Why am I not okay the way I am? Bo had asked her once, and remembering now broke her heart all over again.
“I know this is real hard for you folks.” The sheriff’s voice brought an end to the bruised silence, and Annie was grateful. She gave him her full attention.
He said, “If we want to get whoever did this, we need to know everything we can about Bo, his friends, habits, what he did every day, and who with.”
The sheriff looked at Annie. “You were in a relationship with Leighton Drake.”
“Yes,” Annie said, and she went on without prompting, recounting the details that repetition had stripped of emotion. She might have been speaking of someone else, their stupidity and not her own.
“So,” the sheriff said after a pause, “during the time you were going out with Drake, did you ever meet a man named Greg Honey?”
“No,” Annie answered, “but Lauren Wilder may know him.”
“Your friend who came in with you yesterday?” Sheriff Neely leaned back in his chair. “What makes you think that?”
“I was on the phone with her just now, and when I mentioned Greg might be involved, she ended the conversation. It was weird. But then, she’s kind of weird,” Annie added and felt bad. Who was she to judge?
“When you say weird, what do you mean exactly?” The sheriff leaned forward on his elbows.
“Nothing, really. She’s had a rough time.” Annie explained about the accident and, reluctantly, about Lauren’s addiction to pain meds. “I don’t believe she got anything from Bo, though, or that she’s on anything now.” But even as Annie said this, she thought being on something might explain a lot about Lauren’s moods, her unpredictability. She said, “You should talk to Detective Cosgrove. He interviewed her. Sheriff Audi talked to her, too.”
“Oh?” The sheriff set down his pen.
“She was one of the last people to see Bo alive.”
“Huh.” Sheriff Neely leaned back in his chair. “Well, I know Jimmy Cosgrove. We’ve worked on some stuff together in the past.”
“What about these assholes, Drake and Honey?” JT asked. “What’re the odds you’ll find them?”
“BOLOs for both men were issued a few days ago, back when Lincoln County wanted to question them in regard to Bo’s disappearance. Those’ll continue.”
“That’s it?” JT sounded unhappy.
“Unless you can think of anyone else we need to look at?”
“I might know of someone,” Cooper said, and Annie stared at him, openmouthed.
23
After she came home from Tara’s, Lauren paced around the island in the kitchen, holding on to her phone, debating. She wanted to talk to Jeff. If only he weren’t so furious at her, if she could get him past it . . . I should have been there for Kenzie, she would say. Our daughter should have come first before Annie’s brother and his disappearance. But that wasn’t the crucial thing anymore. That’s what she had to make Jeff understand. Even Bo’s death, as tragic as it was, wasn’t the issue. Not now that a member of Lauren and Jeff’s own family was involved, however peripherally. There could be legal ramifications for Tara if she was covering for Greg. They had to do something, talk sense to her before she did something really stupid, like running away with Greg. Lauren closed her eyes in the face of that unnerving prospect.
Jeff had to see it, that Greg’s involvement put a different, more urgent light on the situation.
Sitting on a stool at the island, Lauren switched on her phone, noting the time, after two in the morning. It was against her better judgment when she dialed Jeff’s number. She imagined him folded uncomfortably in a chair, dozing, at Kenzie’s bedside. She hoped someone had put a blanket over him. She thought, I should be there in that chair. Her eye fell on the Waller-Land folder full of the documents Jeff had needed on the job site and been without because of her foggy brain, her preoccupation with someone else’s calamity. She’d let him down not once but time and again. She thought how often she complained that he didn’t treat her as an equal partner in the business, but how could he? I have got to get better, she thought.
Her call rolled to his voice mail.
“I shouldn’t have called so late,” she said, “but something has happened.” She paused, hesitant now to bring up Tara, to put her first. “Never mind. It can wait. Please call me when you’ve spoken to Kenzie’s doctor. I’ll wait here at home, or should I go to the warehouse?” She paused again when she heard how she was rambling. “Just call me, okay?” I love you. She started to add that, but something stopped her, the sense of her vulnerability, she guessed. The fear of his rejection. An underscore of resentment that she clung to in the more damaged part of her brain, the part that still struggled with feeling weak and inferior.
She fell asleep at the bar, head pillowed on her arms. The sound of Jeff’s truck in the driveway woke her. She was disoriented, blinking wildly at the daylight streaming through the uncurtained kitchen window. She jumped when the truck door slammed, her elbow hitting the Waller-Land file folder, and grabbing it, she set it on the counter behind her, not completely out of view. She would have to confess her mistake, but there were other issues she and Jeff had to discuss first.
She heard him come in, heard the thunk of his briefcase hitting the mudroom floor, the clatter as he emptied his pockets into the tray on top of the chest.
He opened the door to the kitchen and spotting her, said, “You’re up.”
“I never went to bed.” She looked past him at Kenzie, standing in his shadow. The thick padding of gauze that slanted across the corner of her left eye didn’t quite hide all the bruising, and Lauren felt sickened at the sight of it. It was her fault, she thought, this damage to her daughter’s face. She half rose. “I’m so sorry, Kenzie. I know I let you down, but it won’t happen again. Okay? I mean it.”
Without a word, Kenzie left her dad’s shadow and went swiftly from the kitchen. Lauren heard her light footsteps on the stairs. She wasn’t open to her mother’s protestations. That door had closed, and why not? How many chances could a kid give to her mother?
Lauren looked at Jeff. “I thought you were taking her to Tara’s.”
“I am, but I’ve got a meeting with Kaiser, and I need a shower first.”
“Did Drew get to school? He’s not at Tara’s.”
“Gabe’s dad took them. I had to wait for the doctor.”
“What did he say? Is Kenzie okay?”
“She’s fine. Everything tested normal, brain function, reflexes, all of it. But she can’t do PE or ballet or anything too physical for a week.”
“Oh, she’s not going to like that. Where is her dance gear anyway? Did you get it? Her tote?” Lauren was suddenly worried it was lost, left behind in the wrecked car or at the hospital. She thought of Kenzie’s new toe shoes that were packed inside it along with her tights and leotard. The toe shoes were still so new, so untried. Kenzie had attached the long pale silk ribbons herself, tacking each of them with a tiny, hidden stitch. She had used pale pink yarn to darn the toes. When she had brought them to Lauren to see her work, her eyes had shone.
“It’s in the truck,” Jeff said.
“I’ll get it.”
“No, she wants to go to Tara’s.”
“Well, she can’t,” Lauren said. “Tara’s in no shape to look after her.”
“It’s just for a couple of hours. I talked to Tara. She’s feeling better. It’s fine.”
“I went over there last night. Did she tell you? After I found out from Annie Beauchamp that the police think Greg may be involved in her brother’s death.”
“Really? Why do they think that?”
“Something to do with drugs, Annie said. I think Greg must be back using again. What do you think? I mean, how was he at the farm?”
Jeff shrugged. “He seemed fine, but you’re the one who’s always saying what go
od fakers addicts are.”
It was true; Lauren did say that. Heroin addicts were especially good at hiding their habit. Unless you knew what to look for, you might never know. “He wasn’t at the Tuesday meeting, and some of the guys said he’d left town for a job, but I don’t believe it.”
“The cops have any idea where he is?”
“I don’t think so, but if Tara’s protecting him, and she’s caught, she’ll be in trouble for helping him. It scares me, Jeff, what she might be involved in if she’s with him.”
“Lauren, I’m sorry, but I don’t have time for this. I’ve got to meet Kaiser.” He started across the kitchen.
She followed him up the stairs. “You can’t put our daughter into this situation.”
“Jesus, can you just let me get a shower first?”
Lauren stopped and watched him disappear into their bedroom. Within minutes, she heard the water running. She was outside Kenzie’s closed door and knocked softly. No answer. Resting her forehead against it, she felt exhaustion overwhelm her. It weighted her shoulders, dragged at her spine. “I’m so sorry,” she said. “Will you open the door and let me talk to you?”
Nothing.
“I’m not on anything, Kenzie, I swear it. I’ve even gone for a blood test that will prove it.”
No answer.
Lauren went back downstairs and out the back door, walking straight to Jeff’s truck. She would get Kenzie’s tote, wash her tights and leotard and whatever else was inside it. She would make cookies, chocolate chip, Kenzie’s favorite. The smells of fresh laundry and baking would permeate the house. Somehow, Kenzie would be lured downstairs; somehow, Lauren would reach her, reach through her fear—because that’s what this was, Lauren was sure of it—and find her daughter. They’d find each other and come to an understanding.
That’s what Lauren was thinking when she came through the back door into the mudroom with Kenzie’s tote and saw it, the notepad with the pale green cover, one small enough to fit in a man’s shirt pocket. It was on the floor in front of the big entryway chest, the catchall place, where she kicked off her shoes and set down her purse, where Jeff dropped his briefcase and emptied his pockets and the kids left their backpacks. Setting Kenzie’s tote on the dryer, she bent down to pick the notepad up, but then, on seeing the name that was printed on the front, on the line that was there for that purpose—Bo Laughlin—she recoiled, as if it were some horrible bug, one that might attack her.
She would never be sure how much time passed before she heard Jeff calling her name. He appeared in the doorway, and she snatched up the notepad, holding it out to him. “Where did this come from?”
“What is it?”
“Bo Laughlin’s notepad. Annie told me he carried one, that he wrote things down in it.”
“Where did you find it?”
Lauren saw that he was watching her with trepidation.
“Right here, on the floor.” In the same place where her purse had fallen last night. She remembered scooping the contents back inside it and setting it back on the chest. It was there now, and she looked at it, then back at the notepad. “Where could it have come from?” She asked Jeff as if he should know.
But his face was full of doubt and pity. “Maybe Bo gave it to you last Friday when you spoke to him? Or is it possible you’ve met with him since then?”
“No. I—” Lauren rubbed her brow. Her head ached, and so did her back and hip. And she was so tired.
Jeff took a step toward her, and then another, and it seemed to Lauren he was moving almost imperceptibly. She might have been an injured animal and he her rescuer—familiar roles for them both. She raised her gaze.
The silence thinned, becoming taut.
“You can tell me anything. You know that, right?” He spoke softly to her.
“You think I did something to him?” Why was she saying that?
“I don’t know, sweetheart.”
“Daddy?”
Lauren looked past Jeff at their daughter, framed in the doorway.
“It’s all right,” Jeff told her. “Get your tote, and I’ll take you to Aunt Tara’s.”
“What’s wrong with her now?” Kenzie came to Jeff’s side, eyeing her mother warily, and somehow, with the two of them staring at her, Lauren felt intimidated, and she tried to mentally shoulder the feeling away, not wanting it. Not wanting to believe in it. But that would mean she was imagining it the way she’d begun to imagine so many things. She gave her head a brief shake.
She said her daughter’s name. “Kenzie?”
“You need help, Mommy.”
“Mommy will be fine.” Jeff was calm. Reaching for Kenzie’s tote, he handed it to her.
She sidled toward the back door.
“No, Jeff.” Lauren blocked Kenzie’s path. “Let her stay with me, please. What if she’s not safe at Tara’s?”
“She’ll be okay,” Jeff said.
“At least let me call Suzanne and see if Kenzie can stay there until you can pick her up.” Even as Lauren said this, she wondered how she could ask Suzanne for a favor after yesterday, after leaving their daughters stranded. How would she explain it?
But Kenzie said no. “I want to go now, Mom.”
Lauren looked down at her, and she knew holding Kenzie would be the same as trying to hold a small bird.
Jeff found her gaze. “I’ll come back as quickly as I can get everything settled with Kaiser, okay?”
“How long?”
“An hour, tops.”
He came to her and kissed her lightly. Lauren smelled his aftershave, something that always reminded her of lemongrass and wind. She loved it and could never remember the name. She clutched his shirtfront, bunching it in both hands. “Don’t leave me. Please,” she whispered against his chest. “I’m so scared.”
“I won’t be gone long, I promise. It’ll be all right.” He set her gently apart from him.
And then he was gone.
But the notepad, Bo Laughlin’s notepad, was here in her hand.
How had it come to be in her possession? Panic clawed out of her stomach, ballooning against her rib cage.
She carried the notepad into the kitchen and setting it on the island, picked up her coffee mug, dumped the contents into the sink, and rinsed it. She cleaned the coffeemaker, wiped down the countertops. But she could not forget it.
Bo’s notepad.
Maybe if she read what he’d written. She lifted the cover, enough that she registered pencil smudges, and rifling the pages, she saw darker strokes that seemed angular and hurried, illegible, but here and there a word emerged: parakeet, flowering, harbinger. On one page he had written: The path of least resistance leads to crooked rivers and crooked men.
Lauren thought she recognized it as a quote from Thoreau. She remembered Charlotte Meany—Ms. M—saying Bo had an affinity for him. But farther on, the pages were filled with more gibberish, entire lines where Bo had scratched only numbers. She let the cover fall and crossed her arms, cupping her shoulders, keeping her eye on the little notebook as if it might leap from the spot where it lay. Blood hammered through her heart like heavy footsteps.
What should be done with it?
Throw it away . . .
The sense of this, what amounted to an order, hovered in her mind. But there was only one answer, one right thing to do, and if she did not know this consciously, she did know it where it counted, in her bones, in the center of her soul.
24
Lauren Wilder is here,” Carol said. “She wants to talk to you.”
Annie set the last glass in the dishwasher and closed the door.
“I can say you aren’t here,” Carol said. “You really shouldn’t be,” she added gently.
“No, it’s fine.” Annie untied her apron and hanging it on the hook near the door, went into the dining area. Breakfas
t was over. There was no one else in the café but Lauren.
She looked awful, Annie thought. She looked as if she might bolt from the building or break into pieces, and when she spoke, when she said, “Oh, Annie. I’m so sorry,” her voice trembled. “How are you? How’s Bo’s dad?”
Annie slid onto the bench opposite her. “The doctor gave JT something to sleep,” she said for no particular reason she knew. Her head was full of doubt. Why was Lauren here? Was it some sort of game? Was she crazy after all?
“But not you?” Lauren searched Annie’s gaze, and there was real caring there, a genuine and tender concern. It was Annie’s mother’s gaze. But maybe every mother could summon that depth of feeling at will. Maybe every mother lied when it suited her agenda.
Annie looked down. “I didn’t want to take anything.” She didn’t say it was because she was afraid. She wasn’t sure of what. Maybe that something worse might happen while she slept. And no one needed to tell her how silly it was, although Cooper had tried.
“Have the police arrested anyone? Do they know who did it?”
Annie thought about the two youngish guys, the possible suspects Cooper had mentioned when they were in Sheriff Neely’s office in Cedar Cliff. Cooper said he’d been on an overpass, hooking up a woman’s car to his tow truck a few weeks ago, and looking down into the intersection below, he’d happened to see “these jerks,” Cooper had called them, “messing with Bo.” They pushed him, taunted him. Bo threw a rock, hitting one of them in the face. Cooper would have called 911, he said, but the police pulled up just then. The last thing Cooper heard, though, was one of the jerks shouting that he’d fucking kill the retard if he ever saw him again. It was nothing new. Annie didn’t see the sense in repeating it. The police had dismissed the lead anyway. They were focused on the drug angle.
“There’s nothing solid yet,” Annie said. She looked through the window. Across the street the door to Canaday’s Sporting Goods Store stood open to the cool fall breeze. This morning, Ted had come in for breakfast. When Annie waited on him, he’d said how badly he felt, that Bo’s death was just horrible and senseless. He’d had tears in his eyes, left his breakfast sandwich uneaten. She felt terrible for him, for everyone who had worked so hard to find Bo. She looked at Lauren. “You know Greg Honey.” She wasn’t asking.
Crooked Little Lies Page 27