don’t know where she is, if that’s what you’re asking.”

“But she’s one of your students?”

“She will be.”

“What does that mean?”

“I encouraged her to sign up for Intro to Watercolors next semester. She’ll be my student then.”

“But you already know her?”

“Yes.”

“How?”

“I do cafeteria duty three days a week. With the cutbacks, they were woefully understaffed.” She leaned forward. “You went to that high school, didn’t you?”

“Yes.”

“You’re not going to believe this, but when the two of us were, uh” — she looked up as though searching for the right word before shrugging and settling for — “together, I had no idea who you were. I mean, about your past.”

“I know.”

“How?”

“I can always tell.”

“People treat you differently, right? Never mind. It doesn’t matter. I imagine you were an outcast at that place, right?”

“To some degree.”

“To some degree,” she repeated, “because you’re strong and attractive and probably athletic. Naomi is none of those things. She is that girl, Wilde. The full-on, grade-A, bullied outcast. Somehow — and this will sound awful — but there is something about her that makes it easier for people. Human nature that no one wants to discuss. There is a bit of us that enjoys the spectacle. Like she deserves it. And it’s not just students. The other teachers smirk. I’m not saying they like it, but they do nothing to defend her.”

“But you do.”

“I try. It often makes it worse. I know that’s a cop-out, but when I stood up for her, well, let’s just say it didn’t help. So what I do instead, I pretend she gets in trouble — I hope that maybe gives her cred or something — and part of her punishment is, she can’t sit in the cafeteria during lunch. I take her to the art studio. Sometimes, if I get out of cafeteria duty, I’ll sit with her. I don’t think it helped much with the students, but at least...”

“At least what?”

“At least Naomi gets a break. At least she gets a few minutes of peace during the school day.” Ava blinked away a tear. “If Naomi is missing, she probably ran away.”

“Why do you say that?”

“Because her life is hell.”

“Even at home?”

“I don’t know if hell is the right word, but it isn’t great there either. Do you know Naomi was adopted?”

Wilde shook his head.

“She talks about it more than an adopted kid should.”

“In what way?”

“Fantasizing about being rescued by her real parents, for example. Her adoptive parents had to go through all kinds of interviews and screenings, and when they passed, they were awarded an infant — Naomi — but then pretty much right away, the mom couldn’t handle it. They even tried to return her to the orphanage. Do you believe that? Like she was a package delivered by UPS. Anyway, her mother had a breakdown. Or claimed to. She abandoned Naomi and her father.”

“Do you know where the mother is now?”

“Oh, she’s” — Ava frowned and made air quotes with her fingers — “‘recovered.’ Remarried a rich guy. Naomi says she lives in a fancy town house on Park Avenue.”

“Has Naomi said anything to you lately? Anything that might help?”

“No.” Then: “Now that you mention it.”

“What?”

“She seemed a little... better. More relaxed. Calm.”

Wilde didn’t say anything, but he didn’t like that.

“Now it’s your turn, Wilde. Why are you asking?”

“Someone is worried about her.”

“Who?”

“I can’t say.”

“Matthew Crimstein.”

He said nothing.

“Like I said, Wilde, I didn’t know who you were when we met.”

“But you know now.”

“Yes.” Her eyes were suddenly bright with tears. He reached out and took her hands in his. She pulled away. He let her. “Wilde?”

“Yes.”

“You need to find her.”

Wilde walked back to the condo parking lot. He drove Laila’s BMW twenty yards to a dumpster. Hester had been correct. Laila was a slob. A beautiful slob. She kept her own self meticulously neat and clean and freshly showered. But her surroundings did not follow suit. The backseat of her BMW had coffee cups and protein bar wrappers.

Wilde put the car in park and emptied it out. He wasn’t a germophobe, but he was glad that she had antibacterial lotion in the glove compartment. He looked back at Ava’s house. Would she call back the big guy with the bigger beard? Doubt it.

He didn’t regret his time with Ava. Not in the slightest. In fact, there had been a strange pang when he first saw her, something akin to... longing? Maybe it was justification or rationalization, but the fact that he couldn’t connect long term didn’t mean he didn’t appreciate new experiences with new people. He never wanted to hurt them, but maybe it was even worse to patronize them or hand them some bullshit line. He settled on being completely truthful, not sugarcoating it, not being too faux protective.

Wilde slept outside. Even on those nights.

It was hard to explain why, so sometimes he would leave a note, sneak back to the woods for a few hours, and then be back by the morning. Wilde couldn’t fall asleep when someone else was with him.

It was that simple.

Outside he dreamt a lot about his mother.

Or maybe it wasn’t his mother. Maybe it was another woman in that house with the red banister. He didn’t know. But in the dream, his mother — call her that for now — was beautiful, with long auburn hair and emerald eyes and the voice of an angel. Was this what his mother really looked like? The image was a bit too perfect, perhaps more delusion than reality. It could be something he just conjured up or had even seen on TV.

Memory makes demands that you often can’t keep. Memory is faulty because it insists on filling in the blanks.

His phone rang. It was Hester.

“Did you talk to Ava O’Brien?” Hester asked.

“Yes.”

“Are you proud of me for not prying about how you know her?”

“You’re the model of discretion.”

“So what did she say?”

Wilde filled her in. When he finished, she said, “That part about Naomi seeming calm. That’s not good.”

“I know,” Wilde said.

When people decide to end their lives, they often exhibit a sense of calm. The decision has been made. A weight, oddly enough, has been lifted.

“Well, I have news,” Hester said. “And it’s not good.”

Wilde waited.

“The mother called me back. She has no idea where Naomi is.”

“So the father lied,” Wilde said.

“Maybe.”

Either way, it wouldn’t hurt for Wilde to pay the dad a visit.

Someone called out to Hester. There was some commotion in the background.

“All okay?” he asked.

“I’m about to go live on air,” Hester said. “Wilde?”

“Yes.”

“We need to do something fast, agreed?”

“It could still be nothing.”

“Is that what your gut is telling you?”

“I don’t listen to my gut,” Wilde said. “I listen to the facts.”

“Bullshit.” Then: “Are the facts worried about this girl?”

“This girl,” he agreed. “And Matthew.”

There was more commotion.

“Gotta go, Wilde. We’ll talk soon.”

She hung up.

Hester sat at the news desk on a leather-backed stool, set a tad too high for her. Her toes barely touched the floor. The teleprompter was lined up and ready to roll. Lori, the on-duty hairstylist, was working some final touches, which involved two-finger plucking, while Bryan, the makeup artist, added some last-second concealer. The red countdown clock, which resembled the timer on a TV-drama bomb, indicated that they had under two minutes until air.

Her cohost for tonight played on his phone. Hester closed her eyes for a second, felt the makeup brush stroke her cheek, felt the fingers gently pull her hair into place. It was all oddly soothing.

When her phone vibrated, she opened her eyes with a sigh and shooed Lori and Bryan away. She normally wouldn’t take a call this close to going on air, but the caller ID told her it was her grandson.

“Matthew?”

“Did you find her yet?”

His voice was a desperate hush.

“Why are you whispering? Where are you?”

“At Crash’s house. Did you speak to Naomi’s mother?”

“Yes.”

“What did she say?”

“She doesn’t know where Naomi is.”

Her grandson made a sound that might have been a groan.

“Matthew, what aren’t you telling us?”

“It doesn’t matter.”

“It does.”

His tone turned sullen. “Forget I asked, okay?”

“Not okay.”

One of the producers yelled, “Ten seconds to air.”

Her cohost pocketed his phone and sat up straight. He turned to Hester, saw she had the phone pressed against her ear, and said, “Uh, Hester? You’re doing the intro.”

The producer held up his hand to indicate five seconds. He tucked his thumb to show it was now four.

“I’ll call you back,” Hester said.

She put the phone on the table in front of her as the producer dropped his index finger.

Three seconds may seem like a very short time. In television terms, it’s not. Hester had time to glance at Allison Grant, her segment producer, and nod. Allison had time to make a face and nod back so as to indicate that she would comply with Hester’s request but she would do so reluctantly.

Still, Hester had prepared for this. There were times you investigated — and there were times you instigated.

It was time for the latter.

The producer finished his countdown and pointed at Hester.

“Good evening,” Hester said, “and welcome to this edition of Crimstein on Crime. Our lead story tonight is — what else? — upstart presidential candidate Rusty Eggers and the controversy surrounding his campaign.”

That part was on the teleprompter. The rest was not.

Hester took a deep breath. In for a penny, in for a...

“But first, breaking news just coming in,” Hester said.

Her cohost frowned and turned toward her.

The thing was, Matthew was scared. That was what Hester couldn’t shake. Matthew was scared, and he had asked for her help. How could she not do all she could?

A photograph of Naomi Pine filled television screens across the country. It was the only photograph her producer Allison Grant had been able to find, and that had taken some doing. There was nothing on social media, which was really strange in today’s society, but Allison, who was as good as they came, dug up the website for the school photographer who took the official Sweet Water High portraits. Once Allison promised that they would keep the watermark with his logo on it, the photographer had agreed to let them use it on air.

Hester continued: “Tonight, a local girl from Westville, New Jersey, is missing and needs your help.”

From the parking lot outside Ava’s condo, Wilde weighed his options. There really wasn’t much more to do when he thought about it. The hour was getting late. So Option One: He could just drive back to Laila’s house and gently pad upstairs to the bedroom where she’d be waiting and...

Yeah, did he really have to review other options?

To cover his bases, he texted Matthew: Where are you?

Laila had told him that earlier, but he wasn’t sure he was supposed to know.

Wilde debated what to type next, but then he saw the dots dancing, indicating that Matthew was typing.

Wilde’s thumbs didn’t move as fast as he wanted them to, but he finally managed to type: Like what?

No reply.

The utopian image from Option One — Laila upstairs in that bedroom, warm under the covers, reading legal briefs — rose up in front of him so real he could smell her skin.

No reply. The Laila-related image turned to smoke and drifted into the ether.

Damn.

Wilde started up the road toward Maynard Manor.

Chapter Seven

Matthew was in Crash Maynard’s enormous mansion on the hill.

The mansion’s exterior looked old and kind of Gothic with marble columns. It reminded Matthew of that snooty golf club his grandmother took him to because one of her clients was getting some kind of award. Hester hadn’t liked being there, he remembered. As she sucked down the wine — too much wine as it turned out — her eyes began to narrow. She glanced around the room, frowning and muttering under her breath about silver spoons and privilege and inbreeding. When he asked her what was wrong, Hester had looked her grandson up and down and said, loud enough for those nearby to hear: “You’re half Jew, half black — you’d doubly not be allowed in this club.” Then she paused, raised a finger in the air, and added, “Or maybe you’d be two tokens in one.” When an elderly lady with frozen dollops of snow-white hair made a tut-tut, shh-shh noise in her direction, Hester had told her to blow it out her ass.

That was Matthew’s grandmother. Nana never avoided a controversy if she could create one.

It was both mortifying and comforting. Mortifying, well, that was pretty obvious. Comforting because he knew that his grandmother always had his back. He never questioned it. Didn’t matter that she was small or seventy or whatever. His grandmother seemed superhuman to him.

There were about a dozen kids at what parents insisted on calling a “party” but was really just a gathering in Crash’s “lower level” — Crash’s parents didn’t like calling it a basement — which may have been the coolest place Matthew had ever been. If the exterior was old school, the interior couldn’t have been more state of the art. The home theater was closer to a full-fledged cinema with mod digital sound design and forty-plus seats. There was a cherrywood bar and real-theater popcorn machine out front. The corridors were lined with a mix of vintage movie posters and posters for Crash’s dad’s television shows. The arcade room was a mini replica of the Silverball, the famed pinball palace on the Asbury Park boardwalk. Down one corridor was a wine cellar with oak barrels. The other became an underground tunnel leading to a regulation-sized basketball court, a replica — lots of replicas — of the Knicks’ floor at Madison Square Garden.

No one ever hung out on the basketball court. No one ever used the pinball arcade. No one was ever really in the mood to watch anything in the movie theater. Not that Matthew had been here a lot. For most of his life, he’d been on the outs with the popular crowd, but recently, Matthew had wormed his way back in. Truth be told, he loved it here. The popular kids did the coolest things, like when Crash had that birthday bash in Manhattan. His dad had rented black limos to transport them, and the party had been in some huge place that used to be a bank. All the boys got to be “escorted” in by past contestants on Dash Maynard’s reality show Hot Models in Lingerie. A famous TV star had DJed the party, and when he introduced “my best friend and our birthday boy,” Crash had ridden in on a white horse, a real horse, and then his father drove in behind him in a red Tesla he’d given his son as a present.

Tonight most of the kids had ended up in the “regular” TV room — a ninety-eight-inch Samsung 4K Ultra HD hanging on the wall. Crash and Kyle played Madden video football, the rest of the gang — Luke, Mason, Kaitlin, Darla, Ryan, and of course Sutton, always Sutton — lay sprawled across upscale beanbag chairs as though some giant being had tossed them from the sky. Most of his friends were high. Caleb and Brianna had gone off to a room down the corridor to take their hookup to the next level.

The room was dark, the blue light from both the television and individual smartphones illuminating his classmates’ faces, turning them a ghostly pale. Sutton was on the right, uncharacteristically on her own. Matthew wanted to take advantage of that opening, and so he looked for a way to move closer to her. He’d had an unrequited crush on Sutton since seventh grade — Sutton with the almost supernatural poise and blond hair and perfect skin and melt-your-bones smile — and she was always nice and friendly and a sixth-degree black belt in how to keep guys like Matthew in the friend zone.

On the big screen, Crash’s video quarterback threw a deep pass that went for a touchdown. Crash jumped up, did a little celebration dance, and shouted at Kyle, “In your face!” This led to some halfhearted laughs from the spectators, all of whom were on their phones. Crash looked around as though he’d expected more in the way of a reaction. But it wasn’t happening.

Not tonight anyway.

There was something in the room, a whiff of fear or desperation.

“We need more munchies?” Crash asked.

No one responded.

“Come on, who’s with me?”

The halfhearted murmurs were enough. Crash hit a button on the intercom. A woman’s Mexican-accented voice said, “Yes, Mr. Crash?”

“Can we get some nachos and quesadillas, Rosa?”

“Of course, Mr. Crash.”

“And can you crush up some of that homemade guac?”

“Of course, Mr. Crash.”

On the screen, Crash kicked off. Luke and Mason drank beers. Kaitlin and Ryan shared a joint while Darla vaped with the latest flavors from Juul. The room had been Crash’s dad’s cigar room and they had done something to it so you couldn’t really smell the new smoke. Kaitlin passed an e-cigarette to Sutton. Sutton took it, but she didn’t put it in her mouth.

Kyle said, “Man, I love Rosa’s guac.”

“Right?”

Crash and Kyle high-fived and then someone, maybe Mason, forced up a laugh. Luke joined in, then Kaitlin, then pretty much everyone except Matthew and Sutton. Matthew didn’t know what they were all laughing about — Rosa’s guacamole? — but the sound had zero authenticity, like they were all trying too hard to be normal.

Mason said, “She check in on the app?”

Silence.

“I was just saying—”

“There’s nothing,” Crash said, interrupting him. “I got an app that gives updates.”

More silence.

Matthew slipped out of the room. He headed toward the relative privacy of the nearby wine cellar. When he closed the door behind him, he sat on a barrel that read Maynard Vineyards — yes, they owned a vineyard too — and called his grandmother.

“Matthew?”

“Did you find her yet?”

“Why are you whispering? Where are you?”

“At Crash’s house. Did you speak to Naomi’s mother?”

“Yes.”

Matthew felt his heart beating in his chest. “What did she say?”

“She doesn’t know where Naomi is.”

He closed his eyes and groaned.

“Matthew, what aren’t you telling us?”

“It doesn’t matter.”

“It does.”

But he couldn’t say anything. Not yet. “Forget I asked, okay?”

“Not okay.”

Through the phone, he heard a male voice say, “Ten seconds to air.” Then someone else mumbled something he couldn’t make out.

“I’ll call you back,” Hester said before disconnecting the call.

As he took the phone away from his ear, a familiar voice said, “Hey.”

He turned to the wine cellar entrance. It was Sutton. She was still blinking away the dark of the TV room.

“Hey,” he said.

Sutton had a bottle of beer in her hand. “You want some?”

He shook his head, afraid that Sutton would think it was gross to share his germs or something. Then again, hadn’t she asked him?

Sutton looked around the wine cellar as if she’d never seen it before, though she had always been with the popular crowd. Always.

“What are you doing in here?” she asked.

Matthew shrugged. “I don’t know.”

“You don’t seem yourself tonight.”

It surprised him that Sutton would notice something like that.

He shrugged again. Man, did he know how to woo girls or what?

Then Sutton said: “She’s fine, you know.”

Just like that.

“Matthew?”

“Do you know where she is?”

“No, but...” Now it was her turn to shrug.

His phone buzzed. He sneaked a peek.

It was from Wilde. Matthew quickly texted back: At Crash Maynard’s.

Sutton stepped toward him. “They’re a little worried about you.”

“Who?”

“Crash and Kyle, the others.” She looked at him with those blue eyes. “Me too.”

“I’m fine.”

Now her phone buzzed. When she read it, her eyes widened. “Oh my God.”

“What?”

She looked up at him with those gorgeous eyes. “Did you...?”

He heard a commotion from down the corridor.

Matthew typed: Shit.

Crash burst into the wine cellar as Matthew hit send on: Something bad is going down.

Kyle came in right behind him. They both had their smartphones in their hands. Crash stormed toward Matthew so fast that Matthew actually put his fists up as though preparing to ward off a blow. Crash stopped, raised his hands in a surrender motion, and smiled.

The smile was oily. Matthew felt something roil in the pit of his stomach.

“Whoa, whoa,” Crash said in a voice that aimed for comforting but slithered down Matthew’s back like a snake. “Let’s slow down here.”

Crash Maynard was surface handsome — wavy dark hair, brooding boy-band expression, thin frame adorned in the latest fashion. When you took a closer look at him, you could see that Crash was nothing special, not in any way really, but as Hester once joked about a rich girl she wanted Matthew to date, “She’s beautiful when she’s standing on her money.”

Crash always wore a big silver smile-skull ring. It looked ridiculous on his thin, smooth finger.

With that oily smile still on his face, Crash lifted his phone and turned it toward Matthew. “Do you want to explain this?”

He pushed down on the screen using the finger with the smile-skull ring. The ring seemed to wink at Matthew. A video sprang to life, starting off with the familiar network news logo. Then his grandmother came on the screen.

A photo of Naomi appeared on the screen.

Oh no...

Matthew felt his stomach tumble. He hadn’t thought about that, that Nana might go live on the air with the story. Or was that what he’d secretly been hoping? He wasn’t surprised by how fast the news — according to the timer on the app, less than two minutes — had disseminated amongst his friends. That was how it worked now. Someone maybe had a news alert on Naomi Pine or maybe a parent had seen the story and right away texted their kid and said, “Doesn’t this girl go to your school?!?!” or maybe someone followed CNN on Twitter. Whatever, that was how it was now, how quickly word got out.

Crash’s smile didn’t flicker. “That’s your grandmother, right?”

“Yeah, but...”

Crash beckoned for more with his smile-skull-ring hand. “But?”

Matthew said nothing.

Crash’s tone was mocking. “Did you say something to Grandma?”

“What?” Matthew tried to look offended by the suggestion. “No, of course not.”

Still smiling — a smile that now eerily echoed the one on his ring — Crash stepped forward and put his hands on Matthew’s shoulders. Then, without the slightest warning, he drove his knee upward, straight into Matthew’s groin. Crash pulled down on Matthew’s shoulders for extra leverage.

The blow lifted Matthew onto his toes.

The pain was immediate, white hot, all-consuming. Tears filled Matthew’s eyes. Every part of his body shut down. His knees caved, and he collapsed to the floor. The pain rose from his stomach, paralyzing his lungs. Matthew pulled his knees to his chest and curled himself into a fetal ball on the floor.

Crash bent down so his mouth was right near Matthew’s ear. “Do you think I’m stupid?”

Matthew’s cheek was pressed against the floorboard. He still couldn’t breathe. It felt as if some part of him was irretrievably broken, as if he would never be right again.

“You drove here with Luke and Mason. They told me you were standing with your grandmother when they picked you up.”

Breathe, Matthew told himself. Try to breathe.

“What did you tell her, Matthew?”

He gritted his teeth and managed to open his eyes. Kyle was by the door on lookout. Sutton was nowhere to be seen. Had she set him up? Would she really do that to...? No. Sutton couldn’t know the story was about to come out or any of that. And she wouldn’t...

“Matthew?”

He looked up, the pain still ripping through him.

“We could kill you and get away with it. You know that, right?”

Matthew stayed frozen. Crash made a fist and showed him the silver skull.

“What did you tell your grandmother?”

Chapter Eight

Two floors above the wine cellar, in a circular turret on the western wing of the massive estate, Dash Maynard and his wife, Delia, sat in burgundy leather wingback armchairs in front of an oversized fireplace with ceramic “white birch” logs and gas-fed flames. This room, an addition they’d put on three years ago, was the “Beauty and the Beast” library and featured floor-to-ceiling built-in oak bookshelves with a rolling ladder on copper rails.

Dash Maynard read a biography on Teddy Roosevelt. He loved history, always had, though he had no interest, thank you very much, in being a part of it. Before he hit it huge with the both famous and infamous self-help talk show The Rusty Show and then in a new genre that the networks dubbed “upscale game-ality” — an awkward blend of “game show” and “reality” — Dash Maynard had been an award-winning documentary filmmaker. He’d won an Emmy for his searing PBS short on the Nanking massacre of 1937. Dash loved research and interviews and on-location filming, but he’d excelled in the editing room, able to take countless hours of video and turn it into a compelling narrative.

Delia Reese Maynard, the chair of the political science department at nearby Reston College, read through student essays. Dash liked to watch her when his wife read student papers — the furrow of the brow, the thinning of her lips, the slow nod when she got excited about a section. Over the summer, Dash and Delia — Double Ds, some jokingly called them — had celebrated their twenty-fifth wedding anniversary by taking their sixteen-year-old son Crash and their fourteen-year-old twin daughters Kiera and Kara on their yacht through the Baltics. During the day, they’d set down the anchor in a secluded island cove to swim and jet-ski and wakeboard. In the afternoons and evenings, they toured ports of call like Saint Petersburg and Stockholm and Riga. It had been a marvelous trip.

Dash thought of that time now, that family vacation away from this damn country, as the calm before the storm.

They were lucky people. He knew that. People liked to classify them as “Hollywood elites,” but Dash had been born and raised in a modest three-family town house in the Bedford-Stuyvesant neighborhood of Brooklyn. Both his parents had taught at Hunter College’s main campus in Manhattan. Dash’s name came from his father’s favorite author, Dashiell Hammett. He and Delia first bonded — really bonded — over old mystery novels when they browsed first editions of Raymond Chandler, Agatha Christie, Ngaio Marsh, and of course, Dashiell Hammett at a used-book store in Washington, DC. At the time, the two barely paid political interns working on Capitol Hill couldn’t afford any first editions. Now this very room housed one of the greatest collections in the world.

As they say, life comes at you fast.

Dash and Delia had spent the last ten years, since Dash’s production company had really hit it big with a prime-time show where big-name celebrities disguise themselves as “ordinary” Americans and live amongst them for six months, trying to balance the fame and money thing with the core values of family and study that they both revered. It was a constantly evolving calibration.

The balance had worked for the most part. Sure, Crash was a little spoiled and acted out, while Kiera had some mild issues with depression, but that seemed to be the norm today. As a couple, Dash and Delia could not have been closer. That was why nights like this — his son throwing a small party downstairs while his parents enjoyed the quiet of each other — meant so much to them.

Dash loved this. He reveled in it. He wanted to live the rest of his life this way.

But he couldn’t.

There was a knock on the library door. Gavin Chambers, a former Marine colonel who now worked in the ever-expanding private security industry, stepped into the room before Dash had a chance to say, “Come in.” Chambers still looked the longtime Marine — the buzz cut, the ramrod posture, the steady gaze.

“What’s the matter?” Dash asked.

Chambers looked over at Delia, as though maybe it would be best if the little lady left. Dash frowned. Delia didn’t move.

“Go on,” Dash said.

“A television report just aired,” Chambers said. “There’s a young girl missing. Her name is Naomi Pine.”

Dash looked at Delia. Delia shrugged.

“And?”

“Naomi goes to school with Crash. They are in several classes together.”

“I’m still not sure—”

“She’s been communicating with your son. Texts mostly. Also the journalist who reported her missing just now? Her name is Hester Crimstein. Her grandson Matthew is downstairs with Crash.”

Delia put the student papers down on the side table. “I still don’t see how this connects to us, Colonel.”

Chambers said, “Neither do I...”

“So?”

“...yet.” Then for emphasis, Chambers repeated the sentence: “Neither do I yet.” He stood at attention and stared straight ahead. “But with all due respect, I don’t believe in coincidences, especially right now.”

“What do you think we should do about it?”

“I think we need to talk to your son and figure out his relationship to Naomi—” His phone buzzed. He put it to his ear with a snap, almost as though he were saluting a superior officer. “Yes?”

After three seconds, Gavin Chambers pocketed the phone.

“Don’t leave this room,” he told them. “There’s been an incident.”

Racing along Skyline Drive toward Maynard Manor — man, what a pompous name — Wilde hoped to feel his phone buzz with another text from Matthew.

It didn’t.

The last text just kept coming back to Wilde, taunting him: Something bad is going down.

Wilde might not go with his gut — that was what he’d told Hester — but as he turned into the manor’s driveway, every instinct told him that he should pay heed to that message.

Something bad is going down.

Maynard Manor sat atop thirty acres of disputed mountain the Ramapough people claimed as their own. There were barns for a dozen horses and a track for steeple jumping and a pool and a tennis court and who knew what else. The centerpiece was an enormous Classical Revival Georgian home, built by an oil tycoon in the Roaring Twenties. The upkeep on the thirty-five-room estate had been so steep that the manor had fallen into disrepair for nearly a quarter century, until Dash Maynard, mega television producer and cable-network owner, and his wife, Delia, swept in and brought the place back to its former splendor and then some.

From the ornate gate where Wilde had to stop, the manor house was still a solid quarter-mile drive up the mountain. Wilde could see some distant lights, but that was about it. He pressed the intercom button while checking his phone, hoping maybe he just didn’t feel the buzz.

Nothing from Matthew.

He sent another text: I’m at the guard gate.

“May I help you?” the intercom said.

Wilde had his driver’s license out. He held it up to the camera.

“I’m here for Matthew Crimstein.”

Silence.

“Matthew is a friend of Crash’s.”

“What’s your relationship to him?”

“To Matthew?”

“Yes.”

Odd question. “I’m his godfather.”

“And what is the purpose of your visit?”

“I’m here to pick him up.”

“He arrived in Mason Perdue’s vehicle. We were told that he was leaving with him.”

“Well, the plans have changed.”

Silence.

Wilde said, “Hello?”

“One moment, please.”

Time passed.

Wilde hit the intercom button again.

No reply.

He pressed down on the button and held it down.

Nothing.

He checked for wires near the gate. None. The fence had no electrocution setup. That was good. It was high with spiked tops, but none of that would be an issue. There were security cameras, of course, lots of them. That didn’t matter to him either. If anything, he wanted to be seen.

Wilde threw the car into park and stepped out. He eyed the gate. Twelve feet high, he guessed. Bars spaced six inches apart. The seam where both halves of the metal gate met would be the way to go. Thicker bar. Get a running start. Just up and over. Wilde had spent his life climbing — mountains, trees, rocks, walls, as a child, as a civilian, as a soldier. This gate, even with the spikes on top of every bar, would offer him little resistance.

He took two large steps toward the gate when he heard the voice from the speaker say, “Halt. Do not—”

He didn’t hear the rest.

Wilde leapt, his foot hitting the bar in midstride. He hoisted himself up, as though running vertically, grabbed the bars with both hands, and tucked his legs. He spun, let go with his left hand, and put his feet out. The soles of his shoes hit the bars on the other side, slowing him. He let go and dropped to the ground as two cars sped toward him.

Not one car. Two.

That seemed like overkill.

Or maybe not. Dash Maynard had been in the news lately. Rumor had it — a rumor Dash Maynard adamantly denied — that he videoed everything when people were on his shows, including conversations in the dressing rooms. Rumor further had it that these videos could take down a lot of top celebrities and politicians, most notably former self-help guru and current United States senator Rusty Eggers, the budding tyrant running for president and gaining ground.

Both cars pointed their headlights at him and screeched to a stop. Four men, two from each car, got out. Wilde kept his hands out where they could see them. The last thing he wanted was for someone to do something stupid.

The two from his left, big men, began to approach him. They both had their chests puffed out, their arms swinging with a little too much alpha preening. One wore a hoodie. The other, the one sporting dyed-Thor locks, had a suit jacket that didn’t fit well.

Didn’t fit well, Wilde noted, because he had a gun holster under the left armpit.

Wilde had known too many guys like these two. They wouldn’t be an issue, except for the weapon. He braced himself, sifting through his options, but the man who got out of the car on the right — close-cropped gray hair, military bearing — held up a hand and stopped them. Clearly the leader.

“Hey there,” Gray Hair shouted to Wilde. “Nice fence hop.”

“Thanks.”

“Please keep your hands visible at all times.”

“I’m not armed.”

“We can’t let you go any farther.”

“I don’t have any interest in going any farther,” Wilde said. “I’m here for my godson, Matthew Crimstein.”

“I understand. But we have a policy.”

“Policy?”

“All the minors who entered tonight had to inform us of how they were leaving,” he began, the very voice of reason. “We clearly explained to them that no one is allowed in unless they are specifically invited or properly vetted. Matthew Crimstein came in with Mason Perdue. That was who Matthew told us he would be leaving with. Now you show up unannounced...”

He spread his hands, not only the voice of reason but the very essence of reason. “Do you see our dilemma?”

“So contact Matthew.”

“We have a policy about not disturbing social gatherings.”

“Lots of policies,” Wilde said.

“Helps keep the order.”

“I want to see my godson.”

“I’m afraid that won’t be possible at this time.” The gate behind him opened. “I’m going to have to ask you to leave now.”

“Yeah, that’s not happening.”

Gray Hair might have smiled.

“I’m going to ask you one more time.”

“Matthew texted me to pick him up now. So that’s what I’m doing.”

“If you’ll just go back to the other side of the gate—”

“Yeah, again, that’s not happening.”

The big guys didn’t like Wilde’s attitude. They furrowed their rather enormous brows. Dyed-Thor turned to Gray Hair, hoping for permission to take this to the next level.

“You have no legal standing, Mr. Wilde.” The use of his name threw him, but only for a millisecond. He’d shown his driver’s license at the gate. “You’re not the boy’s father, are you?”

Gray Hair smiled. He knew the answer, more specifically than just the part about Wilde being Matthew’s godfather, which meant somehow he knew the history.

“More to the point, you’re a trespasser who illegally scaled our security fence.”

They all took a step closer. Wilde stared straight ahead, at the leader, but using his peripheral vision, he could see Thor sidle a little closer, hunching down like he was some sort of invisible ninja. Wilde didn’t shift his eyes.

Gray Hair said, “We would be within our rights to meet your threat with physical force.”

So they were there now, all of them, standing on the same narrow precipice off which so many men over the entire course of human history had slipped and then plunged into bloody violence. Wilde still didn’t believe that they would go there, that they would risk a big incident which might make the news or social media and awaken whatever controversy had finally quieted down. But you never know. That was the thing with the precipice. It was slippery. The best-laid plans do indeed go awry.

Man may be evil or good, that wasn’t the issue. The issue was that man rarely considered the consequences of his actions.

In short, man was often just plain stupid.

That was when it all changed.

At first, the change was noticed only by Wilde. For scant seconds, the knowledge was his and his alone. Two seconds, maybe three, no more. Then, he knew, this advantage — and the change would be, he hoped, an advantage — would be null and void.

Wilde felt what he had come to know as The Disturbance.

There were those who called it an omen or a harbinger or a premonition, something that gave his already heightened capabilities a supernatural undertone. But that wasn’t it. Not really. Over the millenniums, man has adapted both for better and worse. A recent example: Navigation GPS. Studies show that parts of our brain — the hippocampus (the region used for navigation) and the prefrontal cortex (associated with planning) are already changing, perhaps even atrophying, because we now rely on GPS navigation. That’s happened in a few years. But take the whole spectrum of mankind’s history, how we sat in caves and forests, sleeping figuratively with one eye open, no protection, our primitive survival instinct in overdrive, and then think of how that has softened and eroded over the years with the advent of homes and locked doors and civilization’s give and take. But Wilde didn’t have that. From the time he could remember, Wilde grew up with those primitive impulses awakened. He understood before he could articulate it that a predator could attack at any time. He learned to sense it, to be attuned to any sort of Disturbance.

You still see this in nature, of course, in animals with supersensitive hearing or smell or sight, who flee before the danger gets too close. Wilde had this ability too.

So he’d heard the sound. No one else had. Yet.

It was just a rustling. That was all. But someone was running toward them. More than one probably. Someone was in danger and sprinting fast. Someone else was giving chase.

Without so much as glancing away from Gray Hair, Wilde glided a little closer to Thor. He wanted to be as close to the armed man as possible.

A second later, no more, Wilde heard the scream: “Help!”

Matthew.

This was where Wilde had to fight off his instincts and let his training take over. Instinct told him to run toward his godson’s cry. That would be the natural reaction. But Wilde had braced for this moment. The scream, coming from behind Gray Hair and up the hill toward the house, made all heads turn. That, too, was natural and expected. If you hadn’t known that the scream was a possibility, you couldn’t help but react.

Thor looked in the direction of Matthew’s scream too.

And away from Wilde.

That was all the opening Wilde needed. The rest took a second, no more. Spinning with his left elbow at the ready, Wilde struck Thor in the side of his head. At the same time, before Thor could stumble back, Wilde’s right hand dove into the opening of the jacket. His fingers found the butt of the gun in the holster under Thor’s arm.

By the time Matthew yelled “Help!” for a second time, Thor was on the ground, and Wilde had the gun up and aimed, moving the muzzle between Gray Hair and the other two men.

Wilde said, “Breathe wrong and I’ll shoot you dead.”

From the ground, Thor groaned and lunged toward him. Wilde kicked him in the head. The slapping of feet on driveway drew closer. For a second, they all waited. Matthew turned the corner, sprinting seemingly for his life, two other boys not far behind him.

Matthew pulled up, a look of confusion crossing his face. The two other boys did the same.

“Go through the gate,” Wilde told Matthew. “Get in the car.”

“But—”

“Do it.”

One of the boys said, “We were just playing, is all. Tell him, Matthew. Tell him we were just playing.”

Keeping his hands in the air, Gray Hair slid in front of the boy speaking. “Stay behind me, Crash.”

“It’s just a game,” Crash said.

“A game,” Wilde repeated.

“Yeah, it’s called Midnight Skull.” He pointed to the smile-skull ring on his hand. “It’s like night tag. Tell him, Matthew.”

Matthew didn’t move. His eyes were glassy with near tears. In the distance, Wilde heard a car engine start. Reinforcements.

“Matthew, car now!”

Matthew snapped out of it and hurried toward the gate. Walking backward so as to keep the gun aimed at them, Wilde did the same. He kept his eyes on Gray Hair. He was the leader. The others wouldn’t make a move without him. Gray Hair nodded as if to say, It’s okay, get out of here, we won’t stop you.

Ten seconds later, Wilde sped away with Matthew in the seat next to him.

Chapter Nine

Hester was back in her limo when she saw the calls coming in.

She’d expected that. You can’t just drop a bomb like this one about a missing girl and not expect something to explode. It was, in fact, her hope — that someone would come forward or act or make a mistake or do something so that they’d know what really happened. Right now, when you added all the pros and cons, the options and possibilities, Hester figured that the girl had run off and was perhaps contemplating suicide. Not to be too cold and analytical, but if the awful task were already completed, well, there was nothing anyone could do. But if Naomi had taken pills, for example, or slit her wrists, or maybe she was just off someplace, standing on the edge of a high-rise or bridge, then this was the best chance to save her.

Then again — because you have to see every side — maybe Hester’s pushing would do the opposite. Maybe it would make the girl panic and act or, if she were being held, maybe it would make the kidnappers react with violence. Hester understood the risks. But she was not a woman who took stock in inaction.

The first call she took had a caller ID that read CHIEF WESTVILLE POLICE. That would be Oren, she thought.

“That was fast,” Hester said.

“Huh?”

“I mean, I’m flattered, Oren, but next time, wait a few days. It makes you look a little desperate.”

“Uh, I am a little desperate. What the hell was that report, Hester?”

“You saw it? Thanks for being a fan.”

“Do I sound like I’m in the mood?”

“Something isn’t right with Naomi’s disappearance,” Hester said.

“Then you should come to me.”

“I did, remember?”

“I do. So what changed?”

“Her father said Naomi was with the mother. The mother said she’s not with her. Her teacher—”

“Wait, you talked to her teacher.”

“Art teacher or guidance counselor or something, I don’t remember. Ava something.”

“When did you have time to talk to her?”

This part would not go so smoothly. “I didn’t. Wilde did.”

Silence.

“Oren?”

“Wilde? You got Wilde involved in this?”

“Look, Oren, I probably should have given you a heads-up before I went on the air—”

“Probably?”

“—but I have a really bad feeling. You need to put some resources into this.”

Silence.

“Oren?”

“Matthew put you onto this,” Oren said. “Why?”

Now it was her turn to be silent.

“Whatever your grandson is hiding, he has to come clean now. You know this.”

As they sped off from Maynard Manor, Wilde asked, “What happened?”

“It’s like Crash said,” Matthew said through a wince. He was still trying to catch his breath. “We were playing a game.”

“You’re going to lie to me now?”

Matthew blinked back the tears. “You can’t tell Mom.”

“I’m not going to.”

“Good.”

“Because you are.”

“No way. I’ll tell you, but we can’t tell her.”

“Sorry, it isn’t going to work that way.”

“Then I’m not telling you a thing.”

“Yeah, Matthew, you are. You’re going to tell me what happened. And then you’re going to tell your mother.”

He hung his head.

“Matthew?”

“Okay.”

“So what happened?”

“Did you know what Nana was going to do?”

“Do?”

“She went on the air about Naomi. She told everyone she’s missing.”

Wilde had wondered whether that was going to be her next move. Hester had been worried about leads drying up. What better way to beat the brush?

“What did she say?”

“I didn’t really hear it,” Matthew said. “But Crash and Kyle and the others did.”

“And they got upset?”

Matthew started blinking.

“Matthew?”

“Crash kneed me in the balls.” More tears came to Matthew’s eyes. A few spilled out.

Wilde felt his hands tighten on the steering wheel.

“They wanted to know what I told her. I rolled away. When I saw an opening, I ran.”

“You’re okay now?”

“Yeah.”

“You want me to take you to a doctor?”

“No, I’ll be a little sore, I guess.”

“Most likely. Does Crash have something to do with Naomi?”

“I don’t know. It’s...”

“It’s what?”

“You can’t tell anyone, okay? About Naomi. About tonight.”

“We’ve already been through this, Matthew.”

“I’ll figure out how to tell Mom. But tomorrow, okay? Tonight I don’t want to say anything.”

As he turned onto Matthew’s street, he heard the whoop of a siren and the blue squad-car lights came on. A voice over the loudspeaker said, “Pull over immediately.” They were right down the street from the house, no more than two hundred yards, so Wilde signaled out the window that he was going to cruise up to it. The car hit the siren again and spun right alongside them.

The familiar voice over the loudspeaker — they both knew Oren Carmichael — said in a tone that left no room for argument: “Immediately!”

To Wilde’s surprise, Oren cut them off with his squad car, forcing them to the curb. Oren opened his car door and made his way toward them. By the time he arrived, Wilde had the window down.

“What the hell, Oren. You know we live right down the block.”

Oren arched an eyebrow. “We?”

Mistake, Wilde thought. “I meant Matthew, this car. You know what I mean.”

Oren looked inside the car. He nodded at Matthew. Matthew said, “Hey, Chief.”

“Where are you coming from, son?”

Wilde said, “Maynard Manor.”

“Why were you there?”

“Why would you care?” Wilde countered.

Oren ignored him. “Son?”

“I was at a party,” Matthew said.

Oren took a longer look at Matthew now. “You don’t look so good, Matthew.”

“I’m fine.”

“You sure?”

Wilde wasn’t sure whether they should tell Oren about the incident in the house or not. Before he had a chance to say anything, Matthew said, “I’m fine, Coach. We were playing Midnight Skull.”

“What?”

“It’s like tag or something. Running around outside. That’s why I look like this.”

Oren Carmichael frowned. He glanced at Wilde. Wilde gave him nothing. Then Oren said, “Why did you ask your grandmother to look for Naomi Pine?”

Ah, Wilde thought, so that explained the sudden stop. Oren wanted to corner Matthew alone — away from both his mother and grandmother, two renowned attorneys — so he could get less evasive responses.

Wilde said, “Don’t answer.”

Oren didn’t like that. “What?”

“I’m telling him not to answer.”

“You don’t have any legal standing here, Wilde.”

“Yeah, I’ve been hearing that a lot tonight. But I’m not letting you question him without his mother present.”

“I don’t know where Naomi is,” Matthew blurted out. “That’s the truth.”

“So why did you ask your grandmother to find her?”

“I’m just worried about her, okay? She hasn’t been in school and...”

“And?”

Wilde said, “Matthew, not another word.”

“And kids pick on her, is all.”

“Are you one of those kids, Matthew?”

Wilde put his hand up. “Okay, that’s it. This conversation is over.”

“Like hell—”

Wilde restarted the car.

“Turn that engine off right now,” Oren snapped.

“You charging us with something?”

“No.”

“Then we are on our way. You can follow us to Matthew’s house if you’d like.”

But Oren didn’t follow them.

As Wilde pulled the car into Laila’s driveway, the front door opened. It was dark now, but with the light behind her, Wilde could make out Laila’s silhouette standing in the doorway. She held her hand up high and awkwardly waved. When Wilde and Matthew got closer, he could see that she was holding her mobile phone.

“There’s a call for you,” she said to Wilde. Then she added: “On my phone.”

He nodded, and she handed it to him. He put the phone to his ear.

“We good?”

It was Gray Hair. Wilde wasn’t surprised. They would have seen the license plate. Guys with his kind of juice would have no trouble getting a registration, a name, an address, phone numbers both home and mobile. Laila was the car’s owner. That would be the number they’d try.

“I guess,” Wilde said.

“Crash may have acted inappropriately.”

“Uh-huh.”

“But the boy is under a lot of pressure. We hope you’ll understand.”

“There’s a missing girl,” Wilde said.

“He doesn’t know anything about her.”

“So why’s he under a lot of pressure?”

“Other things.”

“Can I ask your name?” Wilde said.

“Why?”

“Because you know mine.”

There was a pause. “Gavin Chambers.”

“As in Chambers Security? As in Colonel Chambers?”

“Retired colonel, yes.”

Whoa, Wilde thought. The Maynards were not messing around when it came to security. He was tempted to move away so Laila wouldn’t hear, but from the look on her face, that would only get him in hot water.

“Do you know what Crash did to Matthew, Colonel?”

Laila’s eyes widened when she heard that.

“We have CCTV in the basement area,” Gavin replied.

“So you saw it?”

“I did. Sadly, that particular footage no longer exists. Accidental deletion. You know how it is.”

“I do.”

“Will you accept our apologies?”

“I wasn’t the one assaulted.”

“Will you please pass them to young Matthew then?”

Wilde said nothing.

“It’s my job to keep the Maynards safe, Mr. Wilde. There is much more at stake here than a teenage brawl.”

“Like what?”

But Chambers didn’t answer. “I know you’re good at what you do. But I’m good too. And I have vast resources. If there is conflict between us, it probably won’t end well. There will be collateral damage. Do I make myself clear?”

Wilde looked at Laila and Matthew. The collateral damage.

“I’m not a big fan of threats, Colonel.”

“Neither one of us wants to spend our lives looking over our shoulders, correct?”

“Correct.”

“That’s why I’m extending a hand of friendship.”

“Friendship seems a bit strong.”

“I agree. More like, to quote the French, détente. You can keep the gun, by the way. We have plenty of others. Good night, Mr. Wilde.”

He hung up. Laila said, “What the hell was that?”

Wilde handed her phone back. His mind was working overtime. The immediate threat — the one he’d worried most about — was that Maynard’s guys would come after them. That threat seemed to be neutralized for now. Matthew was home. He was safe. So now Wilde turned his attention back to Naomi Pine.

The father had told Hester that Naomi was with the mother. That was a lie. It seemed obvious that Naomi’s father was thus the place to start.

Laila asked, “Did that call have something to do with Naomi Pine?”

Matthew let out a small groan. “You know about that?”

“Everyone knows about that. After your grandmother’s report, the school sent out an emergency text. All the parent boards on social media are lighting up. Do you want to tell me what’s going on, please?”

“Matthew will,” Wilde said, tossing her the car keys. “I have to go.”

“Wait, go where?”

It would take too long to explain. “I’ll try to come back, if that’s okay.”

“Wilde?”

“Matthew will explain.”

He turned and ran toward the woods.

Chapter Ten

There is a theory, introduced by psychologist Anders Ericsson and made popular by Malcolm Gladwell, that ten thousand hours of practice makes you an expert in a given field. Wilde didn’t buy it, though he understood the appeal in the simplicity of such encouraging pop slogans.

He sped now through the woods, his eyes already accustomed to the dark. Theories like Ericsson’s didn’t take into account intensity and immersion. Wilde had run through woods like these since before he could remember. Alone. Adapting. Surviving. It wasn’t practice. It was life. It was ingrained. It was survival. Yes, the hours mattered. But intensity matters more. Imagine if you have no choice. If you hike through the forest for fun or because your dad likes it, it isn’t the same as being forcibly immersed, of knowing the woods well or dying. You can’t fake that. A man does an experiment, tries to see what it’s like to be blind, so he covers his eyes — no, sorry, that isn’t the same thing as being blind. You can always take the blindfold off. It’s voluntary and controlled and safe. Some coaches tell kids to play like their life depends on it. That’s probably sound motivational advice, but if your life doesn’t depend on it — and it doesn’t — the intensity will pale compared to the real thing.

The best athletes? It is life and death, in their minds. Now imagine how much better they’d be if the stakes were really that high.

That was Wilde in the woods.

As he got closer to the Pine residence, he spotted a squad car and three news vans from local stations. The scene wasn’t frantic — this wasn’t the biggest story of the year or anything like that — but the news van had obviously heard Hester’s report and the cops had in turn asked them to move down the block away from the house. Wilde spotted Oren Carmichael by the Pines’ front door, talking to a guy who had to be the father, Bernard Pine. The father seemed upset, not about a missing daughter but about the police and media intrusion. He gestured wildly while Carmichael kept showing him his palms to calm him down.

Wilde’s phone double-buzzed, indicating an incoming text. He checked and saw it was from Ava O’Brien:

He was tempted not to reply. But that didn’t feel right. Not yet.

There was the moving-dots pause. Then Ava wrote: Come over tonight. I’ll leave the door unlocked.

More moving dots: I miss you, Wilde.

He pocketed the phone without a reply. Ava would get the message, much as he hated to send it this way.

Wilde crept out of the woods. He kept low and headed toward the neighboring backyard. No one spotted him. He stayed down. Naomi’s father finished whatever he had to say to Oren and slammed the door. For several seconds, Oren Carmichael didn’t move, almost as if he expected the door to reopen. When it didn’t, he turned away and headed for his car. Another cop — this one far younger — met him there.

“Keep the press back,” Carmichael said.

“Yes, Chief. Are we going in?”

Oren frowned. “Going in?”

“You know, like doing a search of the house.”

“The father says she’s safe.”

“But that reporter on TV—”

“A TV report is not evidence,” Oren snapped. “Get the press out of here.”

“Yes, Chief.”

When the kid left, Wilde saw no harm. He stood upright and approached the car. Because he’d had enough with itchy fingers, he called out as soon as he could possibly be seen. “Oren?”

Carmichael turned. When he saw who it was, he frowned. “Wilde? What are you doing here?”

“What did the father say about Naomi?”

“Not your business, is it?”

“You know he lied to Hester, right?”

Oren Carmichael sighed. “Why on earth did Hester involve you in this?”

“The father told Hester that Naomi is with her mother.”

“And maybe she is.”

“Is that what he told you just now?”

“He said she’s safe. He asked me to respect her privacy.”

“And you’re going to do that?”

“Neither parent has filed a missing person report.”

“So?”

“So it’s almost midnight. You want me to kick his door down?”

“Naomi could be in danger.”

“And what, you think the father killed her or something?”

Wilde didn’t answer.

“Exactly,” Oren said, clearly exhausted by it all. “This is a girl who has run away before. My guess? That’s what this is.”

“Maybe it’s something worse.”

Oren slid into the driver’s seat. “If that’s true, we’ll find that out, too, eventually.” He stared up from the squad car. “Go home, Wilde.”

He drove off as Wilde headed back to the woods. He stopped behind the first tree and slipped on a thin black mask that covered everything except his eyes. He kept it with him always. The world now had more CCTV cameras than people. Or so it seemed. You never know. So Wilde, who had a thing about privacy in this privacyless world, always came prepared.

When Oren’s squad car was out of sight, Wilde circled back so that he was now behind the Pine house. There were lights on in the kitchen, one upstairs bedroom, and in the basement. As a child, he had broken into countless lake homes and summer cabins. He’d learned to silently case them, circle them, check the driveways and lights, see who if anyone was home. To break in, he’d search for unlocked doors or windows (you’d be surprised how often it was that simple), then move on to other means. If the locks were too strong or the alarm system too complicated, young Wilde would search for another house. Most of the time, even as a child, he had known to leave no trace of his being there. If he slept in a bed, for example, he made sure that it was made the next morning. If he ate their food or needed supplies, he was careful not to consume or steal too much, so that the owners wouldn’t notice.

Had someone taught him all this when he was too young to remember? Or was it instinctive? He didn’t know. In the end, man is an animal. An animal does what it has to do to survive.

It was probably that simple.

The phone in his pocket buzzed. The phone was a personally designed burner. That was all he used and never for more than a week or two. At night, he turned it off. He didn’t keep it with him — he knew that, even when the phone was off, it was possible to trace — and usually left it buried in a steel box by the road.

It was Hester: “Are you with Laila?”

“No.”

“Where are you then?”

“Casing Naomi’s house.”

“You have a plan?”

“I do.”

“Tell me.”

“You don’t want to know,” he said.

Wilde hung up and moved closer to the house. Loads of homes now had motion detector lights that snap on when you approach. If that were to be the case, Wilde would simply sprint back into the woods. No harm, no foul. But no lights came on. Good. He kept close to the house. The closer to the wall, the less chance of being seen.

He checked the kitchen window. Bernard Pine, Naomi’s father, sat at the table and played with his phone. He looked nervous. Wilde circled the perimeter and peered in through the first-floor windows. No one else present, no other movement.

Wilde bent down and checked the basement windows. The shades were drawn all the way — blackout shades — but Wilde still spotted the small sliver of light.

Someone down there maybe?

He had little trouble climbing onto the second-floor overhang. He worried about the structure, if it could hold his weight, but he decided to risk it. There was a light in a corridor that shone through what appeared to be the father’s bedroom. He climbed toward the corner back window, cupped his hands against the glass, and looked into the room.

A computer monitor displaying a dancing-lines screen saver provided the only illumination. The walls were blank. There were no posters of teen heartthrobs or favorite rock groups or any of the expected teenage girl clichés, except, perhaps, the bed, which was low to the floor and blanketed with stuffed animals — dozens of them, maybe hundreds, in various sizes and colors, mostly bears but there were giraffes and monkeys and penguins and elephants. It was hard to see how Naomi could fit in the bed with all of them. She must have just jumped in, like she was living inside one of those claw-crane arcade games.

Naomi was an only child, so Wilde was pretty sure that this was her bedroom.

The window was locked with a vinyl lever sash lock with keeper. Routine security for a second-floor room. Most burglars don’t scale walls to reach second floors. Wilde was, of course, different. He reached into his wallet and plucked out a loid — short for “celluloid” — card. Better than a credit card. More flexible. He slid the loid between the two sash frames and moved the lever into the unlocked position. It was that simple. Five seconds later, he was inside the room.

So now what?

Quick check of the closet revealed the following: a pink Fjällräven Kånken backpack on the top shelf, clothes neatly hung, no bare hangers. Meaning? He wasn’t sure. The backpack was empty. If she’d run away, wouldn’t she have packed it? Wouldn’t there be some signs of missing clothes?

Nothing conclusive, but interesting.

There was a time, Wilde imagined, where it would pay to check the desk drawers or perhaps look under the pillow or mattress for a diary, but nowadays most teens keep their secrets in their tech devices. The phone would be better to search, of course, the place we store our lives, and no, that wasn’t a comment on today’s youth. Adults too. Mankind has surrendered any pretense of privacy to those devices for the sake of... hard to say what. Convenience, he guessed. Artificial connections maybe, which might be better than no connection at all.

But it was not for him. Then again, real connections didn’t seem to be his bag either.

Had the police tried to ping Naomi’s location via her phone?

Maybe. Probably. Either way, he texted Hester to give it a try.

Naomi’s desktop computer had been left running. He moved the mouse, afraid that there might be a password blocking access. There wasn’t. He brought up her web browser. Naomi’s email information — name and password — had been saved for easy access. She was NaomiFlavuh, which seemed sweet and a little sad. He clicked and got in right away. He almost rubbed his hands together, hoping that he had hit the mother lode. He hadn’t. The emails couldn’t have been more innocuous — class assignments, college recruitment spams, coupons and offers from the Gap and Target and retailers unknown to Wilde with names like Forever 21 and PacSun. Kids today, he knew from his interactions with Matthew, text or use some sort of parent-proof app. They don’t email.

He stopped for a moment and listened. Nothing. No one coming up the stairs. He moved the mouse’s cursor up to the top and hit the history button. He hoped that Naomi hadn’t cleared her cache recently.

She hadn’t.

There were searches on eBay for stuffed animals. There were links to forums and Reddits that talked about collecting stuffed animals. Wilde glanced behind him at the bed. The stuffed animals had been laid out with some care. Several animals stared back at him. He thought about that for a second, about this girl who had been bullied all her life, how she must have rushed home after school, fleeing the taunts and abuse, maybe leaping high onto her bed, escaping into this lonely, self-created menagerie.

The thought flooded him with a surprising rage.

People had bullied this girl her whole life. If someone did more to her, if someone went the extra mile or forced her to do something desperate...

He bottled it and turned back to the task at hand. He still had the mask on his face. If by some chance Bernard Pine were to come upstairs or spot him — unlikely, really — Wilde would blow past him and run away. There would be nothing to identify him. His height and build — six feet, one eighty-five — would give them nothing.

Whoa. Pay dirt.

Naomi had been researching her classmates. There were six, maybe seven of them, but two names stuck out right away. One was Matthew’s. The other was Crash Maynard’s. The searches on Matthew — as well as his other classmates — were surface and quick. Did this mean anything? Or did teens Google each other all the time? You meet someone, you search online about them. Of course, Naomi had known these kids forever. She had grown up with them, gone to school with them, been a victim of their taunts and blows.

So why now?

He skimmed down through the rest of her Google searches. Nothing much stood out, except for an odd two-word search followed by an odd three-word search:

He focused on the added word: Missing.

He clicked through the links. As he started reading, his heart sank. He was midway through the pages when he heard a noise that startled him.

Footsteps.

Not close. Not coming up toward him. That was what was odd. There was only one person in the house. The father. Bernard Pine. He was in the kitchen. But these steps weren’t coming from the kitchen. In fact, now that he thought about it, he had not heard a sound coming from downstairs the entire time he had been up here.

The footsteps were faint. They were coming from inside the house, but...

Wilde closed down the browser and slipped across the room and into the corridor. He looked down the stairs. The footsteps were louder. Wilde could hear a voice now. Sounded like Bernard Pine. Who was he talking to? Wilde couldn’t make out the words. He crept closer to the top of the stairs so he could hear better.

The door beneath the stairs flew open.

The basement door.

Wilde jumped back. The voice was clear now, easy to understand.

“It was on the goddamn news! That woman was here too. What do you mean, who? That lawyer from TV, the one who did the report.”

Bernard Pine closed the basement door behind him.

“The cops just came. Yes, the chief, Carmichael, he knocked on the door. They’re probably still...” Wilde had his back pressed against the wall, but he risked a look. Bernard Pine had his mobile phone in one hand. With the other, he pushed aside a curtain and looked out into his front yard.

“I don’t see them right now, no. But I can’t... I mean, Carmichael might be right down the block, watching. There were news vans here too... We are probably being watched.”

We? Wilde thought.

Unless Pine considered himself royalty, “we” meant more than one person. Except that Wilde had cased the house. He had only spotted one person. Bernard Pine. If someone else was here, there was only one place that person could be.

The basement.

“Yeah, Larry, I know you told me not to do this, but I didn’t think I had a choice. I don’t want to get caught. That’s the big thing now.”

Pine hurried up toward the stairwell where Wilde stood on the landing. He was hustling now, jumping the steps two at a time. Relying on reflexes, Wilde dove back into Naomi’s bedroom and rolled toward a corner. Pine passed him on the landing without glancing into his daughter’s room.

The basement, Wilde thought.

He didn’t wait long. The moment Pine was past the door and in his own bedroom, Wilde came out. Moving on the balls of his feet — not the toes, the toes made noise — he padded down the steps. He spun to his right and came to the basement door. He tried the knob. It turned.

He opened the basement door silently, stepped inside, closed it behind him.

There was a faint light below him. Wilde had two choices here. Choice One: Tiptoe down the steps and sneak slowly toward whatever was to be found. Choice Two: Go for it.

Wilde went for Choice Two.

He took off his mask and strolled down the cellar stairs. He didn’t disguise it. He didn’t hurry nor did he dawdle. When Wilde arrived at the bottom, he turned toward the light.

Naomi opened her mouth.

“Don’t scream,” Wilde said to her. “I’m here to help you.”

Chapter Eleven

The basement had been finished on the cheap. The walls were faux wood made of some kind of vinyl, stuck up on the concrete with adhesive. The sofa was a hand-me-down convertible that was right now open into a queen-sized bed.

It was blanketed with stuffed animals.

Naomi Pine sat on the sofa’s armrest, her shoulders slumped, her eyes down, so that her hair hung in front of her face like a beaded curtain. She wasn’t skinny, which in today’s world was to say she was probably overweight, but Wilde didn’t really know. She was neither pretty nor ugly, and while her looks should be irrelevant, they weren’t, not in the real world and especially not in the teen world. So he looked at her, at her whole being, and it stirred his heart. In truth, if he could be totally objective and maybe it was the history of the situation talking, Naomi Pine looked, above all else, like an easy target. That was indeed the vibe. Some people look smart or dumb or strong or cruel or weak or brave or whatever. Naomi looked like she was always in mid-cringe, as though she were asking the world not to hit her, and that just made the world sneer in her face.

“I know you,” Naomi said. “You’re the boy from the woods.”

Not exactly accurate. Or maybe it was.

“Your name is Wilde, right?”

“Yes.”

“You’re our boogie man, you know.”

Wilde said nothing.

“Like, parents tell little kids not to go in the woods because the Wild Man will grab them and eat them or something. And like, when kids tell ghost stories or try to scare each other, you’re kinda the star of the show.”

“Terrific,” Wilde said. “Are you scared of me?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“I’m drawn to outcasts,” she said.

He tried to smile. “Me too.”

“You ever read To Kill a Mockingbird?” she asked him.

“Yes.”

“You’re like our Boo Radley.”

“I guess that would make you Scout.”

“Yeah, right,” Naomi said with a roll of her eyes, and his heart felt it again.

“Who is Larry? I heard your dad on the phone.”

“He’s my uncle. He lives in Chicago.” Naomi lowered her head. “Are you going to tell?”

“No.”

“So you’ll just leave?”

“If you want.” Wilde moved closer to her and made his tone as gentle as he could. “The Challenge,” he said.

Naomi looked up at him. “How do you know about that?”

He’d seen it on her computer, but he’d also remembered reading about it a few years back. The article had called it the 48-Hour-Challenge, though it was later dismissed as an urban legend. It was an online game of sorts, albeit a fairly awful one. Teens would vanish on purpose so that their parents would panic and think that their child had been kidnapped or worse. The longer you “disappeared,” the more points you’d accumulate.

“It doesn’t matter,” Wilde said. “You were playing it, right?”

“I still don’t understand. Why are you here?”

“I was looking for you.”

“Why?”

“Someone was worried.”

“Who?”

He hesitated. Then he figured, why not. “Matthew Crimstein.”

She may have smiled. “Figures.”

“Figures why?”

“He probably blames himself. Tell him he shouldn’t.”

“Okay.”

“He just wants to fit in too.”

Wilde could hear movement from upstairs. Her dad no doubt. “What happened, Naomi?”

“You ever read self-help books?”

“No.”

“I do. All the time. My life...” She stopped, blinked back tears, shook her head. “Anyway, they always talk about making small changes. The self-help books. I tried that. It doesn’t work. Everyone still hates me. You know what that’s like? Every day to feel your whole insides twist up because you’re scared to go to school?”

“No,” Wilde said. “But it must suck.”

She liked that answer. “It does. Big time. But I don’t want you to feel sorry for me, okay?”

“Okay.”

“Promise?”

He crossed his heart with his right hand.

“Anyway,” Naomi said, “I decided to go for it.”

“Go for what?”

“Change.” Her face lit up. “Total change. One big move, one big thing, so I could erase my past as a loser and start again. Do you get that?”

He said nothing.

“So yeah, I took the challenge. I disappeared. At first, I hid in the woods.” She managed a smile. “I wasn’t scared of you at all.”

He smiled back.

“I lasted two days.”

“Was it rough?”

“No, I liked it actually. Out there. On my own. You get that, right?”

“I do.”

“Heck, you probably get it better than anyone,” she said. “It was like an escape, a reprieve. But my dad, look, he’s not the most on the ball. What I am, okay, I mean, me being a loser—”

“You’re not a loser.”

Naomi shot him a look that told him he was patronizing her and she was disappointed by it. He held up his hands as though to say, My bad.

“Anyway, it’s not his fault. All this. But he doesn’t make it better either, you know what I mean?”

“I think so.”

“So I was gone two days, and he started texting. He was going to go to the police, which is part of the game, right. Also... I was worried he’d start drinking too much. Whatever, anyway, I didn’t want that. So I came home, even though I knew forty-eight hours wouldn’t be enough. Then I told my dad what I was doing.”

Wilde heard the footsteps now. He didn’t turn, didn’t worry. “And your dad decided to help?”

“He got it right away. He thinks I’m a loser too.” Naomi held up her hand. “Don’t say it.”

“Okay.”

“I just wanted to, you know, fit in. Impress them.”

“By them, you mean Crash Maynard?”

“Crash, Kyle, Sutton, all of them.”

Wilde wanted to launch into a little speech about how you shouldn’t want to impress bullies or how trying to fit in was always the wrong move, that you should stay true to yourself and stick to your principles and stand up to the abuse — but he was sure that Naomi had heard it all before and he would again sound patronizing. Naomi knew all the angles here better than he ever could. She’d lived them every day. He hadn’t. She hoped that this move — the Challenge — would make her “cooler,” and who knows, maybe she was right. Maybe Crash and his cohorts would be impressed when she came back. Maybe it would change everything for her.

Who the hell was he to tell her it wouldn’t work?

“My dad had the idea. I could just hide down here. He’d just pretend to be worried.”

“But then the cops showed up for real.”

“Right. We didn’t count on that. And he can’t tell the truth. Imagine if that gets out — what he’d done, what I’d done. I mean, I’d get demolished in school. So he’s freaking out right about now.”

The basement door opened. From the top of the stairs, Bernard Pine called down. “Naomi?”

“It’s okay, Dad.”

“Who are you talking to, honey?”

Naomi’s smile was bright now. “A friend.”

Wilde nodded. He wanted to ask whether there was anything he could do, but he already knew the answer. He headed toward the basement stairs. Bernard Pine’s eyes widened when he came into view.

“Who the—?”

“I was just leaving,” Wilde said.

“How did you...?”

Naomi said, “It’s okay, Dad.”

Wilde walked up the stairs. As he passed Bernard Pine, he stuck out his hand. Pine took it. Wilde handed him a card. No name, just a phone number.

“If I can help,” Wilde said.

Pine glanced toward the windows. “The police might see you...”

But Wilde shook his head and started toward the back door. He had his mask in his hand now. “They won’t.”

One minute later, Wilde was back in the woods.

As Wilde headed back toward Laila’s, he called Hester.

“Naomi is fine.”

He explained.

When he finished, Hester shouted, “Are you shitting me?”

“This is good news,” he said. “She’s safe.”

“Oh, great, fine, she’s safe, la-di-dah. But in case you missed it, I just went live on air saying a teenage girl went missing. Now you tell me she’s hiding in her own basement. I’m going to look like a fool.”

“Ah,” Wilde said.

“Ah?”

“That’s all I got. Ah.”

“And all I got is my reputation. Well, that and my good looks.”

“It’ll be okay, Hester.”

She sighed. “Yeah, I know. You going back to the house?”

“Yes.”

“So you’ll tell Matthew?”

“I’ll tell him enough of it.”

“And then you’ll go to bed with Laila?”

He didn’t reply.

“Sorry,” she said.

“Get some sleep, Hester.”

“You too, Wilde.”

The next day, Naomi was back in school. She hoped no one would ask too many questions. But they did. Soon her story collapsed, and the truth — that she had “cheated” in the game of Challenge — came to light.

If school life had been hell for Naomi before, this latest revelation raised that hell to the tenth power.

A week later, Naomi Pine disappeared again.

Everyone assumed that she’d run away.

Four days after that, a severed finger was found.