“I know,” he says. Then, “Listen, Kayla. I’m going to the Hockleys’ to talk to Buddy. We haven’t said more than ‘hey’ to each other in decades. He’s the only person who could know how someone had access to my keys. Can you come with me? I’d like another set of ears on the conversation.”
“Okay,” I say. “When?”
“How about now? I have a couple of hours till I pick Rainie up at school.”
I cringe at the thought of going to the Hockleys’ to pepper that sick old man with questions, but my father needs answers and who knows how much longer Buddy will be able to provide them—assuming he has any.
“I can meet you there in half an hour,” I say.
“Thanks, honey. See you then.”
* * *
I groan as I turn onto Shadow Ridge Lane. There’s a police van in my driveway—the same van that was there before I left for work that morning. The investigators are digging through my yard, looking for forty-five-year-old clues. I park next to the van and run into the house to wolf down an apple and a slice of cheese. I look at my forested yard through the glass walls as I eat, hoping that if they do find any clues today, they have nothing to do with my father.
Chapter 51
Daddy’s car is already in front of the Hockleys’ house and he’s sitting in the driver’s seat, waiting for me. He gets out and gives me a quick hug. “Thanks for joining me,” he says. I think this is the first time he’s asked for my help since Mom died.
On the front porch, Daddy rings the bell. Through the screen, I hear the sound of a TV, then Buddy’s voice. “Come on in,” he says.
We walk into the living room, where Buddy’s sitting in a recliner, hooked up to his oxygen, as usual. He wears blue pajama bottoms and a stained white T-shirt.
“Hi, Buddy.” I stand just inside the front door, feeling intrusive.
“Hey, Bud,” Daddy says, and while Buddy doesn’t smile, he doesn’t look particularly put out either.
“Hey, Reed.” He nods toward the sofa. “Have a seat. Kayla, honey, the girls are in the kitchen. Why don’t you go in and get your daddy and me … and you … some sweet tea from the icebox?”
“All right,” I say as my father sits down on the sofa. “Be back in a minute.”
In the kitchen, Ellie is cutting vegetables and putting them in the slow cooker, while her mother bends over the sink getting her hair washed by Brenda. The rims of Ellie’s eyes are pink behind her glasses. I’m sure she had a terrible night.
“Hey, Kayla,” Brenda says as she runs the spray head over Miss Pat’s short thin hair. “You doin’ okay after the brouhaha yesterday?”
“I’m all right,” I say.
“Who’s that?” Miss Pat says from her awkward stance as she leans over the sink.
“The girl from down the street,” Brenda says. “You know. Kayla? The one where they found that skeleton yesterday?”
“Oh yeah,” Miss Pat mutters.
I see the tightness in Ellie’s jaw at the mention of the “skeleton.” She looks at me and there’s a question in her eyes: Why are we here? “My father wants to talk to Buddy,” I say, “and Buddy asked me to get some iced tea.”
Ellie wipes her hands on a towel, then opens the refrigerator and pulls out two bottles of iced tea. She hands them to me, then nods toward the living room. “I think I’d like to be part of that conversation, too,” she says, taking a couple more bottles from the refrigerator.
I thank her for the tea. My gaze is on Brenda as she massages Miss Pat’s scalp. Her sleeves are rolled up to her elbows, and it’s only as I leave the kitchen that I register what I just saw: a pink birthmark on the inside of Brenda’s right wrist. I’ve seen that birthmark before, and my mind is suddenly on fire as I follow Ellie into the living room.
Brenda is the red-haired woman.
I’m both furious and confused, my hands shaking as I sit down next to my father on the sofa. I set my bottle of tea on the coffee table without opening it. What the hell is going on?
“I’m sitting in on this conversation,” Ellie says, handing one of the bottles to her brother. She doesn’t greet my father and she takes a seat in an armchair across the room, as far from him as she can get. “Have the police talked to you yet?” she asks him.
Daddy nods. He says something, but it doesn’t register in my brain. All I can think about is that the crazy woman who kidnapped my three-year-old daughter is in the kitchen. I sit on the edge of the sofa cushion as if ready to bolt. I should say something. Right now. But what?