No One Can Know

by Lucy Kerr

  He watched me over the rim of his water glass. “So don’t.”

  “What choice do I have? I promised Charlie I’d stay and help. I’ve sublet my apartment, so it’s not like I can move back in.”

  “Move in above the store,” he suggested. “Your stuff is already there, and you’d be on-site when Charlie needs help. It’s not as private as Chicago, but it’s more than you have here.”

  “Nobody would be ambushing me with dinner guests.” I paused, stealing a bite of chicken from his plate. “It’s not a bad idea, but … you heard Charlie before. She’s not a fan of the idea.”

  “It’s worth considering,” he said.

  “Grandma said I have to go to bed,” Riley said sullenly. I turned in my seat to see her silhouetted in the doorway.

  “Sounds about right. Gimme a hug.”

  Riley padded out onto the deck in purple zebra-striped pajamas but didn’t come over for a hug. Instead, she eyed Noah. “Are you guys talking about the dead lady from dinner?”

  “Kind of,” Noah said.

  She nodded sagely. “Are you going to find the person who did it?”

  “We’re going to try,” I said.

  “Actually, Riley, that’s my job,” Noah cut in. “Your aunt’s answering a few questions for me, that’s all.”

  Riley nodded, her wide eyes telegraphing that she didn’t believe this for a second. “You should have come for dinner,” she told him. “You’re more fun than Reverend Tim.”

  “Thanks,” Noah replied, “but I wasn’t invited.”

  “You could come tomorrow,” she said.

  “Why the sudden interest in dinner guests?” I demanded.

  “Company means dessert,” she said and turned her attention back to Noah. “We could go for a ride in the squad car too, with lights and everything.”

  “Maybe soon,” Noah hedged with a look at me.

  “C’mon, Riley. Time for bed.” I gave her a hug, but she squirmed away from me. “Sweet dreams, buddy. Love you.”

  “Love you too,” she muttered. “G’night, Deputy Noah.”

  “Night, Riley. See you soon.”

  After she’d left, Noah grinned. “That is a highly focused kid. Must run in the family.”

  “Dessert brings out her mercenary side.”

  He studied me. “You’re going to Steven’s press conference tomorrow afternoon, aren’t you?”

  “What do you think?”

  “I think I couldn’t stop you even if I wanted to. You scared me today, Frankie.”

  “I’m sorry,” I said, meaning it. “You said it yourself, every minute Trey’s gone, the danger is worse.”

  “Doesn’t mean I want you running into danger,” he said softly.

  “Doesn’t mean I’ll stop.”

  Twenty-Six

  Finally, I slept. Twelve solid hours of unconsciousness, with my dreams filled with images of Jess bleeding out on the floor of the ER while I tried to patch her back together with preemie-sized supplies. I dreamed of Rowan, of reaching into her isolette and finding only a pile of blankets and wires. I dreamed of the photograph of Kate and Steven, smiling for the voters, their arms around a chubby, laughing Trey—a picture that had never existed, and the closer I looked, the faster it faded away.

  Twelve hours should have left me rested, but I woke gritty-eyed and irritable.

  “Where is everyone?” I asked when I stumbled downstairs.

  Matt glanced up from the papers he was grading. “Riley’s at school, your mom’s at the store, and Charlie’s at the hospital. I’ll head over there in a bit. Coffee’s fresh,” he added.

  “Thanks,” I said and poured myself a cup.

  “Heard we had all sorts of company yesterday,” he said.

  I sighed. “Were you in on the Reverend Tim scheme?”

  “Me?” He snorted. “I know better than to get involved in your mom’s plans. She gets that gleam in her eye, I keep my head down and my mouth shut. This, actually, is my strategy with all Stapleton women.”

  “You could have warned me.”

  “What’s the fun in that?” He frowned at the essay before him and scribbled a comment. “Your mom wants you to stay here. She thinks we’re not enough to convince you.”

  “It’s not a question of enough,” I said, staring into my coffee cup. “It’s …”

  Matt waited.

  “It’s me. And where I fit. I’m not sure it’s here.” The coffee was good—strong and rich without being bitter. Matt was in charge of the coffee, I’d learned, and for that I was grateful. I was also coming to learn that while my sister’s husband might be happy to let the Stapleton women run the show, he was the one who kept things going while all those personalities battled it out. “Noah suggested I move into the apartment above the store.”

  He leaned back in his seat, the gesture more considering than surprised. “What do you think?”

  “I don’t know,” I said. “It seems like a lot of effort if I’m going to turn around and move out again in a few months.”

  “Easier to stay put in the short term,” he agreed.

  I sat back, feeling vaguely annoyed. It was an amiable enough response, but I’d expected more of an argument—to stay here because I was needed or to move in and make this a more permanent arrangement.

  “Are you always so neutral?” I asked.

  “Are you really asking for advice?” he returned with a smile. “We love having you here, even if Charlie doesn’t say it. Riley adores you. Your mom is over the moon. We’d love it if you decided to stick around longer too, but not if the idea makes you miserable.”

  “I never said I was miserable,” I said quickly. “Except when Mom is in matchmaker mode.”

  “Fair enough.” He tapped his pen on the stack of papers, considering. “It’s a big change, you coming home. Everyone needs some time to get their feet under them, Lila included. Moving to the apartment would be another change, and we’d have to adjust.”

  “You think it’s a bad idea.” Was that relief I felt or disappointment?

  “If it’s temporary, there’s no need to disrupt everyone again. But if you’re thinking about making it a longer-term situation … people are more adaptable than we give them credit for. A little breathing room might be the thing that makes it possible for you to stay here long-term.”

  It did not escape my notice that Matt, English professor, who taught composition for a living, was carefully avoiding the word “permanent.”

  “It’s easy to feel like you’re taking a step backward right now. The apartment would be a step forward, only on a path you hadn’t expected.” He stood, scooping the papers into his battered leather briefcase. “I’m off to the hospital. Is this a conversation I should mention to Charlie?”

  “Will she take it better coming from you?”

  “She’ll take it best if she thinks it’s her own idea,” he said. “Barring that … yes.”

  “Go for it.” The coward’s way out, perhaps, hiding behind my Viking of a brother-in-law. But I was fresh out of courage.

  *

  The clouds had been gathering all day. By the time we arrived at the press conference that afternoon, they’d turned the sky ugly, threatening rain. The chill in the air had settled in for good, iron-hard and implacable. The wind was already kicking up when Steven made his way down the front steps of the house, pausing to check his phone before crossing to the podium at the edge of the lawn.

  News crews had settled into position, and the constant staccato clicking of shutters filled the air. The reporters surged forward as Steven faced them, hands gripping the sides of the podium, searching the crowd as if he was looking for a friendly face—or the kidnapper.

  I spotted Noah off to one side, standing with a group of sheriff’s deputies, a wall of navy uniforms and set faces. Next to me, Charlie hugged herself and bounced ever-so-slightly on her toes, trying to keep warm.

  “This feels ghoulish,” she said. “Like we’re here for entertainment.�
�

  “Support,” my mother said firmly, standing on the other side of her. “We want him to know we’re thinking of him.”

  Half the town had shown up for support. In a couple of hours, they’d come to Stapleton and Sons for another round. I spotted Donna and Garima nearby and gave a small wave. The crowd fell silent as Steven cleared his throat and began.

  “Good morning, everyone. I know that Sheriff Flint, the state police, and the FBI task force have been keeping you all updated on the details of my son Trey’s abduction. I’m not going to spend my time today going over all the details. As you may know, the woman responsible for his kidnapping was found dead yesterday.”

  A murmur of sympathy rose from the crowd. They’d heard the news, but somehow having it come from Steven himself, having it laid out so baldly, was even more horrifying.

  He waited until the murmurs died down. “We believe Trey was with her, based on items found at the scene, but there was no sign of Trey. I want to emphasize that there is no evidence that Trey has been harmed up to this point.”

  “Why does he keep saying the baby’s name?” my mother grumbled. “It’s not as if we’re likely to forget it.”

  “It’s to remind the kidnapper that Trey’s a real person with a family. Humanizes him. Now shush.”

  But I wasn’t watching Steven anymore. I was watching Ted Sullivan, a few feet away. His eyes were fixed on Steven as he continued speaking, mouthing the words along with his candidate.

  “We have every reason to believe Trey is alive, but that does not mean he is safe. All my energies now are focused on bringing Trey safely home, and we’re suspending the campaign indefinitely. When we resume, it will be with Trey in my arms, and my beloved wife, Kate”—he swallowed hard and continued—“looking down on us from Heaven.”

  The speech was scripted, which made perfect sense. Hard enough to stay composed in this situation. Writing out your comments beforehand would reduce some of the pressure. Still, it was disconcerting to watch how pleased Ted was by the performance, to watch Steven wait for the applause he knew was coming.

  Steven continued, thanking the crowd for their support, asking for the usual thoughts and prayers, taking a few questions. After a moment, Ted pulled out his phone, listened, and turned his back on the cameras.

  “Something’s wrong,” I murmured to Charlie.

  My mother leaned over. “What is it? What’s going on?”

  I shushed her, keeping my eyes on Ted. He’d put the phone away and crossed over to the sheriff, drawing him away from the crowd.

  “Frankie, don’t,” Charlie said, following my gaze.

  “Gotta,” I said and edged closer.

  The men were arguing in low, furious voices. I tried to overhear what they were saying, but Noah spotted me. Moving swiftly, he cut me off.

  “What’s going on?”

  “Nothing you need to worry about,” he said, taking me by the elbow and guiding me back to my family.

  “Noah, come on. There’s a ton of press here. Whatever’s happening is going to get out, so you might as well spill. I can help, remember? Like you said last night.”

  Behind us, Steven was wrapping up the press conference and heading back into the house.

  “Not this time,” he said. “Go home. All of you.”

  “Not likely,” I said and watched as the sheriff, the FBI agent in charge, and the state police chief trailed into the house. Ted looked longingly at the press but followed dutifully.

  “Let’s go,” Charlie said, tugging at my arm. “It’s late and I need to …”

  “You two go ahead,” I replied. “I’ll walk back.”

  “You’ll catch your death of cold,” my mother said. “Besides, we need to finish getting ready for the fundraiser. I have five vats of chili sitting at home, and I need help getting them over to the church.”

  The fundraiser had taken on a life of its own—so many people had wanted to come, my mom and Reverend Tim had moved it to the basement of First Methodist to accommodate the crowd. My mother, both soft-hearted and savvy, had hung posters for the event all around town and convinced Marshall to run ads in the Journal-Standard. “Sponsored by Stapleton and Sons Hardware, your neighbors since 1875” was emblazoned across every one. Even so, the chili could wait, and I said as much.

  The press felt the change too—something in the way the honchos had marched inside, all tension and purpose, had caught their attention. Instead of dispersing back to their vans, they hovered, packing up their equipment with deliberate, maddening slowness.

  “Noah will tell you soon,” Charlie said reasonably. “He always does.”

  I wasn’t quite as certain. Noah on the back porch under the moonlight was very different than the one who’d grabbed me by the arm and ordered me home, and the latter didn’t seem inclined to share.

  One of the reporters was idly checking his phone when he straightened and gestured to the cameraman, who quickly set up for another shot, a tight-focus interview with the front door of the house in the background.

  I pushed my way through the crowd, everyone jostling to hear the scoop so they could turn around and report it themselves.

  “A message has appeared on the Find Trey Tibbs web page—an anonymous commenter has posted a message saying—and this is a direct quote—‘I don’t want any more trouble. He’s at Henderson’s, and I am long gone.’ End quote. We’re not clear yet who this ‘Henderson’ is, but you can be sure that Channel 6 is on the story, and we’ll be the first to bring you answers.” The reporter signed off and dashed toward Steven’s front door.

  “Henderson?” my mother said blankly. “There haven’t been Hendersons around here for years. The daughter moved away, didn’t she? To New Mexico? Some kind of hippie?”

  “The dairy’s still there.” I thought back to my conversation with Meg Costello. “Kids use it for parties and stuff.”

  “And stuff,” Charlie echoed, waggling her eyebrows. “But it’s huge—didn’t there used to be a ton of outbuildings?”

  “Yeah, when we went …” I began as my mother narrowed her eyes. “Lots of outbuildings. All deserted.”

  “Trey could be anywhere on the property,” Charlie said and tilted her face upward. “There’s a storm coming in. They can’t leave him out there.”

  The sheriff had emerged from Steven’s house by now, and the reporters rushed to the door. He confirmed the report, adding tersely, “We’re sending all available units to the scene. So as not to impede the operation, we’re asking that all members of the press stay outside the perimeter until we have something to report. The terrain we’re talking about is large—it’s an abandoned commercial dairy farm, approximately twelve hundred acres, with an unconfirmed number of outbuildings centrally located on the land. We’re asking all available first responders in the surrounding counties join us as well. As you can see, the temperature is dropping and the situation will become increasingly dangerous as night falls and the storm picks up, so time is of the essence.”

  I looked at Charlie.

  “We can help,” she said. “We know that farm.”

  “They won’t want us.”

  “Text Noah.”

  “I don’t think he’s looking at his phone right now.” I’d learned enough about Noah’s phone habits in the past week to know he didn’t check his messages during breaks in the case.

  “Fine,” she said. “Which of those cruisers is his?”

  “Unit twenty-three,” I said, waving a hand toward the line of police cars down the street.

  Charlie marched off, chin stuck in the air. I glanced at my mother.

  “What if the kidnapper is still there?” Worry lines creased her forehead and carved furrows around her lips. “What if it’s a trap?”

  I didn’t have an answer. The rain began, fat cold drops that soaked into my coat immediately. “We can’t not look.”

  “We, is it?” she said, and my only reply was a shrug. “Go, then. I’ll handle Riley and explain thi
s to Matt.”

  “Thanks, Mom.” I bent to give her a quick kiss.

  “Francesca,” she called as I jogged over to Charlie, “take care of your sister.”

  I raised a hand in acknowledgment. Charlie was standing next to the cruiser, huddled into her jacket.

  “I’m not leaving unless Noah takes me with,” she said.

  I tipped my head, curious. “Why?”

  “Because that baby is out there. Alone. He’s already lost his mother. And his poor father …” she trailed off, looked away for a moment. “Stupid postpartum hormones,” she said with a toss of her head. “I’d want someone to look for Rowan, if I couldn’t. Don’t you dare try to talk me out of it.”

  “Me? Hardly,” I scoffed. “It’s Noah you’re going to have to convince, and I don’t see that happening.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because all he has to do is get in and drive away,” I said. “Standing next to the passenger’s door isn’t really effective. You need more leverage.”

  I circled around to the front of the car, boosted myself onto the hood.

  “Is that legal?” Charlie asked suspiciously. “Sitting on police property?”

  “Probably not.” The police came streaming out of Steven’s house, Noah included. I patted the hood. “Let’s find out, shall we?”

  Twenty-Seven

  “Get off my car,” Noah said a few moments later.

  I didn’t point out that we had spent plenty of time lying on the hood of his car when we were teenagers. Of course, that had been a rusted-out Chevy, not a police cruiser, but he’d never complained before.

  “You’ll need medical personnel on the scene,” I said.

  “We’ll have an entire fleet of ambulances on-site,” he said. “Besides, it’s not my call. The FBI is going be running the search pattern, and neither of you are trained.”

  “You need more people,” I said. “Henderson’s is huge, and there are approximately eight million outbuildings, and they’re all falling down. In fact, they were falling down a decade ago, and I doubt they’ll be any better now.”

  “All the more reason to let me get to work,” he said. “I’ll do my best to keep you updated. Now go home.”