All the Way Home (25 page)

“Ozzie, I think we need to go inside,” she says, swallowing hard.

“No! Treasure.”

“Okay, I’ll do this for one more . . . what
is
this?”

She peers into the hole, having uncovered the edge of the buried object. Now she can see that it’s curved and somewhat pliable, like some kind of tire. That’s what it is, she realizes, brushing more dirt away with her hands to reveal spokes.

Just an old bike tire.

“Molly?”

She glances up at the sound of a male voice calling her name and sees Lou Randall on the driveway.

“Daddy!” Ozzie shouts, running toward him. “Buried treasure!”

“Mr. Randall? Is everything okay?” Molly asks, standing and dusting herself off before following Ozzie.

“Everything’s fine. I
figured
you guys were just playing outside.”

“Ozzie told me his mommy promised he could play with his shovel in the dirt this afternoon.”

“She probably did.”

“Buried treasure,” Ozzie says again, as Lou scoops him into his arms and gives him a quick peck on the cheek.

“How’s Michelle?” Molly looks past him, expecting to see his pregnant wife getting out of the Ford Explorer.

“She’s still at the hospital, actually.”

“Is she in labor?”

“They don’t think so. She’s about to have some tests to check on the baby. I tried to call home to check on you guys, but when I couldn’t get through, she got worried and sent me home to check
.
”

“God, I’m sorry. I didn’t hear the phone ringing. We shouldn’t have come outside,” Molly says.

“It’s okay. But do me a favor and stay in now, so I can reach you if I need to. I’ve got to dash back to the hospital,” he adds, checking his watch as he sets Ozzie back on his feet. “Be a good boy for Molly, sport.”

“Tell Michelle I hope everything’s okay.”

“Thanks, Molly, I will,” he calls, already striding back to the car. The Explorer’s motor is still running. He starts to get in, and then, as an afterthought, glances at the house next door and calls, “Any news about your friend?”

Molly swallows hard, afraid to try to speak, and shakes her head.

“Are you okay, Molly?”

“I’m fine,” she manages to answer. “Don’t worry about me and Ozzie. I’ll take good care of him.”

“Bye bye, Daddy,” Ozzie calls, waving as his father pulls out of the driveway.

“Come on, Ozzie,” Molly says, grabbing his grubby hand in her own. “Let’s go in and wash up.”

“No! Dig!”

“You heard your dad
.
He wants us to stay inside. I’ll read you a story and we’ll have some ice cream or something, okay?” she asks as they step through the back door into the kitchen.

“Ice cream!” Ozzie echoes with his usual enthusiasm.

She stops short.

Something just creaked overhead.

“Ice cream!” Ozzie shouts again.

“Shh, Ozzie,” Molly says, grabbing him by the shoulders to keep him still. “What was that?”

“Ice cream!”

“Ozzie, be quiet!” She cocks her head, listening.

She hears it again.

A faint creak.

Like a footstep on a loose floorboard.

Paralyzed with fear, Molly listens, and even Ozzie is motionless, as though he, too, senses that something is wrong.

Several moments pass.

There’s nothing but silence.

Calm down. Don’t panic. This is an old house,
Molly tells herself. Old houses are always creaking, making settling noises.

Settling noises that sound like footsteps?

Don’t jump to conclusions. Or, if you’re that freaked out, call Rory. She said she’ll come over if you need her.

You don’t need her, of all people.

You can take care of yourself, and Ozzie, too.

Besides, what is there to worry about? There’s a bunch of police officers right outside.

Right. Police officers who are investigating what happened to Rebecca—who vanished off the face of the earth last night. Just like Carleen.

What if the same person who abducted all those girls years ago is back? What if he’s the one who took Rebecca? What if the kidnapper is hiding here, in this house, right now?

Molly swallows.

‘‘Ice cream, Molly?” Ozzie asks in a small, hopeful voice.

“In a minute, Ozzie,” she says absently, turning to glance out the kitchen window toward her own house next door. Should she bring Ozzie right over there?

No. She can’t. She just promised his father she’d stay here, inside, in case he tries to call again from the hospital.

Besides, Mom and Sister Theodosia are home. She saw the big black car pull into the driveway next door earlier. She doesn’t want to drag them into this.

No, she’ll have to call Rory and ask her to come over here
.

To do what? Save you from the kidnapper?

Molly hesitates, not wanting to call.

Not wanting to admit to anyone, least of all Rory, how scared and vulnerable she is.

But she thinks again of Rebecca, and of the sound she thought she heard overhead, and a chill slips down her spine.

Setting her jaw resolutely, Molly moves toward the phone, picks up the receiver in a trembling hand, and begins to dial.

T
he phone rings just as Rory, her mother, and Sister Theodosia are finishing their mostly silent lunch around the kitchen table. Sister Theodosia made watery scrambled eggs when they returned from mass, and Rory was so starved she agreed to join them when she came downstairs after her shower.

Big mistake.

The eggs are disgusting, and the tension at the table is palpable.

She can’t think of a solitary thing to say.

She can hardly confide in them about her earlier conversation with Barrett Maitland, who is turning out to be a nice guy, after all. So nice that she agreed to meet him again tonight for coffee, against her better judgment. But maybe she was being too hard on him earlier, too suspicious for no good reason . . .

Nor can she bring up the topic of her mother’s problems so that the three of them can have a nice little chat and fix everything
.
No, she never should have asked Sister Theodosia for help
.

The only person who can help her mother, she now realizes, is a psychiatrist. She’ll just have to convince her to see one. And she’s not about to do that in front of Sister Theodosia, who made it clear that she thinks prayer is the answer.

So Rory sits silently at the kitchen table and pokes at her eggs with her fork, and when the phone rings, she leaps up to answer it, grabbing it gratefully, like it’s a rope and she’s struggling in a riptide.

“Hello?”

“Rory?”

“Molly?”

“Can you come over?”

“What’s wrong?”

“Nothing, just . . . can you come?”

“I’ll be right there.” Rory hangs up and turns to see both her mother and Sister Theodosia watching her expectantly.

“That was Molly—”

“Where is she?” her mother asks, knitting her brows in obvious confusion.

“Baby-sitting. Next door. Remember? I mentioned that earlier, when you asked me about her when you got home from church,” Rory says, darting a
See? I told you
glance at Sister Theodosia.

“What’s wrong over there?” the nun asks.

“Nothing. She just wants me to come over. I think she just wants someone to keep her company,” Rory says, heading for the door. “I’ll be back in a little while.”

She steps outside and looks toward the house next door, realizing she hasn’t set foot inside the place in years. Not since Emily . . .

Shoving that unsettling thought out of her mind, Rory quickly crosses the yard to the honeysuckle hedge, glancing toward the street as she emerges from the well-worn path between the branches. From here she can glimpse police cars still parked at the curb of the Wasners’ house next door.

Did they find something? Is that why Molly’s upset?

Please, don’t let it be that,
Rory prays as she hurries toward the back door.

Molly’s waiting behind the screen, holding a squirming, protesting Ozzie.

“What’s wrong?” Rory asks, alarmed, seeing that her sister’s face is even paler than usual.

“Nothing. I—”

“Ice cream, Molly!
Pwease!
” Ozzie hollers.

“He wants ice cream,” Molly says wanly. “I told him he could have some, and . . .”

“I’ll get it for him.” Rory steps inside, past her sister, and looks around. “Tell me what’s going on, Molly.”

“It’s nothing, really. I shouldn’t have called.”

Rory crosses the familiar kitchen to the freezer, trying not to notice that the place is laid out exactly as it was when the Anghardts lived here. Everything looks the same, right down to the worn linoleum. The appliances and furniture are different, but in the same spots: stove and refrigerator opposite the back door, table in the nook by the window.

Emily and her father had never used their table. It was always piled with clutter, Rory recalls. She had once asked Emily where they sat when they ate their meals, and Emily had shrugged and replied, “Wherever. In front of the television, or sometimes I just stand at the counter. It’s not like we have these real sit-down meals with just the two of us.”

Shutting out the memory of her lost friend, Rory opens the freezer and spots a carton of fudge ripple. Ozzie breaks into an excited dance at her feet as she removes it.

“Something must be happening for you to have called me over here,” Rory says quietly to Molly, who just shrugs.

She opens and closes cupboard doors and drawers until she locates a spoon and a small plastic bowl. She scoops out a small portion of ice cream for Ozzie, sets it in front of the booster chair at the table, and lifts him into it. He grabs his spoon and digs in with gusto.

“It’s just . . . I thought I heard this noise, and I guess I panicked,” Molly says when Rory turns back to her.

“What kind of noise?”

“A footstep. Actually, two footsteps. Coming from upstairs
.
”

Rory stares at her. “Are you sure?”

“No. In fact, I’m pretty positive now that it was just my imagination. I’m just freaked out by this whole thing with Rebecca. I guess my mind is getting carried away. Like there’s some crazed kidnapper on the loose in the house,” she says with a forced, derisive laugh that comes out sounding hollow.

“That’s understandable, Molly. You’ve been through so much these last few days. But still . . . did you look upstairs so you can put your mind at ease?”

“No way!” her sister replies promptly.

“Do you want me to?”

“No . . . Yes. If you wouldn’t mind.”

“I don’t mind.”

Yes, I do
.

And not because I think there’s some psycho kidnapper lurking in a closet up there, either
.

I mind because I don’t want to walk up those stairs and down that hall. I don’t want to look into Emily’s old bedroom, and I don’t want to remember her, and I don’t want to wonder what happened to her
.

“Do you . . . do you want me to come with you?” Molly asks, watching her, as though she senses Rory’s reluctance.

“No. Just stay here with Ozzie. I’ll be right back.”

“Rory, be careful, okay?” Molly calls after her.

“Molly, don’t worry.”

At least the rest of the first floor looks different from when the Anghardts lived here. Now, despite the obvious signs that it’s undergoing renovation—like the half-stripped wallpaper in the front foyer and the rough, patched living-room walls where dark paneling had been ripped away—it’s more homey. The dining room has been painted a soft raspberry color framed by white crown molding, and there are soft floral balloon curtains framing the bay windows
.
The living-room furniture is oversized and upholstered in a comfortable-looking chintz with contrasting throw pillows, and there’s a row of children’s videos in the glass-fronted cupboard by the fireplace, where Emily’s father had kept his hunting rifles
.

It’s clear that a family lives here now.

The Anghardts’ home had lacked any hint of coziness. Their furniture was boxy and functional, and the windows had been covered by ugly Venetian blinds. What the place had lacked, Rory realizes now, was a woman’s touch. Emily didn’t have a mother; she’d mentioned once that her mom had died giving birth to her, and that the loss had shattered her father.