Chapter Thirty-two

But Sam's question bothered her as she drove away from the house.

Who's Nathaniel Leland?

She hadn't been able to find out anything about the boy online yesterday, and not having an answer for her husband only increased her anger now. Because there had to be a reason the child had been incorporated into James Alderson's portrait of her brother with all those other images.

All those other images…

The answer hit her out of nowhere—and then she felt even more angry, this time with herself. While she might not know who Nathaniel Leland was, there was someone who might.

Her mother's house was quiet as she let herself in.

"Hello?" she called out.

There was no reply, and she stood in the hallway for a moment, staring down the corridor ahead. At the doors there, half-hidden in the gloom. Each of them held memories. Because of the old-fashioned feel of the house and its furnishings, it had been easy to imagine this place was haunted while growing up here. A part of her still thought it was. It was just that as a child she hadn't understood what ghosts really were.

"In here."

Her mother's voice, calling from the front room. Katie stepped through. The room seemed darker than it should have been. The curtains were open, but the light from outside was occluded by the dirty glass of the window, and the air was the color of stewed tea.

Her mother was sitting at the table. She didn't look up as Katie entered the room. The puzzle was laid out on the table before her, and her hands were working at the puzzle. Katie walked across the room and looked down at it. The four of them were complete now, and her mother was working on the floor at their feet: a large patch of all but identical light brown pieces. Katie watched as she moved one around, turning it carefully, trying to find where it belonged.

"Have you heard from Chris?" her mother said hopefully.

"No."

"I thought that might be why you were here. The police came to see me, you know. About him."

"What?" Katie said. "When?"

"Yesterday. They wanted to know if I'd seen him recently. I told them I hadn't. That I hadn't had any contact with him in years."

"Mom—"

But she was interrupted with a sharp look.

"That's what he would have wanted. I'm not going to betray my own boy."

Katie hesitated. "Were they worried about him? Or did it seem like he'd done something wrong?"

"They wouldn't tell me." Her mother looked down again. "Both, I think."

Katie tried to put things together in her head. What the hell had her brother gotten himself involved in?

And not just him anymore.

"I spoke to the police yesterday too," she said.

That got her another sharp look. "About what?"

"Not Chris."

She told her mother about what had happened last night—the face at the window—and how whoever had been outside had tried the back door. Her mother was slightly more concerned than Sam had been, but if anything she seemed more relieved that they hadn't asked about Chris.

Katie bit down on the familiar resentment that caused.

"You told me Chris took some photos one time he came round?"

Her mother nodded.

"Yes. I've never thrown anything away."

Katie took the piece of old, yellowing paper out of her jacket pocket.

"Who is this child?" she said.

Her mother peered at it for a second. Then she turned back to her puzzle.

"I can't possibly see in this light. Not with my eyes."

"Yes," Katie said. "I think you can."

The puzzle piece her mother was trying didn't fit. She placed it into a bag of discards by her side and selected another from the box.

And then she sighed.

"He shouldn't have torn it," she said. "I'm a bit disappointed in him for doing that. If he wanted it, he should just have taken the whole thing."

"The whole what?"

"The box is in your bedroom." Her mother nodded toward the corridor. "Go and see for yourself."

"See what?" Katie said. "Who is this?"

"Nobody. One of your father's fancies."

The temperature in the room seemed to drop a notch. Katie wasn't sure that she'd heard her correctly, or what her words meant if she had.

"What did you say?"

But her mother didn't reply. She just kept moving a puzzle piece around the empty space in the puzzle, rotating it methodically, trying it in every available position. Katie watched her for a moment, then put the photograph of the little boy back in her pocket and turned to face the gloom of the doorway behind her.

Go and see for yourself.

"Okay," she said. "I will."

It was not her bedroom anymore, of course. It was a storage room now—one filled mostly with rubbish. Her mother had indeed rarely thrown anything away. Broken bookcases and cabinets lined the walls, while folding tables were stacked on top of each other, and slumped piles of trash bags stuffed with old clothes rested beneath the window. But the bones of the room were still familiar, and Katie felt a shiver of recognition as she stepped inside.

Her desk was still there.

She had loved it as a child: an old wooden school desk. There was a square black slate attached to the inside of the lid with a clock stenciled onto one corner. She walked across now and opened it slowly. The lid creaked up awkwardly on rusted hinges, releasing the sealed-away smell of chalk dust and chewing gum. The black slate was still there. The clock too. The ghostly marks of hundreds of chalk hands there gave the impression it was telling every possible time at once.

Katie looked down.

There was a cardboard box on the floor beside the desk. She knelt down. At some point in the past, the box had been sealed with brown parcel tape, but Chris must have cut it open. She opened the top to discover the box was full of material—old documents and paperwork; packets of photographs—but she found what she was looking for almost immediately. There was a collection of old newspaper clippings, and the one Chris had torn the photo of the little boy from was on top.

She picked up the yellowing paper and then took the photo of the child from her jacket pocket. It fit into the corner of the clipping perfectly, and now that the photograph was back in place, the little boy seemed to be staring at the stark headline beside him.

SEARCH CONTINUES FOR WHITROW'S NATE

Police and civilians today (April 12) continued their search for missing infant Nathaniel Leland (pictured), combing the fields and woods around the home from which he is believed to have vanished last week. Their efforts were hampered by adverse weather conditions and the difficulties of the terrain.

One volunteer told them, "It's boggy land, the trees are thick, and the rain has made progress pretty tough. It's just unforgiving out there. But each of us is one hundred percent committed. If Nate is out there somewhere, we're determined to bring him back home, where he belongs. This is something that's affected us all."

Local police are keen to emphasize that Nathaniel's disappearance remains a missing persons inquiry for now, but sources indicate that hopes of finding the missing child alive now are dwindling. Many are privately preparing themselves for the worst.

"We're determined to keep looking," another volunteer commented. "I think at this point we're all afraid of what we might find, but no child should be out there regardless. I know Nate's father. If nothing else, I want to find him for his sake."

It is a view that has echoed throughout this tight-knit community ever since Nathaniel disappeared from his family home on Monday. Nathaniel was left in the care of a babysitter, Peter Leighton, who is also missing. A tent believed to belong to Leighton was located in dense woodland nearby. As of today, his cottage remains sealed off while officers and forensic teams perform a fingertip search of the property.

And in the meantime, a shaken community continues to search.

Katie kept hold of the photograph but put the newspaper clipping down on the dusty carpet beside her. She was shaken by what she'd just read. Not by the contents, as such, but by the questions they raised. And by the implications she could feel gathering from her mother's choice of words.

One of your father's fancies.

What the hell could she have meant by that?

She turned her attention to the other news clippings in the box. There were several, and she took them out one by one—carefully at first, then more quickly—spreading them out on the carpet and then moving them round in an attempt to create an order—a narrative—from them.

Only part of one emerged.

It appeared that Peter Leighton had been a trusted babysitter who had regularly been left in charge of Nathaniel Leland. But one evening, Nathaniel's parents had returned home to find both Leighton and their infant son missing. An extensive search had ensued. While searching Leighton's cottage, police discovered a collection of violent pornography that suggested he had long harbored a fantasy of killing and dismembering a child. The assumption was that he had finally done so. But—at least as far as these clippings went—no further trace of Leighton or the child appeared to have been found.

Katie sat back on her heels.

The crime had taken place three decades ago and a hundred miles from here. And yet for some reason her father had collected and kept these newspaper cuttings. This child's disappearance had captured his attention. And then Chris had given a photograph of Nathaniel Leland to James Alderson to incorporate into his painting, which suggested her brother also believed the little boy's death was entwined with their lives somehow.

Who's Nathaniel Leland?

So she had the answer to that question now.

But she still had no idea about his connection to her family.

Katie felt a presence behind her. Still kneeling, she shifted around to see her mother standing in the doorway, wrapped in a dressing gown and leaning on her cane. The expression on her face was tinged with sadness, as though something she had been dreading for a long time had finally arrived.

"Why?" Katie said. "Why did Dad keep all of this?"

"He shouldn't have done, God rest his soul. It was a mistake. But then we all make mistakes, don't we? I shouldn't have let Chris look through the box—I'd forgotten all the things that were in there."

Katie stood up.

"Why did he keep this, Mom?"

She started to answer but then stopped. She looked conflicted.

"It's not my story to tell," she said.

"Please, Mom."

But the conflict had been resolved and her expression had hardened.

The sadness remained though.

"You need to find your brother," she said softly. "And ask him."