“You two . . . uh . . .”
“None of your business.”
“But Rachel and I are yours?”
“Different. This is dangerous.” She reached out and squeezed my hand. “You realize you could’ve died the other night, right? That Dad and I would be the ones sitting here wondering what the hell happened. Why your body was found in the woods.”
“I’m really, really trying not to think about that, but thanks for reminding me.”
“Then maybe you should stop. If you don’t push anymore, maybe everything will work out okay.”
My little sister. Looking at me with the same eyes as when we’d sneak back into the house in the middle of the night after drinking with my friends and Mom was suddenly awake and coming down the hallway. The same concern, the same panic. That, coupled with the fact we weren’t kids anymore—hell, Kel had her own little ones—sunk it home more than anything else.
This wasn’t a game. It wasn’t a story. It was exactly like she and Dad said: a mess.
One I might’ve helped create and had to clean up if I could.
Just like I saw the concern in her eyes, she saw the determination in mine. “Okay,” she said, squeezing my hand one last time. “Okay.”
A little later I watched her walk down my drive to her car, made sure she got in and pulled away before I shut the door. Then I went to my office and wrote the following words in a blank document:
Ryan Vallance, and possibly David Barren, owed money to an individual or individuals at a bar and grill called HerringBone in New York. Speranza is either a password or a name. The individuals may be holding Rachel Barren and her sons hostage. Please notify the police.
A wild impulse to add Do as I say at the end came and went. I highlighted the paragraph and let my finger hover over the “Delete” key. Then I printed it instead. Using a pair of latex gloves, I plucked the printed sheet from the tray and folded it in half, then wrote Seth Goddard’s name on one side.
Fifteen minutes later I walked down a fog-choked street parallel to the Sandford Review. I’d parked in an abandoned corner lot a half mile up from the paper and decided going on foot was the better choice. In the back parking area, I approached the employee entrance, making sure there was no one burning the midnight oil, and scanned quickly for security cameras. I didn’t see any but pulled up the hood on my sweatshirt just in case as I made my way to the door.
Note out of my pocket. Press one corner tightly into the doorjamb. Turn and walk away.
Three seconds. Maybe less. Then I was out of the parking lot and on another side street, winding my way back to my car. The idea of leaving the note had come to me midway through our research on Crane/DeMarco. I couldn’t call the cops directly—way too many questions. Couldn’t use the burner phone either—they’d track down where the phone was sold from and get the security footage of me purchasing it, and Bingo was his name-o. Leaving a note at the police station was super risky as well, so I opted for involving the press to get the word to Detective Spanner. Seth was a smart guy. He’d bring the note to the cops, and they could follow up on the claim.
Head down, walking up a dark, foggy street. A coward in the night.
Let the professionals do the work. Stand to the side. Get out of the way. Rachel and the boys’ absence was eating me alive, and if this was the best way to get them back, then so be it. I just hoped I wasn’t making another wrong decision in a long line of wrong decisions.
Back at home the tension eased a little. I finished off the last of the wine and stood looking out at the Loop. Dad was awake, but I could see he was just making himself a snack in the kitchen. Part of me wanted to go over there, but mostly I wanted to be alone. I was hollow from the last few weeks, nothing left to give.
The wine helped usher sleep in on burgundy waves that drew me out into deeper water. I nodded off in the chair, head drooped to one side, feet propped on the windowsill.
Dreams of the church basement door. Stuttering images like looking through the air over a fire. Stairs leading down endlessly into darkness.
I woke to a sound, soft but something my brain labeled as intentional. The dreams unwove, a tapestry coming apart. Blinking, I straightened in the chair, drew my legs down from the sill, and let the blood rushing back into them finish its buzzing work.
What the sound had been I couldn’t say. A soft bump, like clothes flopping in a dryer. But I didn’t have any laundry going. The house was dappled with orange sodium light from the street and oblong shadows. My eyes were gritty, and I rubbed them, making my way to the kitchen. An internal compass told me the sound had come from this direction. I’d double-check the back door, then go to bed for some better-quality sleep.