Chapter 18

Amy sitsat the patio table while the ice melts in her glass and the shadows lengthen in the yard. Although her body is still, her mind races. Snippets of memories, long-buried questions, and half-forgotten conversations ping-pong around her brain. Maisy’s news—that nobody told the police about the guy with Heather—has her heart racing. She must be wrong. Rich would have told them. If not in his official statement, he at least would have let his brother know.

She couldn’t have told the police about the guy. Not with her parents sitting right across the kitchen table from her, desperate for someone to blame and, if she was being honest, more than a bit prejudiced. It’s not speaking ill of the dead if it’s true, right? And, to be fair, their views did evolve as time went on. But in 1994, there was simply no way she was going to tell them their missing daughter has last been seen talking to a Black guy.

Literally anyone else at the party could have let the police know about him, though. And should have. Didn’t they want Heather to be found? Although she’s never believed he had anything to do with Heather’s disappearance, maybe he knew something. He could still know something. If Maisy can find him, maybe he’ll have new information.

She fists her hands and stands up, suddenly desperate to move. She grabs her gardening gloves and a spade from her potting bench and stomps across the yard to take out her frustration on the weeds in her flower beds. As she loosens the weeds with the spade’s sharp tip and yanks them out by their roots, she considers the possibility that the people she believed to be her friends got together and agreed on what to tell the police, her parents, everyone.

She wishes she could reject the idea out of hand. Wishes she could convince herself that they wouldn’t do that. But she can see it happening. Not only can she see it, but now that Maisy’s raised the issue, she knows in her heart it did happen. Of course it did. And what’s worse is she knows exactly who would have had the social capital, the persuasion, and the popularity to make sure everyone adhered to the agreed-upon version of events. The father of her children, the man she shares a bed and a life with. Her own husband.

She scoops up the weeds and carries them over to the bin to dump them, then wipes the sweat from her brow with the back of her hand, smearing a streak of dirt across her face. Then she dusts off her palms and checks her watch. She has just enough time to shower before Rich gets home from the hardware store. The kids are all staying after school with their friends to watch a big track meet, and she’d given them money to grab pizza for dinner afterwards. If she’s going to confront him, tonight’s the night to do it, she thinks as she hurries upstairs to their bathroom.

Amy is showered, dressed, and sitting at the kitchen island when Rich walks through the door and flings his briefcase on the counter with a weary sigh. She digs a piece of soil out from under her fingernail and wonders how she missed it with the nail brush before looking over at him.

“Hi.”

He glances in her direction and his gaze falls on the charcuterie board of meat, cheese, and fruit and the bottle of sparkling wine chilling in the wine bucket beside it. He jerks his chin toward the pair of cut-glass flutes. “Are we celebrating something?”

She smiles and hopes it reaches her eyes. “The kids aren’t here tonight. That big track meet, remember? They’re going to grab something to eat with their friends, so I thought we could have an impromptu indoor picnic.”

“But, the bubbly,” he begins, giving her a worried look. “I didn’t forget an anniversary, did I?”

“We got married in November,” she tells him dryly.

He bristles. “I know that. But it could be the anniversary of one of the times we found out you were pregnant. Or when we moved into this house or some bullcrap. I don’t know.”

“No, Rich, you haven’t missed a bullcrap anniversary. I thought this would be a good chance for us to reconnect.”

It’s a true statement as far as it goes. But it’s not the whole reason. As she was drying her hair, she considered her options. A soft approach is likely the most effective way to get information from her husband, and right now, that’s all she wants. She’ll deal with her outraged sense of betrayal later.

“Oh,” he smiles uncertainly and gives her a peck on the cheek. “Great idea. I’m going to change.”

“Sure. I’ll pour the drinks in the meantime.”

He returns, having traded his polo shirt and khakis for an old Pitt T-shirt and a pair of running shorts. She hands him one flute and raises the other.

“To moving forward.”

He pauses and furrows his brow for a beat before echoing the statement, “To moving forward.”

After they clink glasses, she takes a long sip and savors the burning bubbles as they go down her throat.

He settles on the stool across from her and starts slathering brie on a small round of bread.

“How was your day?”

He asks the rote question automatically, but it’s the opening she needs.

“My day was interesting. Maisy Farley and her producer stopped by.”

He pauses, the knife still on the bread. “I didn’t know you were planning to see them today. Did they come to record your interview?”

“No, Kristy’s up next.” She pauses. “But they did record our conversation.”

The knife clatters to the tray. “Why would they do that? What were you talking about?”

She pops a grape into her mouth. “They got a tip. Someone contacted them to let them know Heather was talking to a boy from Allderdice, and, that at the end of the night, a fight broke out with the kids from Allderdice.”

She takes another sip of her drink and watches him process the news.

He presses his hands flat against the counter. “Did they say who the tipster is?”

“No, in fact, Maisy asked me if I had any idea who it could be.”

“Do you?”

She pauses. She doesn’t know who contacted Maisy, but her hunch that it was Michelle and Lynn is strong enough that she gave the podcaster their names. Something stops her from sharing her suspicion with her husband.

Instead she says, “No. You know I don’t really keep in touch with anybody from high school. I wouldn’t even know who’s following the podcast.”

This elicits a short, humorless laugh. “More like, who isn’t?”

Rich is in touch with their old classmates. As the senior class secretary, he organizes the reunions. He also has a standing monthly card game with several of the guys from their class.

“You’d know better than I would. Who do you think reached out?”

“No clue.”

“Well, who was there when the fight broke out?”

He flicks his eyes toward her but doesn’t answer. She’s not sure why he’s been holding out on her for thirty freaking years. But she has to put some of her cards on the table and hope he’ll level with her.

“Look, you were there at the end of the night. If there was a fight, I know you know about it. I’m not sure why you didn’t tell me or your brother and why it’s not in anybody’s witness statement.”

He runs a hand through his hair, then drains his glass in one gulp. “Because it’s not relevant, Aim.”

She raises an eyebrow at that. She supposes she should be glad he isn’t pretending he doesn’t know what she’s talking about.

“Don’t you think you should have let the police decide that?”

“No, I don’t. Think about it. It had nothing to do with Heather. It was just a stupid fight. People were drinking, there was a lot of testosterone. It wasn’t even a real fight. A couple guys were fronting and talking smack. Maybe a few punches got thrown. It wasn’t a big deal, and it broke up pretty fast because by that point the cops were on their way.”

“If it was no big deal, then why not mention it?”

He’s shaking his head, frustrated. “Some of the guys had already turned eighteen. If anyone decided to make a thing out of it, they would have been charged as adults. It was a stupid fight that had nothing to do with Heather’s disappearance. So why stir up trouble for people?”

“The tip Maisy got says the guy she was talking to was an Allderdice student. How can you be so sure the fight wasn’t related to that?”

“Because it wasn’t,” he insists.

“Nobody told the police they saw her talking to him, either.” She laces her voice with suspicion.

He turns her accusation around on her. “If nobody talked to the police, that means you didn’t either.”

“That’s right. I didn’t,” she says in a quiet voice.

“Why not?”

“Because I didn’t think it was relevant.”

He throws his hands up at the half-truth. “Oh, so it’s okay for you to make judgment calls, but not for me?”

“You did more than just make a judgment call. Maisy said every single witness statement was suspiciously similar. She might even have used the word identical. You came up with a story, then you got everybody together and convinced them to stick to it, didn’t you?” Her voice shakes with emotion.

He lowers his head and says nothing. She’s about to repeat the question when he looks up at her. “If someone suggested we all stick to the same story, what makes you so sure it was me?”

She laughs. “Please. You were the alpha male of your little group. Brett, Chris, Frank—all those guys—did whatever you said. And half the girls in our class had a crush on you. There was basically a mass day of mourning when you started dating Julia.”

He gives her a little smirk and spreads his hands wide. “What can I say? I’m a natural leader.”

She can’t believe he’s being smug, now, about this. She bites back her urge to cut him down to size and focuses on what he’s admitting. “So you did tell everybody to lie.”

“No, I told everybody to focus on the important facts,” he corrects her. His tone doesn’t betray his rising anger, but the red flush creeping up his neck from under the collar of his t-shirt does. “Nobody lied. We may have strategically omitted certain facts that weren’t relevant—just like you did. We didn’t do anything wrong.”

“Well, it’s going to look like you did because Maisy’s not going to let it go. Everyone who listens to her podcast will come away thinking that our classmates stonewalled the police and you orchestrated it. You interfered with the investigation.”

He’s red-faced now and the tendons in his neck are throbbing. “I knew this podcast was a bad idea. She’s not going to find anything else. She’s just stirring up crap and making people look bad.”

Amy’s spine stiffens. “Why are you so sure she’s not going to find anything? Do you know something, Rich?”

“I can’t believe you just asked me that.” He slams a hand on the counter.

“The question’s long overdue,” she shoots back.

“Are you even listening to yourself? I don’t know what happened to your sister, but let’s be realistic. If she hasn’t turned up by now, she’s dead somewhere. And Maisy Farley ruining a bunch of people’s reputations, people who have kids of their own, isn’t going to bring her back.”

He grabs his phone, wallet, and keys from the bowl by the door and storms out, slamming the door behind him so hard that the plates rattle in the cabinet.

Amy remains at the island, unmoving, until the car engine roars to life in the garage. Then she refills her champagne flute with shaking hands, paying no attention to the marker line drawn on her glass.