Everyone Here Is Lying(62)

She knows she should pack a bag and leave. But she has nowhere to go and children who need her. And she feels, somehow, that whatever is coming for her, she deserves. What she wants now is the truth. Whatever happens, she wants to know what happened to Avery Wooler.

She waits for her husband to come home.





Forty


Erin makes her steady way down the east side of the street, giving the Blanchards’ house a wide berth. She knocks on doors, endures the looks of horror and pity she receives. Some people are genuinely kind and wish they could help; others don’t want to talk to her, as if she’s tainted somehow. But no one admits to being the anonymous witness, and none of them seems to be lying, as far as she can tell. She reaches the end of the street and curves around to the other side. She sees The Winters painted on the mailbox of the next house. Erin doesn’t know the Winters or anything about them. She knocks.

When the door is opened, it’s clear that the woman who opens it knows who she is though. How could she not? Erin’s face has been splashed all over the news. She asks, “May I come in and talk to you for a minute? I’m Erin Wooler.”

The woman hesitates and then says, “I know. And I’m so sorry. Come in. I’m Gwen.”

She seems like one of the kind ones, Erin thinks. She’s led into the living room, where a good-looking teenage boy is slouched in an armchair with an iPad.

“Adam, do you mind leaving us alone for a bit?” his mother asks.

He looks up, avoids Erin’s eye, and quietly leaves the room.

“I know why you’re here,” Gwen says, once they’re alone, seated in the living room.

Erin looks back at her, her heart beginning to pound. Has she found her witness?

“But I assure you, Adam had nothing to do with your daughter. That’s just vicious gossip someone started because he’s different. Adam has autism. The police were already here, and they know he had nothing to do with it.”

Erin is taken aback. “Oh, I didn’t know that.” She pauses. “I imagine it’s difficult,” Erin says, “having a child on the spectrum.”

“Yes, very difficult,” Gwen concedes.

“Avery is very difficult too,” Erin finds herself saying. She didn’t intend to say it, it just came out. “She’s got behavioral problems, she’s very oppositional.” She suppresses a sob. “I want her back more than anything.”

“Of course you do,” Gwen Winter says. “You’re her mother. You love her, no matter what.”

“There’s an anonymous witness,” Erin goes on, “who says they saw Avery getting into Ryan Blanchard’s car.”

“I saw that on the news,” Gwen says.

“Was it you?”

“Me? No. I didn’t see anything.” She leans forward and says gently, “You want to know who the witness is, to talk to them yourself. I’d be the same. I wish I could help you.”

She seems to really mean it. Erin nods.

Gwen asks, “Can I get you something—a cup of tea?”

But Erin shakes her head and rises to go. “I have to find this witness. I have to know if what they’re saying is true.”

The other woman rises with her and says, “If you ever want to talk, I’m here.” She adds, “It looks like you could use a friend.”



* * *



? ? ?

Al Blanchard is sitting in his car, parked, of all places, behind the dumpster in back of the Breezes Motel. He couldn’t think of anywhere else to go. He’d sped down the highway out of town, his heart darker than the pitch-black night, and when he saw the motel, it seemed to call to him. There’s a kind of strange comfort being where he’s been so many times before, back where it all started. It feels familiar, almost safe. He feels a sort of nostalgia. Because back then, when he used to spend afternoons behind this dumpster, he knew only that his wife was cheating. His son wasn’t suspected of kidnapping and murdering a little girl, and his wife didn’t suspect him of the same heinous crime. He sits there for a long time, sometimes staring sightlessly into the night, sometimes weeping against his steering wheel.

Stiff with cold, he thinks about what he should do. He feels like he’s losing his mind. What he’d like to do is go home and put his large hands around Nora’s long, lovely throat, and squeeze until she’s gone. He imagines it, her eyes staring wildly back at him, pleading, as he snuffs the life out of her. And then he’ll put her in the car and bring her here and throw her in that dumpster. After that, he doesn’t know. His mind stutters—he can’t see past the act of throwing her body in the dumpster, which has been witness to what she’s done, and to his shame. It’s where she belongs.



* * *



? ? ?

Marion is in the kitchen, making herself a cup of tea. She hears a knock at the door, and freezes. What if it’s the police, back again? The lights are on; she can’t pretend she’s not home. She leaves her tea on the kitchen counter and makes her way to the front door. She opens it. It’s not the police. It’s worse than that.

“May I come in?” Erin Wooler asks, shivering on the doorstep, her wan face starkly illuminated by the porch light.

Marion feels the blood drain from her own face. She can’t have Erin Wooler here. Her daughter is in the basement.