Chapter 8

I sat in the Jeep and watched the two houses.

Nobody came out and told me to leave. Nobody chased me off with a shotgun. With the window down and the sun on me, it was warm enough for me to shed my hoodie. The occasional breeze brought the smells of fresh-cut grass and gasoline and the darker undernote of the slough. Sunlight glittered on the windows of the houses I was watching. In Arlen’s house, the curtains were closed.

The conversation certainly hadn’t gone as I’d planned. In the first place, I’d been surprised by Jane—I’d been expecting another Candy, but instead, I’d found someone much more like the Vivienne I knew: composed, classy, and scarily smart. I’d also been surprised by what Jane had shared about the close-knit group of friends. It was hard to imagine Vivienne as an awkward teenager—although she hadn’t looked particularly awkward in the photo Jane had shown me—but it wasn’t hard to imagine that in a working-class town like Astoria, a bright, bookish girl might have struggled to find her place. And, once she’d found it, clung tightly to it. Jane was certainly a kindred spirit, and in spite of Neil’s bad temper, it wasn’t hard to imagine him and Richard as the kind of boys who were athletic and popular while still being, well, likable and intelligent human beings. All of it was a far cry from the picture Candy had painted of divorce, infidelity, rage, and greed, culminating in a sordid murder for a few thousand dollars.

But, at the same time, Jane’s initial response to my appearance had been strange. Her questions about justice, about why I was bothering, weren’t the questions I expected from someone who had been grieving her missing husband for decades. And Neil had been downright hostile when he arrived. It was hard not to wonder about the man who had stepped into Richard’s life: Richard’s home, Richard’s wife, even wearing Richard’s bracelet—or one that looked a lot like it. It might not be a glamorous life, but people killed for all sorts of reasons, and it was hard for me not to consider Neil, especially in light of his reaction, as a very real suspect.

What had I learned? Well, not much. Everything Jane had told me about the group of friends growing up had been good background information, sure, but I couldn’t tell how much bearing it might have on the actual investigation. Jane had confirmed part of Candy’s version of events—the change in Richard’s behavior, the frequent arguments, and of course, the fight that had happened the night Richard disappeared. She’d provided an alibi for the night in question—Neil—that I was sure Neil would be happy to confirm. But perhaps most interesting of all was her insistence (and Neil’s) that Vivienne hadn’t killed Richard.

So, that was one point of interest: Jane (and Neil) painted a very different picture of Vivienne than Candy did.

And the second had been Neil’s explosive comments about Candy. About her hatred of Richard. Blaming him for ruining her life. And that parting shot— Ask her where she was the night Richard died . I would have liked to ask a few more questions about Candy, but that seemed not to be an option; Jane’s reaction to Neil’s comments was as interesting as Neil’s comments themselves. Why had Jane gotten so worked up about Candy? Or about what Neil was saying about Candy? Whatever it was, it had affected the polite, receptive woman so strongly that she’d told me never to come back.

Well, there was someone I could ask.

I got out of the Jeep and jogged across the street again, but this time, I approached Arlen’s house. I knocked. No answer. I knocked again. Nothing. From the next block came the sound of a car engine and a rattling muffler.

If no one was home, I could—theoretically—take a look at the garage and the workshop. It would be remarkable if I suddenly discovered evidence that not only had the police overlooked but nobody had bothered to clean up in the last thirty-odd years, but I also couldn’t shake the memory of Arlen popping out with his shotgun when Bobby and I had inspected the slough. Of course, searching the garage also sounded like a great way to get my head blown off. I’d be trespassing. I’d be committing a crime. Even if Arlen didn’t shoot me himself, he could call the police. Indira would love to get a phone call asking to bail me out. No, searching the garage in the middle of the day, when I wasn’t sure if anyone was home, seemed like a terrible idea. If Bobby had been there, he would have told me so. At length. And if I did it anyway, he would have been furious.

That made something poke its head up at the back of my brain.

On the other hand, I thought carefully, I was pretty sure Arlen’s house was empty, and the street was dead. I hadn’t seen a car or a pedestrian on either visit. So, this might be my golden opportunity. And if I missed it, I might never have another chance.

There it was: decision made. It was a carefully thought out, rational, pragmatic decision.

It had absolutely nothing to do with the fact that it would make Bobby insane when I told him.

I took the stairs down from the stoop two at a time and hustled around the side of the house. The gravel drive crunched underfoot, and from farther off came the slow stirring of the slough—just the occasional ripple-eddy-splash. The garage had the same sagging aluminum siding as the bungalow (with even more algae), and it looked like the roof hadn’t been replaced since Sputnik. The overhead door was down, and a quick walk around the structure told me there wasn’t a regular door—what I’d recently learned, while writing with Hugo, was called the pedestrian door. I gave up on the garage for the time being and continued to the workshop. This one did have a pedestrian door (I mean, a regular door), but it was locked. Someone had drilled one hole through the door and another through the plank wall and then run a chain through, and the chain was held shut with a padlock.

Well, well, well. Someone really didn’t want people exploring the workshop.

I did another quick pass, but I didn’t see any easy way into the single-story building. I considered the tire iron from the Jeep—the plank walls looked like they were of the variety that the Big Bad Wolf was in the habit of knocking down—but I gave it up. I’d probably be able to get inside the workshop, but I’d never be able to disguise the fact that someone had broken in. Besides, now that the thrill of making Bobby lose his mind had worn off, I was starting to suspect that I was behaving, er, injudiciously.

Halfway back to the Jeep, I caught a flicker of movement out of the corner of my eye. When I glanced over, I realized it had come from Arlen’s house. From one of the windows, to be precise. I stared, but now the hideous curtains hung perfectly still. I was sure I hadn’t imagined it—I’d seen those curtains move, if only briefly. And that meant someone was inside that house. I considered knocking once more, but I gave that up too; if they’d wanted to talk to me, they would have answered the first time.

When I started the Jeep and caught a look at the time, I was shocked by how late it was. The day had already been well underway before I’d heard Kiefer rummaging around upstairs, and between the argume—uh, conversation with Bobby, and then the drive to Astoria, the interview with Jane and Neil, and now my extracurricular activities, it was after six. The sun was sinking toward the horizon. In another hour, it would be cool again, and once the sun set, it might even verge on chilly.

A tiny part of me—miniscule, really, so small it didn’t even deserve to be noticed—wondered if Bobby would be worried because I’d been gone so long.

I started back to Hastings Rock, alone with my thoughts. I passed the agricultural fields, where the neat rows of crops were bathed in golden light, and their long shadows looked like stencil work on the ground. A bird—a big one, a bird of prey—circled in the sky like a question mark being written, its wings barely seeming to move as it floated above me. Slowly, farmland shrank and gave way to the rocky coast. Spruce and fir and pine bristled along the edges of the road. It was such a nice day, I lowered the windows, and the smell of cedar and balsam came in on the evening’s crisp breeze. The ocean shone like brass, and the lines of the waves looked like the hot tip of a soldering iron.

When my phone buzzed, it was almost like I’d been expecting it. Bobby’s name showed on the Jeep’s media console. I considered rolling up the windows—it would have been the polite thing to do—but I didn’t.

I answered with a classic: a nice, friendly “What?”

Bobby’s silence lasted a beat. “Where are you?”

“In the Jeep.”

It felt like his pause was longer this time (which was very satisfying). “I’m having a hard time hearing you. Could you roll the windows up?”

“What do you want, Bobby?”

“I want to know where you are.”

“I’m in the Jeep. Didn’t we already have this conversation?”

The silence was definitely more significant this time. Then he said, “I understand you’re upset—”

“Great. We’ve covered all our bases, then. I’m in the Jeep. I’m upset. And you, as usual, know everything.”

“Did you drive up to Astoria by yourself?”

“I don’t know, Bobby. Maybe.”

“You don’t know?”

“I don’t know!” That was a little less cool, calm, and collected than I liked, so I took a deep breath. “You know what? I don’t have to tell you where I am. I don’t have to check in and report my location and keep you up to date on everywhere I go. Just like—”

I thought I could hear his frustrated exhalation, even with the wind whipping through the Jeep.

“—you don’t have to tell me when you’re moving out,” I finished. “That’s not the kind of friendship we have, it turns out. And that’s okay. As long as we both understand the parameters of our friendship.”

“I’m sorry you found out that way,” Bobby said. But then he ruined it by adding, “Kiefer’s sorry too. I’d like to talk to you—”

“Kiefer’s sorry too.” A laugh ripped its way out of me. “Okay, Bobby. Goodbye.”

“Are you coming to sandcastle practice?”

Somehow, that hurt more than the rest of it. He wasn’t worried, a little voice said inside my head. He wasn’t fretting. Concern wasn’t eating him up as he moped around the house. Instead, he’d been going about his day like normal. With Kiefer. It probably wasn’t until I hadn’t shown up for stupid sandcastle practice that he’d even wondered where I was.

“You know what—” I began.

Then sunlight flared in the rearview mirror: a flash of gold that left a spot dancing in my vision. Then the light was gone. It took me a moment to realize that the light had bounced off a truck that had come up behind me while I’d been on the phone. And now it was trying to pass me.

Returning my attention to the call, I tried to summon up whatever nasty thing I’d been about to say. But movement in my peripheral vision drew my attention again. The truck was speeding up as it tried to pass me. My automatic reflex was to ease my foot off the gas. In the low evening light, the driver was nothing more than a shadow. I made an impatient gesture for them to hurry up, and the truck’s engine roared in response.

And then the truck swerved across the center line. I had an instant of clarity, when I knew it was going to hit me. Then the truck connected with the side of the Jeep. Metal shrieked. Rubber squealed. A fountain of sparks sprayed up. Instinct took over, the primitive need to get away. I yanked the wheel to the right, and too late, I realized my mistake. The shoulder dropped off abruptly, and a moment later, the Jeep rolled over and began its tumble toward the ocean.