The Missing Place (36 page)

This was different. Paul had friends now. He had a
best
friend. Whatever had led them out onto the ice, whatever was at the heart of the conflict, it wasn't just Paul, it was all of them. And Taylor was dead and that was unbelievably tragic, her heart was breaking over it, but he had been there too, he had been a part of it.

“Just get them out here, okay, Andy?”

So he recited the names back, Brittany and Robert and Leila Litton from Fairhaven, California. He said he would text their flight information when he had it. “You'll need to call Shay and let her know.”

Colleen was silent, biting her lip. She had to go to the hotel room anyway. Her things were there. Shay was there. Alone.

“All right,” she said softly, and hung up without saying good-bye.

I'm going to marry her.
The first thing Paul had said last night, but she hadn't told Andy. She wanted to go back into that hospital room, to hold her son, to see him for herself, but something about the way he had looked at her last night made her hesitate.

The other thing he'd said:
It's all my fault.

And finally, when she started to protest, to beg him not to think about that now—
Don't talk, just do what the doctors tell you. Daddy will be here soon
—the confusion had drained out of his eyes and he had pushed her hands away. “Leave me alone,” he'd said. “I don't want you here.”

IT WOULDN'T HAVE
mattered. The door to Paul's room was closed. The police officer was pushing his chair down the hall. “The chief is in with him now,” he said over his shoulder. “I'm sure you can see him after. Chief's lifted guard detail. I'm going home.”

Colleen was suddenly exhausted. She needed to see Shay and then she needed sleep. Tonight, when Andy got here, they would come back to the hospital. They'd visit with Paul together. She wouldn't tell Andy that Paul had said he didn't want her there; by tonight everything would look different, to all of them. Paul would feel better. He would be sorry for the way he'd spoken to her—he always was. She wouldn't mention it and they would just start again.

But there was one more thing, first.

Elizabeth had been here, in the hospital. Colleen had seen her last night, during one of the many long, anxious fits between her restless dozing. She had been walking down the hall with a thin, blond
woman who had to be her mother. Only now did it occur to Colleen that the girl had experienced a shock too. What if it had been too much for her? What if the baby—?

“Are you sure she wasn't admitted?” she demanded, and the nurse glared at her. She didn't understand, how could she?
She's carrying my grandchild
, Colleen wanted to explain. Didn't that mean something? Didn't that give her rights?

COLLEEN THOUGHT ABOUT
Elizabeth as she drove through the pale, wintry morning to the Hyatt. The girl, standing in the dark last night, hugging herself, watching Shay fall to her knees, screaming. What had she been feeling? What did she know?

The hotel lobby was empty, classical music playing softly. There was the muffled sound of a vacuum cleaner down the hall. A gas fire burned behind glass in the faux fireplace. The silk flower arrangement, the sofas, the patterned rug—all of these were exactly as they had been when Shay brought her here two nights ago. Only two nights since she and Shay slept in the same bed, bound by their desperation and their hope.

“May I help you?”

Colleen put a hand on the sofa to steady herself. She was suddenly feeling shaky. Food . . . when was the last time she had eaten anything? Her face felt droopy and waxy. She could smell her own odor mixed with the faint scent of her hair spray.

“Oh,” she said, trying to force a smile. “If you'll just give me a second.”

The wave of dizziness passed. Colleen clutched the collar of her coat tightly despite the hot air blasting from the heating system.

Shay hadn't answered her phone or Colleen's texts. Colleen approached the desk, thinking fast.

“I've . . . lost my key,” she said, reaching in her purse for her wallet.
She opened it and showed the clerk her driver's license. “I think my friend put my name on the reservation . . . Shay Capparelli.”

The young woman typed at her keyboard, the pleasant smile never leaving her face. Every girl in Lawton seemed to have the same friendly demeanor, the same sweet and compliant nature.

“Here you go,” she said, taking a card from under the counter and sliding it into a paper sleeve.

“Thank you.” Colleen realized she had no idea what the room number was. “Um . . . that was . . . three fifteen?” she said, guessing wildly. “I'm sorry, it's just—”

The young woman looked at her curiously, and Colleen blushed. What must she think? That Colleen was returning from a hookup?

“There was an accident,” she said, attempting a weary smile. The lies came so much more smoothly now. “I was a witness. I had to go to the police station to give a statement, and now I'm exhausted.”

“Oh
no
,” the girl said. “Is everyone all right? Oh, I'm sorry, what a stupid question, if they were, you wouldn't have had to go to the station.”

“No, no, everyone's fine, just a few scratches. It was just the cars that were damaged. Totaled, both of them.”

“Oh, thank the Lord,” the girl said. Her relief seemed genuine. What was it with these people, here in the overlooked center of the country, that they were willing to pray for strangers, to take on others' pain? “Anyway, it's room three thirteen. Is there anything else I can do for you, Mrs. Mitchell? I can schedule housekeeping for later this afternoon so you can get some rest . . .”

Colleen thanked her and headed toward the elevators. She found the room and paused in front of the door. It was painted a rich orange shade, a detail she hadn't noticed the other night. All she had to do was knock. It was time, it was the next step.

But she was so afraid. That Shay would slam the door in her face—that would be the least of it. Maybe she would try to hurt Colleen, kill her even, an eye for an eye.

Kneeling in the snow, Shay had never stopped screaming. She lashed out at everyone who came near her, as if she was trying to pull them down onto the ground with her. Colleen had been focused on Paul; she turned her back on Shay and tried to block the screaming from her ears. After they loaded Paul into the ambulance, she looked for Shay and saw her leaning on one of the police officers, all the fight gone out of her as he walked her to a cruiser.

That had been around three in the morning. Six hours had passed since then. What had Shay been doing? Had the police officer walked her up to the room, at least? Had she slept? Had she woken up and remembered and started screaming again?

All was quiet now. Colleen knocked. She waited a long time, but there was nothing, no sound from within the room. She tried again, and still nothing.

She let herself in with the key.

The room was dark, the drapes closed except for a gap of an inch or two. It took a moment for Colleen to spot Shay. She was lying on the floor next to the window, curled into a ball, still wearing her coat. The hood served as a sort of pillow. She was turned away from Colleen, staring through that small gap. Or maybe she was asleep.

Or—

“Shay!” Colleen raced across the room and knelt next to her, grabbing her arm and turning her over. What if she'd come back here and decided she had nothing left? Colleen's sleeping pills were still in her toiletry case, hers and Andy's—enough, maybe, if Shay took them all—

Shay's eyes fluttered open and she looked up at Colleen. She was so light, like a child, her limbs thin and flopping.

“Are you all right?” Colleen demanded. “You didn't do anything, did you?”

Shay made a sound that was almost a laugh, an expulsion of breath. She leaned up on her elbows and sighed. “You want to know if I tried to kill myself?”

Already Colleen saw that it was ludicrous. Shay was so much stronger than that. She would never choose the easy escape—that was for women like Colleen. Her face burned with shame.

“I don't know,” Shay said, sitting up the rest of the way and leaning against the sliding door. Her voice was raspy. Her hair was knotted and tangled; combing it out was going to be a big job. Mascara was smudged under her eyes. “Maybe I should. I hadn't thought that far ahead. Can you get me my purse?”

Colleen found it near the door, where Shay must have dropped it. Shay got out her cigarettes and lighter, her hands shaking. “Can you open that?” she asked, inclining her head toward the sliding door. “Wouldn't want good old Scott Cohen to get stuck with the bill if they figure out I was smoking in here.”

Colleen slid the door open a few inches. The balcony held a plastic table and chairs that were crusted with ice. Cold air rushed into the room. Shay lit up and took a deep inhale, closing her eyes and holding the smoke in for what seemed like forever. Then she leaned over and exhaled toward the gap in the sliding door.

Colleen sat down cross-legged next to Shay and watched her smoke. She did it so prettily. Her thin wrists and fingers curled languidly as she held the cigarette so lightly between her fingertips. Shay made smoking look like the most natural thing in the world, like the French girls Colleen had envied when she spent her junior
year abroad. She had never even tried to imitate them, knowing it was beyond her.

When the cigarette was spent, Shay stuck her hand through the door and ground out the butt on the balcony floor. Then she closed the door and leaned back against it.

“Shay,” Colleen said hesitantly. What could she say? What the hell could she say?

Shay looked at her. She scratched at her chin. “How's Paul?” she asked tonelessly, as if she was asking about a bus schedule. “He have to stay in the hospital?”

“He's . . .”
Going to live. Going to see his twenty-first birthday. Going to have the chance to get married, get a job, grow old.
“Shay, Andy is working on flights for Brittany and Robert, to get them out here as soon as possible. Tonight if he can. Leila too.”

“I know. Brittany called.” Shay lit another cigarette. “I had to tell her, you know. I had to be the one to tell her that her brother is dead.”

Colleen moaned quietly. She didn't mean to, but the sound leaked from her, the frayed grip she had on her composure starting to sever. “Shay. Shay.”

Another woman would know what to do. Another woman would reach for Shay and hug her, let her cry on her sweater. Colleen didn't care about her sweater, her coat, anything. She would give anything at all to help Shay. Everything. But what did she have?

When the thing had happened with Darren Terry, the word had spread quickly through the school. A few days later, after Paul had been suspended for two weeks, Colleen went to the school to pick up his homework. She had waited until half an hour after school let out, hoping not to see anyone. She'd walked, head down, taking the back stairs, and still she had run into a knot of mothers. Who knew what they had been doing—an academic booster meeting, teacher
appreciation planning, sister school fund-raiser, it could have been a thousand different things, meetings and activities that Colleen herself had once been a part of.

The knot of women split apart for her to pass through. She knew nearly every one of those mothers. One or two murmured greetings, the rest looked at the floor, the walls, pretended to check their phones. Anything but look at her.

And then Sandy Prescott had stepped in front of her. Colleen had never liked Sandy. No one did. She didn't fit in and, worse, she didn't seem to know it. She had the faint traces of a New Jersey accent and she chewed gum with her mouth open and people tended to roll their eyes when she spoke up in meetings.

“Colleen,” she said, reaching for one of her hands. “I've been thinking about you ever since I heard. I'm just so very sorry your family is going through this hard time, I can't even imagine.” And then she'd hugged her, hard, patting her back and giving her a peck on the cheek before she let go. “If you need anything, to talk, or, I don't know, just to get away from everything for an hour—oh, I don't even know what would help. For something like this. But if you think of it, let me know, okay?”

The mob had moved on, and Colleen had stood in the hall, feeling the ghost impression of Sandy's arms around her.

She reached a hand, tentatively, to touch Shay's leg. Shay had taken her boots off and was wearing gray leggings and pink socks with yellow stars. They knew each other's wardrobes, after spending the last few days together. Colleen settled her hand on Shay's thin calf. Shay didn't move, and after a moment Colleen lifted her hand.

“Thanks,” Shay said, in that same dead voice. “I should thank you and Andy. For buying the plane tickets. You know I can't pay you back.”