“It wouldn’t be over, Cooper. You’re her father.”
I shake my head. “It’s not that simple.”
“You have ample evidence to prove that you’re a loving, competent parent. Finch is obviously thriving. Yes, you’d have some court hearings. You’d likely be separated for a few months. But when it was all over, you could live out there in the world. You wouldn’t have to hide.”
I take a deep breath, lean against the sink. Aggravated assault, up to twenty years. Kidnapping, up to twenty years per person, and Judge and Mrs. Judge—they said I kidnapped them, too. Which I guess I did, technically. So eighty years. Maybe sixty if I got a good attorney and lucked out with a sympathetic jury. Either way, once I set foot in a prison, I’d never get out. I knew this from Scotland’s stack of newspapers, the first day he rolled into the yard.
I screwed up. I accept that. The way I got her back. At the time I was so desperate, so scared: it felt like the only way. But now we’re boxed in. There’s no stepping out of this life, no going back. “Like I said, it’s not that simple.”
“I could do it,” Marie says. “I could say I saw her in the woods. Just tell me where. Show me. I can call. I can take them there myself. But I cannot leave here in good conscience knowing that you intend to hold on to a vital piece of information about a young girl who’s missing.” She turns to look at me, and I can see Jake. Their striking similarity.
It could work, almost. But her calling the authorities would also mean more lying. More involvement. Not to mention things could get sticky, her getting her story mixed up on account of none of it being true. Meanwhile we’d be back to square one, people prowling around out here, trying to piece things together, only we’d be giving them a big lead to come closer. “You already told them you hadn’t seen her. Which means you’ll have to say you were lying, and then they’ll try and figure out why you’d do that.” I shake my head. “You’re not getting tangled up in this any more than you already are. Jake wouldn’t have that, and I won’t allow it. I’ll take care of it myself. I’ll go out to the pay phone at the gas station, tomorrow. Leave that sheriff’s number and I’ll call.”
She looks relieved, tears welling. “Promise?”
“Promise.”
“I still need to go home. I have things I need to tend to. Jake’s house, my job.”
“I’m sorry things turned out like this. Sorry you got dragged into it.”
She rests her hand on mine, then rises from the couch, pulling a pen and a notebook from her purse. “This is my phone number,” she says, handing me a piece of paper. “In case you ever need something. In case Finch does.” She presses the piece of paper into my palm.
* * *
In the morning, Marie makes pancakes and coffee and the house is, for the last time, filled with smells that I suspect will now forever remind me of her. She leaves Finch a box of cookies and hands me the French press and what remains of the coffee. We load the final items in her Prius and Finch gives her a long hug goodbye.
Then Marie steps toward me. She leans in close, resting her head against my chest. “You’re a good man, Cooper,” she whispers.
Well. I feel bad about that, her saying that and thinking it about me, because it’s not true.
I feel bad, too, because there’s a girl missing. A girl nine years older than Finch, with parents who care about her but have no way of reaching her. I know what it’s like to have a child slip through your fingers. I do. Pains me to think about what they must be going through.
And the girl was here, just over a week ago. Did she get turned around after we saw her? Did something happen to her? The river with its deceitful ice, the sand that pulls and holds. One fall, one broken bone, one wrong step. So much could go wrong. But I have to remind myself that even if I wanted to step in, I’ve got my own daughter to think about. I don’t have the liberty of being a good citizen or doing the right thing. That’s the scrape my own choices have left me in, I see that. The bottom line is this: any inch toward that girl jeopardizes everything for us. And if there’s one thing I’m absolutely sure of, it’s that under no circumstances will I do anything that puts my own child at risk.
TWENTY-NINE
“Saw you had more visitors,” Scotland says, sauntering toward the cabin, right there in the yard, a breeze, a ghost. He takes off his backpack, pulls a stack of newspapers out, and sets them on the porch, where Finch is set up with her slingshot. “Sheriff Simmons and his esteemed deputy, the illustrious Manny Porter.”