Downstairs she heard knocking. It must’ve been what had woken her up, what had scared her. Too many times Sid had locked her in their closet overnight. Sometimes when he’d been kind, he’d left her a magnum bottle of Grey Goose vodka on one of the shelves, next to a pair of $400 shoes. “Nothing but the best for my girl,” he’d say. The next morning the bottle would be empty, and Trisha would be passed out on the floor. She’d rouse to the sound of rapping on the door, the clicking of the lock having been opened, Sid standing over her.
The knocking grew louder. What time was it, anyway? The dim light from the gray sky leaked through the cracked blinds. She must’ve slept the day away. She looked for her phone, then remembered she no longer had it. She’d tossed it in the trash can on her way out the door of the penthouse suite. She was certain Sid had been tracking her on it.
“I’m coming, I’m coming,” her mother said from somewhere downstairs.
Trisha threw on the dingy robe from her teen years. She crept down the stairs, sat on the bottom step, out of sight, and listened.
“Sharon Haines,” a man said. “I’m Detective Reed, and this is my partner, Detective Brassard.”
Silence.
Trisha peeked around the corner. Her mother was just standing there in front of the cracked storm door. She wasn’t saying anything.
“May we come in?” the detective asked.
Her mother hesitated; then she stepped aside, let them in.
The detective was tall, broad shouldered. Trisha couldn’t get a good look at his face, just his profile, but she could tell he was young. She’d spent a lot of time around older men: their wrinkly necks, their thin blue veins, their sagging skin. She might be middle aged, her body a little weathered, but Sid was twenty years her senior, and so were most of his so-called friends. There weren’t any lines by the detective’s eyes, the skin smooth, firm. A baby by comparison. The other detective was a woman, but from where Trisha was sitting, she couldn’t see her clearly. All she saw was the back of the woman’s head, her blonde ponytail.
“Reed, you say?” Trisha’s mother asked, coming around. “You wouldn’t be related to a Dr. Reed in Portland, would you?”
“Yes, ma’am. I’m his son.”
“I know the doc. I was in a bar up your way—Sweeney’s I think it was. A lot of them biker guys you see around town hang out there. You probably know that, though, don’t you? Anyways, one of them was hitting on me. I know it might be hard to believe, but back then, I was a looker. Some gal didn’t like it and hit me upside the head. See this scar.” She leaned toward the detective, pointed to the side of her forehead. “Your dad stitched me up good. Hardly noticeable unless you’re up close.”
Trisha had never heard this story before. She’d never known how her mother had gotten the crescent-shaped scar. She’d always assumed it had come from Lester.
“That’s a real interesting story,” Detective Reed said. Trisha got the distinct impression he was just being polite. He turned his head in the direction of the dining room and staircase. She ducked behind the wall.
He continued. “You might’ve heard by now about the remains that were found in the woods a few days ago.” He paused. “We have reason to believe they could belong to your husband.”
“Lester?” Trisha’s mother sat on the torn couch cushion, her hand at her throat. “How can that be? It’s been thirty years he’s been gone. Missing.”
“Yes, ma’am, but I believe we may have found him.”
Trisha craned her head forward, strained to see, hear. Her body began to shake, tiny tremors that reached as far as her toes.
Her mother’s voice was raspy from cigarettes, thick with emotion. “I told a couple of your guys back then that he didn’t run out on me. They didn’t believe me. They thought he left me.”
“They must’ve believed you, ma’am, because your husband’s name has been in the missing persons system all this time,” Detective Reed said. “I’m sorry to be the one who has to tell you this, but I wanted you to hear it from us first. Of course, nothing is official—not yet anyway. I want you to know that we’re doing everything we can to make a positive identification as quickly as possible, and we’d like your cooperation.” His partner stood quietly beside him.
“My cooperation? What do you need from me?”
“I’ll need you to release your husband’s dental records to my office. It’s the fastest way we can confirm an ID.” He handed her a card.
Her mother took it. “Okay, sure, I can do that.” She paused. “Did a bear get him?”
“Excuse me?” Detective Reed said.
“A bear. Did a bear get him?”
“No, ma’am. I don’t think so.”
She continued as though he hadn’t spoken. “You couldn’t get me near them woods. I’m a city girl at heart. Bet you didn’t know that, did you? Born and raised near Chicago. Moved here with him. I won’t ever step foot on that mountain. Not with all that wildlife running around.”
Trisha wished her mother would just shut up for once in her life. Shut up. Shut up. Shut up. Babbling made it worse, made everything worse. Didn’t she know that? Trisha turned then, had every intention of crawling back under the covers and hiding in her room, only to stop halfway up the staircase when she heard the female detective’s voice.
“Is someone else home?” the female detective asked.
Trisha closed her eyes, cursed the old house and its creaky wooden floors.
“My daughter flew in from Vegas yesterday. A good friend of ours passed. She came home for the funeral.”
“I’m sorry,” the female detective said. “Would you like me to speak with your daughter?”
Trisha scrambled up the rest of the stairs.
“If you don’t mind,” her mother said, “I’d like to be the one to tell her.”
“Okay, sure,” the female detective said.
It seemed to Trisha as though the two detectives were leaving. Then she heard Detective Reed say, “One more thing. Was your husband a hunter by any chance?”
“What? No.”
“Did he like to hike the trails or walk around the quarry? I know a lot of people in town like to do that sort of thing—hiking and camping on the mountain.”
“No, he didn’t do anything like that. He wasn’t much of an outdoorsman, if that’s what you’re asking.”
“Okay.” He hesitated. “Do you have any idea why he might’ve been in the woods?”
“No, none that I can think of. Why? What are you saying? What do you think happened?” her mother asked.
“That’s what we’re trying to figure out,” Detective Reed said.
More words were exchanged, but Trisha couldn’t hear over the buzzing in her head. When the front door opened and closed, she rushed to her mother’s bedroom, paused near the foot of the bed. She peeked out the window as the detectives got in their cruiser and pulled from their parking spot.
Across the street Dannie was standing on Evelyn’s porch, watching the detectives drive away.
CHAPTER NINE
APRIL 1983
Trisha was waiting in her house for Dannie and Carlyn to show up. She was now thirteen years old, soon to be fourteen, and it seemed like, ever since they’d become best friends four years ago, she was forever waiting for them to knock on her door. Tonight was no different as she sat on the couch, peered out the window at Dannie’s front porch. They said they’d come and get her as soon as they’d finished eating dinner. Where were they? Hurry up.
Her mother walked into the room. She was dressed in her work clothes: a tight black skirt that barely covered her bottom, a tank top so small her chest spilled out the top and sides. It wasn’t a flattering look by any means, but ever since her mother had started bartending nights at a place called Foxy’s, she’d gotten more tips showing some skin—her mother’s words.
“Who are you looking for?” her mother asked, tugging at the hem of her skirt.
“My friends,” Trisha said.
/> Her mother wouldn’t meet Trisha’s eyes, not since the cops had been to their house earlier that morning. Their neighbor, old Mrs. Sherwood, had called when the shouting penetrated the walls they shared. Trisha’s mother’s cheek had been red, swollen. “Walked into a door,” she’d told the officer. Mrs. Sherwood had shaken her head and had gone back inside her house. Trisha’s mother had held a frozen bag of peas to her face. Now, the makeup she’d smeared on her skin wasn’t doing much to hide the bruise.
Trisha cleared her throat, tried to get her mother to look at her. See me, she wanted to say, but her mother was preoccupied fussing with her skirt, then touched her sore cheek.
“Don’t go in to work tonight,” Trisha said. “Stay home.”
“I can’t. You know I can’t,” her mother said. “What do you think all that yelling was about, anyway? He didn’t show up for work again. But at least I got him to go in today.”
Outside a car door slammed.
“That must be him,” her mother said. “Don’t stay out too late. You have school tomorrow.” She pulled the door open and stepped outside.
Trisha peered out the living room window again, watched her mother pass Lester on the porch. She took the car keys from his hand without saying a word. Then she turned her head away from Trisha and the house and made her way to their only car.
Lester caught Trisha peeking out the window. She quickly dropped the curtain and curled onto the far corner of the couch. Her friends should’ve been here by now. He stepped inside and sat on the cushion next to her. She pressed her hip against the side of the armrest, putting as much space between them as possible. He scratched his head. He’d let his hair grow long in the last few years. It had gotten so long that he’d ended up tying it back in a ponytail most days.
“Well,” he said. “I guess you’re mad at me too.”
She shook her head, too afraid to tell him the truth.
“That’s my girl.” He patted her leg. “Why don’t you go fetch me a beer?”
She got up from the couch and went into the kitchen, got him a beer from the refrigerator. “Here.” She handed it to him and turned to go, hoping he wouldn’t want anything else from her.
“Where are you going? Come join me. I’ve had a long day, and I could use the company.” He set the beer aside when she reluctantly sat back down, pressing her hip against the armrest again. He talked about his day, how his back was sore from lifting and moving carpets. He hadn’t worked his way into a sales position like her mother had said he would. A person had to show up for work in order to move up.
He rubbed his neck, continued rambling about his job. Trisha nodded in the appropriate places, but she wasn’t really listening. This was how it started: he’d talk about his day, his aches and pains, the kinds of things he should share with Trisha’s mother, not Trisha. But he talked to her as though she were an adult, conversations she was certain other daughters didn’t have with their fathers or, in her case, stepfather.
He grew quiet, and she wondered if she’d missed something while she was off in her own thoughts. He picked up his beer and guzzled it down. She counted the seconds until her friends would get here and she could leave. He remained silent. She thought about getting up, waiting for her friends on the porch.
Then he leaned back against the couch, inching his way closer to her. Her breathing quickened.
Deep inside her bones in a place she wasn’t always aware of and yet she was, she understood the reason behind these little talks and what they led to. And for this she blamed herself, for not knowing how to stop it. Now, he brushed her hair away from her shoulder. Her muscles constricted, her spine rigid.
He tickled her side. “Give me a smile,” he said, edging closer still.
She closed her eyes, tried to pretend to be somewhere else, anywhere else.
There was a knock at the door.
Her friends called her name. Was she dreaming? Were they finally here?
She heard her name again.
“Coming!” she called and sprang from the couch. She raced for the door and flung it open. Dannie and Carlyn were standing on the porch. They looked startled. She ran outside, pushed them toward the steps. “Go, go, go,” she yelled. The three of them ran down the sidewalk.
Lester hollered something she couldn’t make out.
They continued running until they reached the end of the block. The sun lingered over the mountaintop. They’d have an hour, maybe more, of sunlight left.
“We need to keep moving,” Trisha said, looking over her shoulder, catching him coming off their porch. “This way,” she said, slipping between two houses.
“What are we doing?” Carlyn asked.
“Just follow me,” Trisha said, leading the way, Carlyn behind her, and Dannie trailing them both, huffing and puffing and calling, “Wait up.”
When they reached the quarry, they stopped. Dannie bent over and held her stomach, trying to catch her breath.
Trisha paced up and down the gravel path, pausing every few seconds to check that he hadn’t followed them. Anger welled up inside her along with shame, the two tumbling and turning below the surface of her skin. She couldn’t remember a time when she hadn’t felt this way. Maybe when she was a child and living with her real father in Chicago.
“The quarry’s not safe,” she said. “Too open.” It would be easy for Lester to find them there. And she didn’t want to chance bumping into Scott. Ever since that day she’d first met him, the way he’d looked at her had made her feel warm and funny inside. But she couldn’t think about that now. She couldn’t handle anything else.
“Safe from what?” Dannie asked.
“I know where we can go,” Carlyn said.
They took the path away from the quarry, veered left onto a smaller path that led to the AT, stomped through the brush, stopped when Dannie got snagged on a branch.
Once on the trail, they started up the side of the mountain. They kicked up dust and stones, ducked under low-lying branches. New leaves sprouted from trees, and ferns fanned out on both sides of the dirt path. It should’ve been a beautiful spring evening for a walk in the woods, and maybe it was to anybody else. But to Trisha, it felt like a slap in the face, a sharp contrast to the ugliness tearing through her.
“How much farther?” Dannie asked.
Carlyn stopped, looked around. “This should be far enough.” She checked with Trisha.
Trisha nodded and sat on a rock underneath a large oak tree.
“Why’d we run?” Carlyn asked. “What was he doing?”
Trisha shook her head. “Just don’t be late again,” she said. “Just promise me you won’t be late again.”
CHAPTER TEN
After the detectives’ car disappeared down Second Street, Trisha scurried from her mother’s bedroom to the bathroom. She filled the tub with hot water and climbed in, careful of her bruised ribs. She was hoping to avoid her mother at least for a little while and to put off the conversation they were sure to have about Trisha’s stepfather.
She scrubbed her skin until it was pink and raw, tried to wash off decades of unwanted hands touching her, groping her, violating her in ways she’d never dreamed possible. But no amount of soap or water could ever stop her flesh from crawling with the memories.
When she couldn’t stand it any longer and the itch for a drink became unbearable, she stepped out of the old claw-foot tub and dressed in designer jeans. They were the closest thing she had that resembled anything casual. The silk blouse she slipped on was ridiculously overpriced—each pearl button hand sewn, custom made specifically for her.
She found her mother in the kitchen in front of a can of beer and an ashtray full of cigarette butts. Trisha helped herself to her own can of beer, the bitter taste like candy on her tongue. She hadn’t made it through the night like she’d planned, finding the harder stuff, a half bottle of Jack Daniel’s, in a cabinet by the stove. She’d polished it off, filled it back up with water: a trick she’d learned as a kid so
her mother wouldn’t notice it was empty. It bought Trisha some time to replace the bottle.
“We had visitors,” her mother said. “A couple of detectives. They came to talk to me about those bones they found in the woods.” She pulled on the cigarette, exhaled. “They think they’re Lester’s.”
“What makes them think that?”
“They didn’t say. They asked me to get them Lester’s dental records. They said it’s the fastest way to make an ID.”
“Are you going to do it?”
“What kind of question is that?”
Trisha didn’t know. She didn’t know what to say next. Of course her mother would help to identify him. Why wouldn’t she?
Her mother rubbed her brow. “I don’t even know if the dentist would’ve kept his records after all this time.” She paused. “Do you think they’d still have them?”
Trisha met her mother’s gaze, saw worry in her eyes. What did she want from her? What did she expect her to say? She couldn’t bring herself to say she was sorry. She would never apologize for Lester. She hated him. Although many years had come and gone since she’d last seen him, her anger was as fresh and rough as it had ever been.
No, Trisha wasn’t sorry. The only thing she was sorry for was that they’d ever found him in the first place.
Trisha left her mother sitting in the kitchen with her beer and cigarettes. She knocked on the front door of Evelyn’s house, or what used to be Evelyn’s home. She supposed Dannie owned it now.
The cold December air cut through the flimsy silk blouse. She knocked again. When she didn’t get an answer the second time, she tried the door. It was unlocked. She opened it and stepped into the living room. The place had been straightened up since the funeral. The discarded plates with half-eaten food had been cleared away. The worn carpet had been vacuumed, from the looks of the fresh tracks. Warm air blew from the electric baseboard heater.
Trisha followed the sound of voices to the back of the house, paused outside the entranceway of the kitchen, where she found Dannie at the table in front of a large piece of pie. Carlyn sat across from her. They didn’t hear her come in, and, instead of announcing herself, she slipped inside a shadow and out of sight, taking up her usual position for spying. Eavesdropping on conversations was the only way she’d ever learned anything, because no one had bothered to talk with her directly. She’d lurked on the fringes of parties, lingered on the outskirts of blackjack tables and poker games. She’d tucked herself into the corners of the suite during Sid’s soirees. The less she’d been seen or heard, the better chance she’d had of staying out of the way of his wrath.
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