I stood up on my toes to try to see above the heads in the crowd, on the lookout for the sheriff. Instead, my eyes were drawn to a middle-aged woman being propped up by a tall, stoic-looking man. The couple stood near the post office, a bit away from the fray in front of the police station. The woman’s face was distorted, her mouth open wide as if she were wailing, though she was making no sound. Her hands clutched at the shirt of the man next to her, then fell to her sides, useless. It took me a moment to recognize them.
Cassidy Jones’s parents.
Dex was also looking at the couple, his mouth drawn into a thin line. I tried to think of something to say, but came up with nothing.
“Let’s go around,” Dex finally said.
But I couldn’t look away from Mrs. Jones, who had the same freckles as her daughter. I barely knew her, but Cassidy had had a life. Family, school, boyfriend. A favorite TV show, drama with her friends, unopened snaps on her phone.
Plans for the future.
And now all that was gone, wiped out forever. I pulled my eyes away and followed Dex to the alley next to the police station. We didn’t get more than a few feet before a shrill voice yelled, “She’s here! That’s who found them!”
I turned to see Emily Jennings standing on the sidewalk, her brown bob shining in the sunlight, one long arm outstretched and pointing straight at me. So many heads swiveled in my direction, all at once.
A woman in a lime-green blouse with a microphone clenched in her fist reached me first. Her expression was one of concern but also of interest, and as she raised the microphone up to her mouth I realized I was looking into the face of the woman I wanted to be someday.
So I only minded a little when her first words were, “Is it true? Did you find the bodies?”
Dex reached out and pulled on my sleeve, looking a bit shell-shocked as the cameras surrounded us, pinning us in place. But they were just doing a job. As hard and uncomfortable as it might be, they just wanted to get to the truth. And I could help them with that.
I straightened my shoulders. “Yes. It’s true.”
“What’s your name?” The woman asked. The microphone in her hand read WKBM News.
“Penny Hardjoy.”
I heard a snicker from my right, and looked up to see Reese standing by Emily. Her eyes narrowed when she saw me watching her, and she mouthed, attention whore.
I turned back to the woman in the lime-green shirt, swallowing hard.
“Can you tell us a little bit about what you found? Were the bodies recognizable?”
“That’s enough,” a voice cut through the crowd. I looked up to see the sheriff pushing his way over to me. “This girl’s a witness in an ongoing investigation. And a minor.”
He didn’t wait for the journalist to respond, instead putting one hand on my shoulder and leading me through the crowd, away from the cameras.
“You should get on home, Penny,” he said, low and into my ear.
“I came to talk to you, Sheriff. It’s important.”
He gave a terse nod. “Go on and wait inside. I’ll just be a moment.” Then he walked to the front of the station, facing the entire crowd. The camera lenses followed him like moths following a light.
Instead of going inside the building, I moved a bit into the shadows near the side door, where I could hear whatever the sheriff was going to say. Dex silently moved to stand next to me.
The sheriff cleared his throat. “Good morning. The Charlevoix County Sheriff’s Office, along with the Bone Lake PD, is prepared to issue a statement on the two bodies found last night near North Lake. We have identified the remains as those belonging to seventeen-year-old Bryan Ryder and sixteen-year-old Cassidy Jones.”
A murmur ran through the crowd, even though it didn’t seem like this could be a surprise to anyone at this point.
“Do you know how they died?” the woman in the lime-green blouse asked, pushing her microphone forward.
“How long have they been dead?” a man next to her asked.
“I will not be answering questions at this time,” the sheriff continued. “But I will conclude my statement by saying foul play is suspected. We also suspect that these two deaths might be connected to that of John Forrest, the hiker who was found near Raskers’ Field in February. While we have no main suspect at this time, we are searching for a person of interest named Ike Hardjoy, a Bone Lake native who disappeared shortly after Bryan and Cassidy went missing. If you have any leads on Hardjoy’s whereabouts, please direct them to the sheriff’s office. Thank you.”
The sheriff moved quickly away from the crowd of reporters, back toward the front door of the station. My own feet felt like lead.
“Person of interest?” Dex asked, his eyebrows furrowed. “That doesn’t sound good.”
“No, it doesn’t,” I whispered, my throat going tight. “He thinks my dad’s the killer.”
Sixteen
“HOW COULD HE possibly think that about Ike?” Dex asked, one step behind me as I walked quickly under the fluorescent lights of the sheriff’s office. “He’s not dangerous—he’s the one in danger out there!”
“Guess that’s not what the cops are thinking right now,” I said, pausing just before we got to the front desk to keep our voices out of earshot of the secretary there. “If they really thought my dad was in danger, then they’d have said that. They’d launch a manhunt or something. But ‘person of interest’? That’s suspect talk.”
Dex shook his head. “But the sheriff knows your dad. There’s no way he’d think Ike could do something like . . . this.”
Adultery was a far cry from murder, but I knew Sheriff Harper had no reason to give my dad the benefit of the doubt.
“We just have to talk to him. Convince him my dad’s in danger, not a threat.”
But even as I spoke the words, I felt a twinge of doubt. I was positive the email I’d been sent wasn’t from my dad, but did that necessarily mean he had nothing to do with what was happening in the woods of Bone Lake? All I really had was my gut feeling that my dad, despite his faults, wasn’t a killer. And yet . . . my gut had once told me that monsters were real, and that had turned out to be wrong. My gut also once told me that my dad loved my mom and would never hurt her, and that had turned out to be wrong, too.
So maybe my gut couldn’t be trusted. Which meant I had to fall back on facts. And right now, I wasn’t working with very many of them.
A deputy led Dex and me to the same back hall where I’d sat with Micah the night before. After twenty minutes, the sheriff finally opened his office door and beckoned us inside. Up close and in the harsh yellow lighting of the room, he looked like he hadn’t slept in days. He sighed heavily as he took a seat at his desk.
“You have something you need to tell me?”
I sat up straighter and grabbed the folded piece of paper from my pocket; I’d printed the email in Dad’s office before leaving the house.
“I got this early this morning. It says it’s from my dad, but I know that it’s not. It’s possible it might be from someone else, someone who knows where he is.”
The sheriff raised one eyebrow as he reached for the printout. While he read, my eyes fell on a framed photo on his desk, one of Reese and her mom standing in front of a Christmas tree, their arms around each other. I looked away.
The sheriff peered at me over the top of the printed-out email, then set it down on his desk. “Penny, this sounds like it’s your dad—”
“I get how you might say that,” I interrupted, eager to explain myself. “But it’s not from him. That’s not how my dad talks or writes, and he never calls me Penny. Ever.”
“It’s true,” Dex piped up. “I can back that up.”
“But this is his email address?” the sheriff asked.
“Well . . . yes. But that just means that someone has access to his account. Which I think means that my dad could be in danger. Maybe the person who wrote this is the same person who . . . who killed Bryan and Cassidy.”
The sheriff stared again at the piece of paper before slipping it into a folder on his desk. “I want to thank you for bringing this to my attention.” He quickly picked up the receiver of his phone, and I saw something flash across his face, something like eagerness.
That’s when I knew I had no chance of convincing him the email wasn’t from my dad. Maybe I’d never had a chance. Instead, the email was somehow confirming whatever theory the sheriff already had—and I’d handed it right to him.
He put the receiver to his mouth. “Mary, gather everyone in the evidence room for a meeting in ten.” He hung up again, and I knew I was just seconds away from being dismissed.
“I’m telling you, my dad didn’t write that,” I said, knowing full well the sheriff had already stopped listening to anything I had to say.
“I won’t rule out any possibility, Penny,” the sheriff said, his voice condescending.
“Sheriff, listen. My dad could be out there somewhere, hurt or . . .” I couldn’t bring myself to finish the sentence.
“Rest assured, we are doing everything in our power to find your dad. And even if you think this email sounds odd, it’s still the best proof we have that Ike is fine. But if you hear from him again, you let me know immediately, okay? We have some questions for him.”
I exchanged a quick look with Dex.
“He didn’t do this. I know he didn’t.”
“No one is saying he did,” the sheriff said calmly.
I rolled my eyes. “Please. I know what person of interest means.”
“Person of interest means person of interest. That’s all.”
He clearly wasn’t going to tell me anything. Unless . . .
“Just tell me why you think he had something to do with this.” I kept my eyes on his, doing my best to channel the confidence of the reporter outside. I lifted my chin. “You want me to keep you in the loop if I hear from him, but I won’t accidentally incriminate my dad just because you have an old grudge against him.”
The sheriff’s eyes narrowed briefly, and his jaw twitched as if he was grinding his teeth together. From the corner of my eye, I saw Dex’s head tilt. He was probably confused about this “grudge.” But I wouldn’t out the secret the sheriff and Julie Harper had kept all these years. Not unless I had to.
“You know I’m the person he’s most likely to reach out to. And if you want me to let you know the next time he does,” I said, eyeing the folder, “I need to know why he’s a person of interest.”
The sheriff kept his cool gaze on me, and for a moment I thought he would kick me out of his office. Or maybe arrest me. Instead, he pushed back from his desk and crossed his arms. One second passed, then two.
“Fine. This will be public soon anyway. An item was found at the scene, near Bryan’s truck. It belonged to your father.”
I could hear blood pounding through my head, thudding through my ears. Next to me, Dex made a scoffing sound, but I could barely hear it. My arms felt like they were filled with iron, weighed down to the sides of the chair.
“What . . . kind of item?” I whispered.
“That’s all the information I can give you right now,” the sheriff said coolly.
I knew the signs of a brush-off, and my brain struggled to come up with arguments, to get him to say anything more.
“But . . . just because something of Ike’s was out in those woods doesn’t mean that he . . . I mean, he goes out there all the time!” Dex said, his voice rising. “Maybe he dropped something there before. Or maybe he found the bodies, and then—”
“Didn’t come forward?”
I swallowed. “Just because you found something of his out there doesn’t prove he did anything wrong.”
“No, it just makes him a person of interest. It’s important that we find him and ask him everything he knows. So you’ll tell me, Penny, if he gets in touch with you?”
All I could do was nod.
“Thanks for your cooperation,” the sheriff said, rising from his chair.
Dex and I got up, too, letting ourselves be led from the office. The sheriff even put one hand on my shoulder, ushering me from the room and out into the hall. There was no need—I didn’t want to be in this place for one second longer. I needed to think over this piece of information and figure out what it meant. What object of my dad’s had been found in the woods with Bryan and Cassidy? And what did that mean, if it meant anything at all?
The thoughts swirled too quickly through my head for me to latch on to any one of them. There were too many gaps. . . . I needed to know more.
The sheriff continued to lead us down the hall, as if he was afraid we wouldn’t actually make it to the exit without his help. We passed an open doorway on our way out, and two men I’d never seen before were standing in the small office, their heads bent together as they spoke. They both had dark hair, cut close to their heads. Both wore crisp black suits and shiny black shoes that seemed out of place among the worn brown uniforms and paneled walls of the sheriff’s office. These men weren’t from the group of journalists outside. They were something else altogether.
I slowed my steps, trying to get a better look as we passed. One of the men looked up, catching my eye. Without looking away or changing his expression at all, he took two steps to the door and shut it firmly in my face.
Seventeen
MY PARENTS HADN’T spoken to each other in four years. If the last year of their marriage was rough, their divorce was even rougher. I tried to block out as much of their arguing as I could, but it wasn’t like there was anywhere else for me to go. I wasn’t friends with Dex anymore, and Reese wasn’t talking to me. Sometimes Cindy would let me hang out with her in the kitchen of Sweet Street while she worked on cupcake orders, teaching me how to swirl little pink roses out of frosting. But I spent most of my time up in the house that sat high in an oak tree square in the middle of Dex’s yard and mine. Our dads had built it for us as kids, and our names were still carved into the wood boards—Penelope and Dex, 2009.
I was hiding up in that house, reading an old paperback mystery, when my parents’ marriage finally exploded beyond repair. I heard a slamming noise, one so loud it made me jump. I scooted over to the tree house’s tiny window that looked down over my backyard to see my dad storming out of our back door, his arms full of clothes. A pair of jeans hung down from the crook of his elbow, the frayed hem trailing through the dirt. I recognized them immediately as Mom’s.
Dad took four giant steps into the yard and tossed the entire armful—colorful blouses, old worn flannels, even my mom’s favorite pajama bottoms—out onto the grass. Seconds later, Mom came running out the back door. She took one look at the contents of her closet, now splayed across our yard, and her mouth fell open. Even from my perch in the tree house, I could see her hands shaking. She whirled on Dad.
“Really? This is what you’re going to do?”
Dad turned to face her. His movements were incredibly slow, deliberate. His jaw was clenched tight, and a shadow seemed to cross over his eyes. He looked like a stranger to me in that moment, and I unconsciously ducked down lower in the tree house so I wouldn’t be seen.
“You’re damn right this is what I’m going to do,” Dad said. His voice was cold, but there was a fury underneath, like rapids raging beneath a thin layer of ice, ready to crack free at any moment and pull anything in its path into the undertow.
Dad took one step closer to Mom, hovering over her so she had to physically shrink back. “If you don’t want to be here, Nora, then get the fuck out of my house.”
Before she could reply, before she could react at all, he turned and walked back inside, slamming the door in her face.
Mom already had her teaching job in Chicago lined up, and she and I left not long after that. It was much easier to say goodbye to Bone Lake than I thought it would be. The first time I spoke to Dad on the phone from my new bedroom in Evanston, he sounded bright, cheery almost. And when I visited that next Christmas, he already seemed to be pu
tting everything behind him. He was back to throwing himself into work, staying up all night to write in his office and taking trips across the country to “hunt” various imaginary beings he could fool people into believing were real. He never knew that I was in the tree house that day, that I’d seen and heard everything. But even if he could move on, I couldn’t. That memory stayed lodged in the back of my head, the cold anger of his voice, the darkness in his eyes.
Was it possible that wasn’t just a one-time occurrence? That there might be a whole other side to my dad I didn’t know about? I knew that sometimes he put work and his stories before everything else—even the people he was supposed to love most. And when he’d had his fling with Julie, he certainly hadn’t cared about who might get hurt in the process. I’d spent many years being angry with him for that and for everything else. But it was still hard to believe, even for a second, that the sheriff’s theory might actually be true.
That he might be a killer.
After getting back from the police station, I told Dex I wanted to spend some time alone. He dropped me off at my house with a sad smile and a wave and told me he’d be next door if I needed anything.
But there was only one person I needed to talk to.
I walked inside quickly, shutting the door and then all the windows before sitting down in the far corner of the couch, my cell phone in my hand. I felt sick to my stomach. I wanted to believe there was no way my dad could have hurt Bryan and Cassidy—no way. Guilt ripped through me for even entertaining the notion. But I couldn’t shut it out, either. I had to talk to someone else who knew Dad—and not just the goofy Strange World columnist who was alternately ignored or tolerated around Bone Lake. Someone who really knew him.
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