Bledsoe nods and looks at the clock on the wall; he’s obviously aware of the time passing, the clock running out on Avery. They all are. “This anonymous witness,” Bledsoe says. “It’s got to be someone on the same street. She recognized Ryan’s car, and she had to have been nearby to see it at four thirty on Tuesday.” He pauses and says, “Hang on a sec.” He steps outside his office and gestures to Weeks, who’s manning the tip line, to join them. He asks Weeks, “This anonymous caller—you’ve spoken to her twice now. Do you think you’d recognize her voice if you went door-to-door on Connaught Street and spoke to all the women?”
Weeks considers and says, “I don’t know. There’s nothing distinctive about it, but maybe. I’d be game to give it a shot.”
“It’s worth a try,” Bledsoe says. “We need to identify this witness. She’s either lying and fucking with us, or she’s telling the truth—and we need to know which.”
* * *
? ? ?
William Wooler feels like a wounded animal, trapped in a cage. He can’t leave his hotel room without being accosted by reporters. They’ve discovered the back entrance he used this morning to slip out to a pay phone to call Nora, and when he tried to use it earlier this evening, to grab a bite to eat, they were waiting for him. He retreated into the hotel and ordered room service.
He calls Detective Bledsoe for an update.
“We’re making progress,” Bledsoe says. He doesn’t elaborate.
William had seen the news about the anonymous witness, Ryan Blanchard being taken in for questioning, the house being searched. He knows his wife knocked Ryan down in his own house. He can hardly imagine Erin, usually so calm and reasonable, doing something like that, but there are photographs to help him. And these are desperate times. Maybe her own sudden, violent loss of control will help her to understand his. He wonders if she believes he’s innocent now. “Am I still a suspect?” William asks.
“Yes,” Bledsoe says bluntly. He pauses. “We found Nora Blanchard’s hidden phone. We know it’s her you were seeing. We’ve spoken to her.”
William closes his eyes for a moment, opens them again. “At least you didn’t hear it from me,” he can’t resist saying. Nora must be going through hell. “Is that going to make the papers too?” he asks.
“We’ll try to keep it quiet,” Bledsoe says. “But no promises.”
Thirty
The next morning, Friday, Gully is sitting in her car outside the Wooler house shortly after 8:30. But it’s the Seton house across the street that she has her eye on. Peter Seton has already left in his car for work, and she now sees Derek and his little sister, Jenna, leave the house for school. Derek notices her in the car, that’s fine. She gives him a little wave. He grabs his sister’s arm and marches away down the street and around the curve out of sight. Gully gets out of the car and knocks on the Setons’ door.
Alice Seton looks like she hasn’t slept much since Gully saw her last. She can’t blame her. It must be awful, wondering what her son might have done. Gully doesn’t have children, not yet anyway, and times like this make her question whether she’d be better off not having them at all. Maybe it’s not worth it; you never know what might happen, how they might turn out.
“Alice,” Gully says. “Can I come in?”
The other woman stares back at her resentfully and says, “No, I don’t think so.”
Gully nods. “Okay.” So much for the consent to search idea. She fixes her eyes on Alice Seton’s. “We’ve applied for a search warrant.” It isn’t true, but she wants to see Alice’s reaction. And there it is—pure fear.
“I think you should leave,” Alice says firmly, but her pallor betrays her.
“I’m going,” Gully says. As she walks to her car, she wonders what Alice will do next. Call an attorney? Maybe they did that last night. Or maybe, Gully thinks, now that she’s finally alone in the house, Alice’s thoughts will run along the same lines as Gully’s, and she will tear the empty house apart, looking for Avery Wooler. She can’t get inside the house, Gully thinks, but she can have someone keep an eye on it and see what happens next.
* * *
? ? ?
Alice closes the door behind the detective and latches the deadbolt. She feels weak with fear. The long night awake, with all these disturbing thoughts running through her mind—it has taken its toll. Peter had eventually fallen asleep—she doesn’t know how—but she’d gone over and over it all in her head. What the detective said. How Derek reacted.
He’d practically fallen apart. Is that what an innocent boy would have done? Or is that what a guilty boy would have done? She doesn’t know.
Peter refused to believe any of it. Later, in bed, he said they had to stand by him. Derek was a good kid, not a child molester. He’d never lied to them. She nodded in agreement, but then Pete had fallen asleep, and in the long, dark, desperate hours before dawn, she’d given way to doubt and had let her mind run away with her.
It’s horrible to think your own son might have molested a little girl. She was so quick to point the finger at Adam Winter, and now . . .
She makes her way back to the kitchen and dumps her cold coffee down the sink. She and Pete had talked to Derek at length after the detective left, and he’d stubbornly repeated to them what he’d said to the detective. But she has a gnawing doubt. Why was he in that tree house? It could have happened just like Derek said, but why was the ladder pulled up, if, in fact, it was? That was what the detective seemed to be fixated on. The ladder would only have been pulled up if they didn’t want anyone to surprise them. One of them pulled it up. Why? Why didn’t Derek just leave when he found Avery there? He doesn’t even like Avery.
But she knows what kids do. The show-and-tell. Show me yours and I’ll show you mine. It might have happened. It might have been fairly harmless. Avery might have exaggerated. She might even have initiated it. But Derek is old enough to know better. That’s the thing—the age difference. It makes it inexcusable.
And then, the rest of it. Gully asking him where he was that afternoon. She knows how it looks, Derek home alone in this house at the time Avery disappeared, right across the street. She knows what they must be thinking—that if Derek was molesting Avery, he might be the one to have harmed her. But that’s ridiculous. Even if he—for fuck’s sake, he’s not a murderer.
What about the witness who saw Avery get into Ryan Blanchard’s car? Why won’t that person come forward? Maybe because Avery never got into Ryan’s car at all.
And now Gully was just here, on her doorstep, saying they’re going to get a search warrant, and Alice doesn’t know what to do. Why would they get a search warrant unless they thought they might find something? What are they expecting to find?
And then it hits her. They think Avery might have been in this house that day, and that she might not ever have left.
She sinks into a kitchen chair as her legs collapse beneath her, her breathing ragged. For a long moment she can’t think at all. But then her mind clears. She must look, before the police do. She will search the entire house, and she will find nothing. Then she will know that Derek had nothing to do with this. He could not have killed Avery and disposed of the body anywhere else, because the search parties have been everywhere—except inside people’s houses. And then the police can come in and do their thing, and they will have nothing to worry about. And they will deny and deny and deny that Derek ever touched her. And chances are, Avery’s never coming back to say anything different.