The Deepest Secret (17 page)

“That right? Which house is that?”

He can feel the three of them staring down the street to his house, the slanted roof, the windows hidden behind the bushes his mom insists add one more layer of protection. They can’t see inside. They can’t
know
.

“How old is he?”

All he’d have to do is look down. Tyler’s right there, inches away.

“I know what you’re thinking,” Mrs. Farnham says. “But it’s not that. That boy is sick. He almost never comes out of the house.”

“Don’t even try to talk to him,” Mr. Farnham warns. “His mother’s a piranha.”

Tyler clutches the grass. He has to clench his jaw from blurting out something.

“She’s just trying to protect her son,” Mrs. Farnham says.

“It’s more than that, and you know it,” Mr. Farnham snaps.

“You’re right. I wouldn’t have any idea what it’s like to be a mother.”

The screen door slams.

“I guess I’d better go talk to her,” Mr. Farnham says. “Good luck with your story.”

The screen door bangs shut again.

“Got that?” Jason Freed says, and another voice answers, “Yep.” They walk away, their footsteps crunching on gravel.

Will he hear it when the light goes off? He doesn’t dare open his eyes to see. He forces himself to lie still. He counts down from thirty. Thirty’s a safe number, isn’t it? Tyler counts, thirty, twenty-nine, twenty-eight … At one, he raises his head.

Everything’s dark. It feels so good. He rolls over and over, to the bottom of the Farnhams’ yard. He tugs off a glove and yanks up his pants leg, pats his calf. It doesn’t feel hot. He presses harder, digging the hard curve of his fingernail into his skin. There’s no tingling. He touches his nose, his cheeks.

It’s a few seconds before he can stand. By the time he makes it to
his own backyard, his legs have stopped shaking. He twists the door handle and hears a little kid yell, “No, no, no!”

Holly’s voice comes over the fence. “Don’t brush your teeth. See if I care.”

Tyler should go inside. He should turn on the bathroom light and check his arms and legs, but he walks over to the fence and peers through the slats. A little boy’s crouching on the other side, pushing a toy truck on the wooden planks of the deck. Holly stands over him, her hands on her hips. She’s looking right at Tyler.

“You can come over if you want.”

His face goes hot, but he undoes the latch of his gate. “Hi.”

“What a horrible day. Every time I got the baby down, that damned doorbell rang.” Her hair’s loose, curly about her face, light-colored, probably blond. He can’t tell what color her eyes are. The collar of her dress lies open, revealing smooth skin and the bones of her clavicle. She pulls something from her pocket. A pack of cigarettes? Tyler’s never seen a cigarette in real life. No one’s allowed to smoke around him, but Holly goes ahead and lights it with a lighter, its tip flaring bright red. She tilts back her head and exhales smoke into the air. It smells, he realizes, but not in a bad way. He takes a tentative sniff, but carefully, so she doesn’t notice.

“Excuse me, do you have a minute?”
she says, making her voice eager. It’s exactly what Jason Freed had said.
“Do you know what happened to little Amy? Aren’t you afraid for your own children’s safety?”

Holly doesn’t sound afraid. She sounds annoyed, but still he offers her reassurance, telling her what his dad said. “The police will find her.”

She looks at him, and he feels a flicker of uncertainty.

“Why don’t you tell me the last time you saw Amy Nolan?”
she says, her voice slow and firm.

“You sound just like her.” If he had his eyes closed, he’d swear it was Detective Watkins standing there instead of Holly.

“I was going to be an actress. I did a couple of commercials, auditioned for some shows.”

He can believe it. He can see her fitting right in on TV. His mom says people on TV wear lots of makeup and have people do their hair all the time, even stopping the video camera to make adjustments. People aren’t as perfect as they appear in movies, she’s told him, or as they do in magazines. But he thinks Holly looks pretty enough. He sneaks a peek at her full mouth. He can’t imagine her needing anyone to fix her hair or put makeup on her face. As soon as he has the thought, he blushes, and is glad it’s too dark for her to see.

Connor says, “What’s that?” He’s rocked back on his heels, staring at Tyler.

It comes out
dat
. “A camera.”

“Why?”

Why is it a camera? It’s not a question that makes sense. Holly’s watching him. “It takes pictures.” Why is he talking so strangely? It’s like he has a washcloth stuffed in his mouth, so that his tongue can’t shape the sounds right. “Want to see?”

A nod.

“Want me to take a picture of you?”

Another nod.

Tyler holds up the camera. As the flash goes off, he automatically closes his eyes. Camera bulbs use xenon gas, so he’s safe, but he can’t help it. When he opens them, Connor’s still kneeling, and Holly’s blinking.

“See?” He holds out the camera to show them the image in the tiny window.

“He looks like his dad,” Holly says. “They both do.”

Connor studies the picture for a long moment. “Again, mister.”

Tyler’s never been called a mister before. It makes him grin.

“Do you mind, Tyler?”

The sound of Holly saying his name gives him a little thrill.
“Sure.” She seems to be in no hurry to hustle her kid to bed. Maybe their schedule’s turned around, too. At last a family’s moved into the neighborhood that’s on the same schedule he is.

In his bathroom, he studies his calf, and then his face in the mirror, searching for redness, a soft white blister. But there’s nothing. There’s just his brown eyes staring back.
His mother’s a piranha
, Mr. Farnham had said.

EVE

T
yler’s dead, gone from her and lying hidden inside the dark wood coffin. Eve can’t see him. She can’t touch him. She scrabbles at the wood, trying to pry the lid open, but David won’t let her. He’s grabbing her arms and holding her back, saying,
It’s time to let go, Eve
.

She wakes with a start, her heart pounding. That awful dream. She can still feel the hardness of the wood against her fingertips.

David speaks into the predawn stillness. “Can’t sleep?”

Sleep is for the righteous. It hangs just out of reach, unattainable. “I had that nightmare again.”

“About Tyler?”

She doesn’t answer.

“Eve, I’m sorry. I really am. You’re a great mother.”

“No. You’re right. I need to pay more attention to Melissa.”

“She understands.” He reaches over to pull back a strand of her
hair, tucking it behind her ear and baring her face. She wants it hidden. She closes her eyes.

Melissa’s always had to understand.
Why can’t you come to my play at school? Why can’t we visit Grandma and Grandpa?
“I ask so much of her. I always have.”

“She’s resilient. She’s stronger than either of us realizes.”

“She lost her childhood, too.”

“You’ve given her a great childhood.”

His voice is full of kindness. Hearing it, tears well up in her eyes, slide down her cheeks. She’ll never have goodness with him again.

“Shh,” he says, moving closer. She lets her head fall against his warm shoulder.

“I’m sorry, too. I know it’s hard on you, being away.”

He rubs a thumb across her cheek, tilts up her chin. “We’ll figure it out.”

He is so familiar to her. So dear. He is perfectly replicated in their son. They are joined in this precious way. Together, they have made life, and a family.

“David.” She has to know.

“Hmm?” He presses his lips to her temple, lowers his mouth to hers. She kisses him back, wanting him to make her whole again. Human. But she has to know. She has to see where this could all end.

She pulls back half an inch. “What if I die?”
What if I go to jail?

“You’re not going to die.” He slides down the strap of her nightgown with gentle fingers, tracing circles across her skin, gooseflesh popping up. He bends closer, cups her breast.

She covers his hand with hers. “Tell me. What would happen?”

“You’re just upset. Stop being morbid. You’re fine.”

She’s not fine. She’s the furthest thing from fine. How can he look at her and not see that? “How would you manage? Who would take care of Tyler?”

He pulls back and looks down at her. She can’t see his face in the darkness. “Jesus. Can’t you let it go, just for once?”

She falls silent. They both know the answer.

He rolls away.

The television’s on in Charlotte’s kitchen, its volume muted. The smell of burned coffee hangs in the air. Charlotte’s been up all night again. Her friend hugs her close, smelling of stale air. She’s thin and brittle, but her grip is strong. She whispers into Eve’s hair, “I’m so glad you’re here.” A final squeeze and then Charlotte releases her.

Eve turns to the coffeemaker so that Charlotte can’t see her face. She rinses out the glass carafe, fills the reservoir with fresh cold water, spoons out the grounds, depresses the
START
button. Her eyes are dry by the time she pours two cups and brings them to where Charlotte sits, her cell phone on the table in front of her. “Detective Watkins promised she’d call.”

“It’s still early.”

“If I don’t hear from her by nine, I’m going down to the station.”

They keep their voices low. Gloria and Felicia are asleep upstairs in Scott’s old room, while Scott’s on the couch in the den. Nikki’s in her own bedroom, but she should have been in her dorm room. Robbie’s in Charlotte’s room, sleeping in her bed, just a few feet above their heads. Everything’s unmoored.

“They’ve stopped monitoring the phone lines,” Charlotte says. “Detective Watkins said if there was going to be a ransom demand, we would have heard already. What do you think? Should I insist she set the tap back up?”

Charlotte’s skidding down that other path, that terrible one that ends in despair. This is her dear and true friend, and Eve can’t—she won’t—say one word to spare her. Sorrow fills her, curls sour in her stomach and pushes up her throat. How can she just sit here and do nothing? “She’s probably right.”

“I don’t know. Something’s changed. She won’t tell me if they’ve gotten any more tips. She won’t even be specific about where they’re searching. What does she think I’m going to do, follow them?” Charlotte’s eyes are red-rimmed, her nose pink. She snatches a tissue from the box on the table. “It’s that damned polygraph. They’re trying to pressure me into taking it. They say I’m being uncooperative.”

Among all this grit lies a cinder of hope. The police aren’t looking at her. Eve despises herself for thinking this. “Maybe Owen knows where they’re searching today.”

“If he does, he won’t tell me. I can’t believe the way he’s acting, like
I’m
the bad guy. Our daughter’s missing and, damn it, I
need
him.”

“He’s upset. He’s afraid. He’ll come around. He needs you, too.”

“And the kids need us. Nikki can’t stop crying and Scott’s not taking his medication. He says he is, but …” They both know how obvious it is when Scott is off his medication, how frightening and worrisome. “Owen has to talk to him. Owen’s the only one Scott will listen to.”

“What can I do?”

“Ask David to call him. Would you do that?”

“Of course.” Eve clutches at this small thing. She’ll ask David to talk to Owen, and in this infinitesimal way, she will have done something good. If she leaned close and spoke softly, described the way the rain had blown across the road in sheets, how she’d only glanced down for an instant, would Charlotte understand? Would she agree to keep it a secret, just between the two of them?

Of course she wouldn’t.

Charlotte sucks in a breath. “At least Scott’s here, instead of that crummy place of his. Maybe after this he’ll move home.”

After this
. There will never be an
after this
. What does Charlotte think that place looks like? Eve herself can’t picture it. She can’t look beyond the next hour, as it ticks inexorably past.

A floorboard creaks overhead—someone shifting in bed.

“I can’t decide whether or not Nikki should start school.” Charlotte rotates her mug between her hands. Her fingernails are bitten down to the quick. Charlotte, who gets a manicure twice a month. “We don’t know how long … I don’t want her to put her plans on hold. She can always come home if I need her. Right?”

This is the pattern, asking each other these questions they can’t ask anyone else. They have been each other’s safe refuge. “What does Nikki want?”

“To stay home. She says she doesn’t even want to talk about college.”

Nikki had been so giddy when she got her acceptance letter. She’d run straight to Eve’s house with the news.

“I don’t want her to leave. I know it’s selfish.”

“She can defer a semester.” As if everything will be better by then. A lie, one of many. They come easier now. They gather velocity and strength.