“What is it?” Camila asked.
Hannah held it up to show her. There was an address, in Charlotte, North Carolina. “I think, maybe, we’ve found him,” she said.
IT WAS AFTER EIGHT P.M. BY THE TIME THEY GOT BACK TO
CHARLOTTESVILLE. The phone cal with Laura had been arranged for seven. Hannah dropped Camila at home and cal ed Laura right away. There was no answer. She tried again, and sat in the car and listened to the phone ring. She imagined Laura’s cel phone, sitting on the coffee table in their living room, abandoned, while Laura went . . . where? Maybe it was nothing. Maybe she’d just muted her cel so she could have an early night. Maybe.
Damn. Damn damn damn.
LAURA
DIARY ENTRY #6
Monday, August 22, 1994, 8:00 p.m.
This morning I went to the cops. I asked Rosa to drive me. She said yes and didn’t ask any questions. At least, not then. At the police station they were very kind. I told them I was a friend of Tom’s and that I had questions about his death. I asked to speak to the investigating officer. His name is Daniel Fawkes. Lieutenant Daniel Fawkes. He came down to meet me, told me how sorry he was about Tom. He took me into a little room, insisted on getting me coffee. He’s a big guy, Fawkes. He has a couple of tattoos and a buzz cut and sharp, no-bul shit eyes. Which I figured was a good thing. I was relieved they had someone smart working the case. A young guy. Not some old fart just clocking in the hours. He checked me out—a quick glance up and down—and I wished he hadn’t, but I didn’t think too much about it.
I told him about Tom and Mike. I told him about the fight. I told him that it didn’t make sense to me that Tom had suddenly decided to get drunk alone then wander down by the jetty. Why would he even do that? I asked him where Mike had been when Tom went into the water. Had Mike found him? Had Mike been drinking with him?
He looked at me with these dark eyes and I couldn’t tel what he was thinking. He asked me questions. He wanted my ful name, my date and place of birth. I thought I saw a flicker in his eyes when I told him my name, I thought I saw his expression grow colder, but I told myself I was paranoid, and kept talking. I answered al his questions.
How and where had I met Tom? What was the nature of our relationship? When had I last seen him? What had we talked about?
After a few minutes I stopped talking. He sat there looking at me and I looked right back. I said, “Why don’t you care about this?”
“Who says I don’t?”
I didn’t know what to say, but I could feel it rol ing off him by then.
His contempt for me. His complete disdain.
“I . . .
“I’m just waiting for you to work this around to asking about Tom’s parents, that’s al .”
I didn’t understand what he was saying.
“That’s why you’re here, right? You think that playing the grieving girlfriend wil get you some kind of payout, or something?”
I sat there and I couldn’t say a goddamn thing. I sat there and let him talk.
“I know al about you, Laura. The worst of it is, the way the world is now, I wasn’t even surprised. Except that after everything you did, you came back looking for more.”
Daniel Fawkes didn’t hold back. He was more than happy to explain that Michael had told them everything. That Tom had been seeing a local girl （me）。 That Tom was a good guy, a very good guy, but a bit naive when it came to women. Michael said that I already had a boyfriend, that I was playing a game with Tom . . . interested in him because of his money. He said Tom found out I had been using him on the day he died. So he sat up late with his best friend Michael, drinking and talking. Around eleven o’clock Mike decided to go to bed. He was exhausted. He said good night and he left Tom in the library.
Fawkes said, “Mike assumed—not unreasonably—that Tom would go to bed too. But it seems he went down to the water. Maybe he went there to think. It’s the kind of thing people do, when they’re sad and they’ve been drinking. We’re cal ing it an accident. It’s better for his family that way.”
First I thought I was going to be sick. Then I pul ed myself together and I tried. I sat in that room and tried so hard to convince him that the story Mike had told him was complete bul shit. Even though he looked at me like I was dog shit. Even though I could see I wasn’t getting anywhere.
I promise. I real y, real y tried.
Afterward I got back into the car with Rosa and I stared out of the window. I stil haven’t cried.
Monday, August 22, 1994, 10:00 p.m.