by Rachel Caine
I’m making tea when I hear a door open quietly, and the pad of footsteps coming down the hall. I look up to see Lanny standing there. She’s got on a black Henley tee, Halloween bat-themed pajama pants, and a pair of battered bear-feet slippers that Vee bought for her about the same time Vee’s white yeti slippers made their first proud appearance.
I make her a mug of hot tea, too, and add honey just the way she likes it. We sit down in the living room—the farthest point from the other bedrooms—together on the couch.
“Couldn’t sleep?” I smooth her hair back from her face. Instead of the rainbow colors she’s been dyeing in, she’s redone it to a softer hot-pink shimmer in the front, darkening to purple at the edges; it looks cool, I have to admit.
“Not really,” she says. “You know what the flyers mean, don’t you? When we go to school today, somebody’s going to have it. And it’ll blow up all over the place. Next thing you know, people will be sending me clips from true crime shows. Like I haven’t seen them.”
“You watch—”
“No shit, Mom. I mean, we’re mentioned in at least four of them. You know that, right?”
It’s more than four, and I don’t tell her. “Language, Atlanta.” My heart’s not in it.
“The actress playing you was crappy in the one I watched. They played her like she was probably guilty. And they had that prosecutor on, you know the one. He thinks you got away with murder.”
I’ve seen every one of the documentaries, listened to at least half of the podcasts. Most of them think I got away with it, or at least that I was aware of what Melvin was doing. I wasn’t, and the injustice of it still burns, but I’ve grown a lot of fireproof skin for that kind of stuff. It hurts that my kids have to walk the same inferno. But I know I can’t keep them out of it either.
I put my arm around her and hug her close. She doesn’t pull away. We lean against each other, sipping tea, and it feels good and peaceful and right until Lanny says, “School’s going to be awful today.”
“It’ll be awful for a while,” I agree. “And yet you’re going to go. Right? Head up, shoulders back, face the world. You know how we do it.”
She gulps the last of her tea. I do mine as well. “How come we always have to be the brave ones? How is that fair?”
“Because we can,” I tell her. “Because we have to. And no. It isn’t fair, not even remotely.” I relent a little bit, because I can feel the tension in her. “Let’s make a deal: half a day at school. Then we do something fun.”
“You’ll be here?” She glances over at me, then quickly away.
“In the afternoon I will,” I tell her. “I have to do some work this morning, sweetie. But this is Sam’s day off, so he’ll be here until I get back. Okay?”
She nods and takes our cups into the kitchen. I check my watch—it’s nearly 6:00 a.m. now—and as I do, she yawns and pauses in the doorway. “I think I’ll go back to bed for a little bit,” she says. “Thanks for the tea, Mom. Next time, just come talk to me, okay? I’m not a kid. I can help with stuff.”
I’ve known that for a while, but I’ve been looking at it completely wrong. I’ve seen it as conflict, as pulling away. But people change. God knows I’ve changed from the naive child I was when I married Melvin Royal to the terrified, paranoid person I was when I arrived at Stillhouse Lake to the woman I am now—who’s maybe got a handle on the fear, if not the paranoia.
Lanny has filled in the spaces of her own life. And she has helped. She can be my ally, and so can Connor. I only need to let go of the fear that keeps me from seeing that clearly.
At least I know what’s holding me back, even if I can’t get there instantly.
So I hug my daughter and tell her I love her, and I put her in charge of getting her brother up, ready, and to school. I’ve never done it before, but I give her the keys to my SUV. She looks at them, shocked, then at me. “I—I can take them?”
“Yes,” I tell her. “I’ll borrow Sam’s truck. He won’t mind. I know you’ll be careful.” The urge to tell her how to be careful is strong. I manage to resist.
She clenches those keys so hard I think she’ll hurt herself, and her smile is a golden reward. “Thanks, Mom. I promise, no cruising, no giving rides to friends, no bullshit. Straight to school and back. And I’ll look after Connor.”
I just nod, like it’s an everyday thing that I let my seventeen-year-old drive my car. It isn’t. I know a lot of kids drive by themselves far earlier, but I’ve always been so . . . in their lives. It’s tough.
But this is the clearest sign I can give that I trust her, and right now, she needs that.
When that’s settled, I talk to Sam about borrowing his truck for the day; as I thought, he’s just fine with it, barely even pausing before he agrees. He adds, carefully, “Do you need me with you?” And I realize that he’s trying not to express an actual concern, trying to give me the space I need. I put my arms around his neck and savor the gentle kiss we exchange.
“I always need you,” I tell him. “But with me might not be helpful this time. Two people looks more threatening than just little old me, and I’m doing some door-knocking in a small town.”
“And having a strange guy with you may tip the scales the wrong way,” he says, and nods. “I get that. But you know I worry, right?”
“I know.” I trace the line of his chin with my finger, relishing the feel of his morning stubble. “I’ll be careful. And Kez will know where I am too. I’ll call in after each stop and tell you where I go next. Deal?”
“Deal. You can bring me back breakfast. What’s good in Valerie? Doughnuts, maybe?”
“Doubtful,” I tell him. “But I can stop for them once I’m back to civilization. Might be two or so, by the time I make the drive to and from. Then maybe we can take the kids to a movie.”
“Got to be some kind of normal life out there waiting,” he says. “I mean it. Be careful.”
“I will.”
Coming back into the area around Stillhouse Lake feels like both a homecoming and a trauma. I can’t really separate those two, not anymore, but I still love the scenery even if I know I’m not welcome in it. I pass the turnoff to the lake, and our old house, and have to resist the impulse to see what the new residents are doing with my old place. I don’t need to stir up old memories and ghosts. There are too many to count.
Besides, the truce might not hold if the Belldenes spot me out here. I don’t need that trouble.
I take the tiny road that leads to Valerie.
As with most rural towns around here, it’s seen better days. Most of the small downtown is shuttered; the rest is filled with junk stores and nostalgia for a past that was never as good as it seems in the rearview. Kez has sent me the address, and I find it easily enough, though GPS is predictably unreliable around here, and Valerie doesn’t much believe in investing in street signs. Why should they, when everybody who lives there knows where everything is?
I slow in front of Sheryl Lansdowne’s address. There’s a TBI van parked on the curb, so they’re likely inside processing the place. I leave that alone and head down the street. Kez has updated me on her conversation with the immediate next-door neighbor, so I skip him for now and text Kez and Sam to let them know that I’m starting at the house one down.
I get a timid little old woman with a mild, seamed face and frizzy gray hair who seems to live in her housecoat. She invites me in for iced tea, that grand southern tradition, and I accept. It’s a good decision. The tea’s just standard Luzianne, but she’s an avid gossip, and she has homemade cookies. Perfect.
I tell her who I am, of course; I show her my private investigator’s license, which she thinks is fascinating, and after we get the usual questions about what I do out of the way, she’s quick to tell me about the flaws of people living on the block.
But not, I notice, Sheryl. When she finally pauses for breath and a sip of her iced tea, I ask about that. She gives me a sharp look. “I don’t speak ill of those who are gon
e to rest, and Lord knows, she may be. Missing, ain’t she? And those two darling girls of hers gone?” She shudders and shakes her head. “Don’t know what this world is coming to—these things just never happened when I was younger and people feared God and believed in America.”
She’s wrong, of course; I could reel off a solid dozen hideous crimes from the 1950s onward that happened just in this county, but I’m not going to change her mind, and I’m not interested in wasting my time.
“Well, Mrs. Gregg, it sure would help if you’d tell me something that could help me find Sheryl,” I say. “And anything might do that. Anything at all.”
“Would it? Really?” Her pale-brown eyes go wide behind her old-fashioned glasses. “I don’t know anything much except that her husband lit out on her some time ago. Damn shame when a man does that to an expectant mother, don’t you think? Abandoning her and the children?”
I can tell she’s poised for another back in my day lecture, so I head her off. “Absolutely,” I say firmly. “Damn shame. Did you see him go?”
“See him go? Well, I really don’t know, now, do I? I didn’t see no suitcases, but I did see him get in his truck and leave, and I don’t recall him ever coming back.”
“And Sheryl was home then?”
“Lordy, how would I remember a thing like that?” But she puts a finger to her lips and taps it thoughtfully. “Well, maybe that was the day she went for her doctor visit. I just don’t know. I don’t write it down, you know. And I’m not a snoop.”
“Of course not,” I lie smoothly. “You’re just interested in your neighbors. That’s normal.”
“It’s just being friendly,” she says. “Unlike these young folk. All they do is stare at the TV and their damn phones and such. Don’t even go out on the porch in the evenings like normal people. I just don’t know—”
What the world is coming to, I finish mentally, and jump in. “Do you know who Sheryl’s obstetrician would have been?”
“Only one around here,” she says. “Dr. Fowler, and he’s even older than I am, probably still pushing cod liver oil on those poor babies.” She makes a face. “Your mother ever make you take that stuff?”
“Past my time,” I tell her, and she pats my hand.
“Well, good for you, dear, good for you. Anyway, Dr. Fowler would be the only place she’d go if you’re asking about that.” She gives me a too-sharp look. “You know some folks ’round here think her husband didn’t just leave, don’t you? That it was something else?”
“Like what?”
She leans over the table, and her eyes are bright with interest. “Some say he was murdered.”
“No!”
“Well, that’s what I heard. Not that I’d know for sure, of course. But some folks say it sure was convenient how she got his money and house and car easy as pie. He weren’t wealthy or nothing, but she came here poor as country dirt, and now she’s got a roof over her head and a car to drive and money to spend.”
“You knew her when she first came?”
“Before she got married? She came in on the bus, just some rough little baggage. Got herself a job at that Sonic near the edge of town. That’s where she met Tommy Jarrett, and I guess that was all it took. Don’t know anything about her other than that, though. Maybe she was just down on her luck. I was born just before the Depression, did you know?”
“I didn’t,” I say, and I listen politely to her tales of growing up amid poverty even more desperate than it is today. I don’t know how much of it is true, but it doesn’t matter, and it makes her happy. I leave her my card, in case she thinks of anything else. Mrs. Gregg is nice enough, and a busybody is always useful.
I’m on my way out the door when, out of the blue, she says, “And you know about that man, don’t you?”
I turn to face her. “What man?” I feel my heartbeat kick up to a higher gear.
“The one in the white van, of course. Used to drive by her house quite regular. Always at night.”
“And did he stop at her house?”
“Never. But he always slowed down.” Mrs. Gregg looks very pleased with herself. I want to kiss her.
“Think hard. Did he stop at anyone else’s house that you know of?”
“Not on this block, no.”
“And you didn’t recognize him?”
She snorts. “Well, of course I did! You didn’t ask that.”
Jesus take the wheel. I force myself to be calm. “Okay, now I’m asking: Who was in the van?”
“Douglas Adam Prinker. Lives over on Adams, out near the old Dairy Queen, the one they closed down about ten years back.”
I take out my notebook and write all that down, along with white van and several exclamation points. “Thank you, Mrs. Gregg. That’s helpful. Anything else?”
“No, I don’t think so,” she says. “Y’all be safe out there. Those poor, poor little children.” She clucks her tongue and closes the door.
I start for my borrowed truck, but I spot a man loitering near it. He looks like a cop, and I don’t want to get into that. Not until I make a bit more progress. So I hit a few more houses, taking precautions every time as promised. Two want nothing to do with me and close the door in my face. One asks if there’s a reward. I tell him there’s not, and he immediately loses interest. Sheryl’s next-door neighbor is surly and makes me damn glad I’ve texted my whereabouts, but he does support what Mrs. Gregg’s told me about the day Tommy left; nobody saw any sign he was packing, and the neighbor describes Tommy as an outdoorsman, often gone fishing or hunting. Not unusual around here at all.
He doesn’t seem to have any suspicions about Sheryl. In fact, he’s adamant that she’s a good woman and a good mother, and seems very certain of it.
I wonder how he’d feel if he knew about her past.
Nobody else seems to have noticed Douglas Adam Prinker or his white van, and I sure hope it’s not made up out of whole cloth. That’s the drawback of busybody neighbors; I was the victim of one when the news about Melvin first broke. She swore up and down that she saw me helping him carry a woman into the house. It was a lie, told for attention and because she was certain I deserved the punishment anyway.
I don’t think Mrs. Gregg is lying. I just have built-in wariness that’s hard to shake.
I get met at the last door I knock on with a shotgun, which persuades me it’s past time to be going. The phone lines, I’m certain, have been burning up, and Mrs. Gregg will have spread news of my interest far and wide. That might be useful. But for now, it renders me persona non grata.
Unfortunately, the cop I spotted earlier is still waiting by Sam’s truck when I approach, and I slow down to figure him out. He’s a youngish man, tall, paler skin than most, and developing what looks like an uncomfortable sunburn. Blond hair and very blue eyes. He’s wearing khaki slacks and a button-down, and he straightens up when I come closer and offers me a handshake. I don’t accept. “That’s my truck,” I say.
“Technically, it’s not. I checked,” he replies, and takes a card from his pocket. “Randall Heidt, Tennessee Bureau of Investigation. I’m one of the investigators. And I don’t much appreciate you interfering in what we’re doing, Mrs. Proctor.” But I notice he didn’t stop me from doing it either. Interesting.
“Ms.,” I say, and I’m thankful he hasn’t deployed Mrs. Royal, because he clearly knows who I am, and a quick Google search would show him who I’ve been. “I’m not interfering.”
“You’re interviewing potential witnesses.”
“Sheryl Lansdowne wasn’t abducted from here.”
“She might have been stalked here,” he says. “I’m advising you to back off. Look, I don’t want to be on your bad side, but you really can’t be doing this. Understand?”
“Am I doing anything illegal?”
“Potentially obstructing an investigation.”
“Good luck proving that in front of a judge. Having iced tea with an old lady and knocking on some doors isn’t a crime.”
> “I’d like you to share your notes with me, please.”
“What notes?” I say. “I didn’t take any. And I’m under no obligation to tell you about my conversations unless you want to arrest me and take me in for questioning.” The notebook’s burning a hole in my pocket, but I try to keep from giving that away.
I must be successful, because he sighs and says, “Just give me something. Come on.”
So I give him the information I’ve gathered from Mrs. Gregg . . . except for the bit about Douglas Adam Prinker. I hold that back only because I want Kez to have it, and the second this man gets his fist on it, he’ll clench it tight. I tell myself I’m doing the right thing, but truth is, I’m not really sure I am. Well, shit, they weren’t even canvassing properly yet. If they talk to Mrs. Gregg, they’ll get it themselves. That’s not really an excuse. And I feel a little ill when I don’t disclose.
It’s also Heidt’s fault that he doesn’t push me at that point, but mostly it’s mine.
I call Kez immediately and tell her where to meet me. I drive the short distance to Norton’s pretty decent bakery and order some cake; I’m carrying it to the table when Kez enters the door, spots me, and heads over. She seems tired, but energized. She slips into the chair opposite me. “This lunch for you? Because there are still vegetables in the world.”
I pass her a fork. “It’s carrot cake.”
“I’ll allow it.” She takes a bite, heavy on the cream cheese frosting. “What’d you find out?”
“Ever heard the name Douglas Adam Prinker?”
“Should I have?”
I tell her Mrs. Gregg’s story, and she pauses eating to take out her notebook and write it down in swift, flowing lines. Kez has better handwriting than I do. “One thing,” I say. “I couldn’t get anyone else to verify that story about the van. Maybe she just said what I wanted to hear. She did love to talk.”
“Uh-huh, I’ll check it out. If it seems viable, I’ll get the TBI on it.” Kez sounds low-key excited, though. It’s a real possibility. “You didn’t prompt her about the van?”
