by David Bell
“I know Julia called you on the day she died,” he said. “At almost the exact moment she died. You told me that then. You told the police you didn’t answer, right?”
Adam looked perplexed. “You’re right. I was away from the phone when she called,” he said. “You asked me about that when it happened, and I told you. And the cops. There’s no secret there. I didn’t even know I missed a call until . . . well, until I came home from work and saw the police and the paramedics over at your house. It was all too late then.”
“Yeah, yeah.” Bill reached up and touched his forehead, where he felt sweat forming. He wiped it away, lowering his hand to smear the moisture on his pant leg. “But that call isn’t what I wanted to ask you about. Not really.”
Adam leaned back in his seat, lifting his arms to rest along the back of his chair. He looked like a king, a king considering the supplications of one of his subjects, and that ease and lack of concern grated against Bill like sandpaper. He could imagine Adam in that posture, reclining on the bench between innings of a high school baseball game. Everybody’s friend. Everybody’s star.
“Was there more to it than that?” Bill asked. “Was there more to it than she just called you because you were the closest neighbor and she couldn’t get ahold of me? I mean . . .” Bill looked around the room, his eyes landing anywhere but on Adam’s supremely confident body. He didn’t know what to do with his hands, so he stuffed them into his coat pockets. “The way she spoke about you sometimes. And things you’ve said about her. And now you’re acting like the two of you would talk about me. Complain about me.”
Bill hated that he sounded so weak, so pathetic. But he stayed there in the middle of Adam’s living room, waiting for a response.
Again, Adam considered Bill for a long time. “You’re asking me the kind of thing that a man really shouldn’t ask another man. That’s the kind of question that back in the old days would have resulted in two men going outside with dueling pistols. Or fists. You know?”
“That’s not an answer.”
“I think it is.” Adam scooted forward and drank his shot. “Your wife was beautiful. And intelligent. Full of life and personality. And if something had happened between her and me over a year ago, what would it all matter now? Hmm?”
“Answer the question.”
Adam stared Bill down and then shook his head. “You have nothing to worry about on that score. Julia called me because I’m your neighbor. That’s it. And because you were . . . Where were you exactly when she called you?”
Bill turned away, starting back for the door.
Adam said, “Right. So neither one of us was able to do anything for her. But only one of us was required to.”
Bill pulled the door open, felt the cool late-winter air rush across his face.
CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN
The wind picked up as Bill trudged back across the lawn. Before he reached the back door, someone emerged from around the side of his house, a woman in a stylish raincoat, her long hair shiny even in the gray afternoon. She carried a microphone and was followed by a guy with a camera hoisted on his shoulder.
“Mr. Price?”
Bill recognized her from the local station. She’d talked to him the day Summer disappeared, her head bobbing along with everything Bill said to her. That interview had taken place inside his home, in the living room, the lights perfectly adjusted by the cameraman, the little details of the house—the framed photos, the books, the candles—shot in soft focus as what they called “B-roll.”
Bill remembered her name: Rita Fitzgerald.
She had perfectly white, even teeth and prominent cheekbones. She came right up to him, the microphone in her hand like a relay baton. “Do you have a moment, Mr. Price?”
Bill understood. The news was out about the identity of the body in the grave. It was everywhere. They wanted a quick reaction, something emotional that the viewers could watch, a little catch in their throat while they shoveled potpie or frozen pizza into their mouths, and then they could flip the channel and watch a game show or infomercial.
Bill stopped, his hands in his pockets. He knew how he looked on TV. How anyone looked on TV without makeup. The lights showed every flaw. The thinning hair, the winter pallor of his skin, the bags under the eyes. They probably wanted that. Authenticity. A regular guy with a regular kid who was missing again after being thought dead.
“I’ll do anything to get the word out about Summer,” Bill said.
That first weekend Summer was gone, he’d spent hours hiking through the woods with cops and firefighters and volunteers. His anxiety so high, his body so jacked with adrenaline that it felt like it was being fed to him through an IV. They all pounded through the woods together, calling the girls’ names, looking for anything and everything that might be a clue. Bill had never realized how much detritus lay scattered around a town. Condoms and underwear, socks and razors. And what would it have been like if he’d come across Summer’s body in a ditch somewhere? What if he’d found her broken, battered body in some hole or a rotten barn?
Sort of like Summer finding Julia that day in the kitchen, he thought.
“Do you mind if we film you?” Rita asked.
“Of course not. Thanks for doing this.”
“Okay,” she said. She looked at the camera guy, who nodded as the blinding white light came on. “So, why don’t you just tell us how you learned about the new situation with Summer.”
“The police told me. At the station.”
“And what are your feelings now?” Rita asked. “You’ve been through so much.”
Bill knew his lines, the same lines the parent of every missing child said to a news media eager to get the footage on TV.
“I just want her to come home,” he said, looking into the camera and trying not to squint. “I want her to come home safe. And for anyone who knows anything to share that information with the police. Summer might be in grave danger. She is in grave danger. She’s been gone a long time, and I worry that she’s hurt or sick or cold. Too much time has passed without any word.”
“And do you have any message for the person or persons responsible for her disappearance?”
Bill blinked a few times. He felt the heat generated by the light, saw the uncaring, unfeeling eye of the camera taking him in. What good did any of it do? What good did it do to repeat the same clichéd bullshit for yet another reporter?
Bill started talking. “People do know things. These kids from the school, they know what happened to Summer. They do. Teena Everett. Clinton Fields. Todd Stone. Brandon Cooke. They know something about this, and they’ve been keeping secrets. And it’s time we all got to the bottom of it. So I’d tell the parents to get their kids to speak up before it’s too late for Summer. Everyone needs to know about the contest they were having, a contest involving sex. One that must have led to Summer being hurt. So ask them about that. They hurt another girl the other night. Gave her too much to drink and took pictures of her in that state.”
Rita Fitzgerald’s eyes opened wide. She looked comical, like a mugging silent-movie star. But she quickly recovered. “What contest are you talking about?”
“Ask Detective Hawkins. Or ask those boys. I’m sure everybody knew about it before I did.”
Bill turned and started for the house.
“Wait,” Rita said. “Did you know those boys are holding a press conference in the next hour? Do you have any comment on that?”
“Maybe they’ll finally tell us all the truth,” he said. “Clinton can explain why he was at the hospital today. Maybe trying to hurt Haley. It’s time. It really is time.”
CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT
Bill came inside, welcoming the warmth of the house. Paige sat at the table, her eyes tracking him as he walked through the kitchen and down the hallway toward the bedrooms.
He stopped at the office and went in.
He moved to the desk and sat, opening the laptop. He stared at the screen and the files, but didn’t play them.
He didn’t know who anybody was. Not his daughter, not his wife. He knew Paige only because they’d grown up together.
Had he really lost Summer that Halloween night when he grabbed her? Had she run into the arms of those boys because he didn’t know how to be the father she needed?
“What are you doing?”
He jumped at the sound of Paige’s voice.
She flipped the overhead light on. Bill sat there, still wearing his coat, not even able to formulate a story that would explain why he sat in the dark in his home office. The room Paige had been sleeping in since she arrived.
“Nothing,” he said.
“Am I in your way in here?” she asked. “I . . . I didn’t want to sleep in Summer’s room.”
“You’re not in my way.”
“What went on outside? I saw the reporters. There are more out front, if you want to talk to them.”
“I’m fine. I’ll talk to more soon.”
“What did you say exactly?” she asked. “You looked kind of pissed.”
“I wasn’t pissed.”
“Bill, I know when you’re pissed. I’ve been on the receiving end of it.”
“I just said my lines. My father-of-a-missing-child lines. It’s fine. I want everyone to feel a sense of urgency. I want them moving.”
Paige nodded toward the laptop. “What’s up with that thing? Antiques collecting?”
“You know what—” He stopped himself. “It’s nothing. Just an old computer I have.”
“Okay. I guess you want to be alone.”
“Paige?” he said.
“Yeah?”
“I want you to do me a favor.” He hesitated a moment before going on. “If the worst happens with Summer, if the news is as bad as it could be—”
“Don’t think that way, Bill.”
“I am thinking that way,” he said. “Everybody is. You are and the cops are and so are the reporters. How can we all not be thinking that way at this point? Just because there isn’t a body . . . ?”
“Okay,” Paige said.
“If the worst happens, just make sure I . . . pay attention during the funeral. I don’t want to, you know, sleepwalk through it like I did with Julia’s.”
“You were grieving,” she said.
“I just don’t want to forget anything. You know?”
“I get it.” She leaned against the doorway, arms crossed over her chest. “Is that why you still have all of Julia’s clothes in the closet?”
Bill looked up at his sister. “What?”
“I was looking for something to wear the other night. A sweater or a sweatshirt. It was chilly. So I went into the closet in your bedroom.”
“You could have asked.”
“You were out. On your ‘errand,’ the one that brought you to that girl’s house. Anyway, when I opened the closet, I saw all of Julia’s things. Clothes and shoes and sweaters.”
“So? It’s only a year and a half.”
“I think it’s kind of sweet in a way.” She reached up and ran her hand through her hair. “You can move on however you want. Okay? It’s fine with me. And I’ll help you however I can. Really. And you’re right—we’ve all thought about the worst. That’s true. But I’m holding out hope we don’t have to think of that in any real way.” She waited a moment, and when Bill said nothing else, she said, “I’ll leave you alone.”
Bill wanted to share the messages with her, but by the time he opened his mouth, she was gone.
He came out to the kitchen an hour later. Paige held a paper plate full of food and ate standing up at the counter.
“Want something?” she asked.
“I’m putting the TV on. Those boys, those idiotic boys, are having a press conference. They must have gone there after the hospital.” He fumbled in the couch cushions, looking for the remote. “Why can’t I find anything in here?”
“Take it easy,” she said, coming over. “Here it is.”
“Forget it. I’m just going to drive down there.”
“Where?”
“Wherever it is.”
“Were you drinking at Adam’s house?” Paige asked.
“A couple.”
“Stay here. They don’t need you showing up and making a scene. And you don’t need a DUI.”
She flicked the TV on and found a local channel. A commercial played, something advertising senior independent living. Bill tuned it out. He hated to hear about the future, the notion that his life could stretch on and on after this. Without Summer. Without, ever knowing where she was or what really happened to her. How long could he live not knowing? The rest of his life?
The microwave dinged, and Paige came to the couch with a steaming plate of food. “Eat.”
Bill looked at the plate. Some kind of chicken and pasta. The steam rose against his face, but he thought the food looked disgusting, like something already digested and regurgitated. “Put it down.”
“You have to eat. You look like death on a cracker.”
“Forget it. Who has time to eat?”
Three more commercials played, and then they had to watch a local anchorman, a middle-aged guy with badly dyed hair, recap all the details of Summer’s disappearance. He seemed to take particular joy in the discovery that Summer wasn’t the girl buried in the grave, giving special emphasis to words like “remains” and “identify” and “exhume.” Then he switched to the live feed from the lawyer’s office. Bill recognized the attorney, Ralph Bateman. He appeared in commercials all the time on local TV, despite his bad hair and sagging jowls. Bateman stood before some microphones in a conference room. Behind him, arrayed in a neat row, were the three boys. Each of them wore a coat and tie. Their hair was neatly combed, their faces suitably somber and downcast. They were trying their best to look like the victims, the innocent, put-upon victims. And their parents stood behind them, hands resting on shoulders, faces determined and resolute.
These are our boys, they said with their looks. No one had better say anything bad about our boys.
“Look at this, Paige,” Bill said through clenched teeth. “Look at this fucking sideshow.”
“Shhh.”
Bateman nodded at the cameras. He introduced his clients, each of the three boys, and their parents, taking great care to point out that the families were all lifelong residents of Jakesville and that they had deep roots in the community. He bit down on his lower lip when he said how sorry they all were that Haley and the unidentified girl were injured so badly, and then he said the boys and their families were all praying for Summer’s safe return.
“What manipulative bullshit,” Bill said, pointing at the screen. “That one put a kid in the hospital.”
But then Bateman shifted gears. His face hardened, and his tone became sharp enough to cut steel. “These boys have made some mistakes. Who doesn’t when they’re young? I know I did.” He looked up, and the tiniest boys-will-be-boys glint appeared in his eye. “But these young men had nothing to do with any attack on those girls or with the tragic disappearance of Summer Price. Let me reiterate that—they had nothing to do with those crimes. They went to the hospital today to visit their injured classmate, to support her as she recovers.”
Bill looked at Paige. Her eyes were fixed on the screen, her lips pressed together. The untouched plate of food steamed on the coffee table.
“In fact,” Bateman said, “in light of some comments Mr. Price made to the media this afternoon, comments I was just informed of before we started here, I feel compelled to share some information these boys have now offered to the police.” Bateman turned a page on the lectern, a theatrical gesture. “Apparently Summer Price was afraid of her father. His temper. Last fall, the Jakesville police responded to a nin
e-one-one call from Summer when Mr. Price became physically violent, shaking the girl and throwing her to the floor.”
Bill’s hand started to throb faster than the thrumming pulse in his ear.
“On more than one occasion, Summer expressed a desire to get away from her father, to get out from under his oppressive parenting. She missed her late mother very much.” Bateman swallowed, his Adam’s apple bobbing. “Like I said, these boys aren’t perfect, and they’re going to face some discipline from their school and their parents. They’ve never raised a hand against a girl. Thank you.”
CHAPTER FORTY-NINE
Hawkins sent the department’s media liaison officer over—a young woman with short hair and a disarmingly businesslike manner—to craft a statement from Bill. It reiterated what Bill thought of as his missing-child talking points. “Bring Summer home. . . . Somebody knows something. . . . We won’t rest until we find her.”
The officer distributed it to the media, the members of which took turns lingering at the end of the driveway. And she reminded Bill of how Hawkins wanted him to proceed. Don’t go off script. Better yet, don’t talk to any reporters for a while. Let the statement speak for itself. Bill paced inside the house, fearing that everyone would focus more on the boys or his comments and not so much on the desperate need to find Summer.
Bill distracted himself by finding a movie on TV. A Western, the kind of thing his dad would watch on a Saturday afternoon, it featured John Wayne—aging and paunchy—banding together with a ragtag group to save a town from a ruthless sheriff. The Duke wisecracked, punched, and shot his way through the story, and Bill wished it were all so simple in real life. Couldn’t Hawkins just take matters into his own hands and start roughing up the bad guys? Couldn’t Bill?
Paige came in and sat next to him, her phone in her hand. She texted, barely looking at the TV. During a commercial, Bill said, “You remember our cousin Jimmy, right?”