“Is it about the fire?” I ask, my stomach back in its nervous knot.
“Not directly. Oh, hell. Did you know about this?”
“Know about what?”
Ben’s jumped out of bed, his eyes glued to his phone. “Jesus.”
“What’s going on?”
“Read the Daily,” he says, pulling a shirt out of the suitcase we brought back to his parents’ house last night. “Goddamn it. This is all wrinkled. I can’t go to work like this.”
This is not how Ben reacts to things. He’s not fussy. He usually couldn’t care less what his shirts look like as long as he meets a certain standard for work. Whatever the Daily’s published, it must be pretty bad.
“Just give me a minute,” I say. “I’ll iron it for you.”
“You don’t have to do that.”
“It’s fine. I want to.”
I get up, grabbing my phone off the nightstand as I go, and head to the bathroom. I read the newspaper article Ben was referring to while I empty my bladder. Someone’s leaked the fact that Phillips has identified one of his teenage harassers. Rich is going to lose it.
When I got to the office last night after Rich’s almost coitus interruptus call, he was mad, but also gloating. Rich loves knowing things others don’t, and since my wrong direction (in his mind) with John Phillips had cost him only a day of investigator’s time, he wasn’t that stressed about it.
John Phillips had a motive. His house was about to be repossessed and so obviously he’d burned it to the ground. An “open-and-shut case,” Rich called it. One more for the win column to keep his stats headed in the right direction.
The problem was, as I pointed out to Rich probably too smugly, my investigation made it nearly certain that the house hadn’t been burned down on purpose. The fact that a smallish fire had gotten this out of control was pure chance. And, as I’d explained to Detective Donaldson, it made no sense for someone who wanted to burn their house down to start a fire in a pit two hundred yards away and hope it would somehow make it to the house. Especially given how little fuel there had been in the fire pit and the fact that there were no accelerants anywhere. As far as I was concerned, the fact that his house was about to be repossessed and that he’d been served the papers a few days before was just a coincidence.
“There are no coincidences,” Rich said.
I sighed. Next he was probably going to tell me that everything happens for a reason.
“This might make it easier to investigate,” I said. “If everyone thinks we already have our man, it’ll be easier for me to talk to them.”
“Talk to who, exactly?”
“The kids who’ve been harassing John Phillips. He identified one of them at the shelter. I should at least look into it.”
“Why am I just hearing this now?”
“I . . . I was about to come tell you when you called.”
“Who is it?”
“A kid who goes to Voyages. So I should check that out. Follow procedure.”
I skidded over this quickly, hoping Rich wouldn’t ask for the kid’s name. Because even though I knew keeping things from him was a bad idea, telling him this particular kid’s name was almost certainly worse. Especially before I was sure of anything.
He worked his jaw. “Why are you so all-out convinced that it wasn’t John Phillips who started the fire?”
Happy he’d changed the subject, I explained, as patiently as I could, about my conversations with John Phillips. How I saw the effects of the harassment he endured up close. How scared he was when he saw his tormentor at the shelter.
“No one’s that good an actor,” I said. “Certainly not him. And I’m 99 percent certain it was an accident either way. We can wrap this up if that’s what you want.”
“Are you kidding? You know how much this fire’s costing? I’ve already gotten a call from the governor’s office telling me in no uncertain terms that we’ll be pressing charges and taking a civil suit to recoup the costs.”
“Phillips doesn’t have any money. That’s a waste of resources.”
“Don’t be so naive. The governor’s up for reelection, same as me.”
“So, someone’s life is going to be destroyed because it’s an election year?”
“It’s about following the chain of command. Which is a life lesson you don’t seem to have absorbed.”
I grit my teeth. “What would you like me to do, boss?”
“Get Phillips down to the sheriff’s office for questioning tomorrow. And then we’ll see.”
Phillips is going to be questioned today, at nine. I’m going to have to hustle to avoid being late. But I said I’d help Ben, and that feels just as important in this moment.
I open the linen cupboard in the cavernous bathroom next to Ben’s room and pull out the ironing board and iron I remembered seeing stashed there. I carry them awkwardly into the room and set it up. Ben’s on the phone, standing there in bare feet and his pants. His shirt is draped over the end of the bed.
“No,” he says. “That’s a bad idea.”
I hear mumbling from the other end of the line. It sounds like the voice of the school’s vice principal, Janet Kores. She’s been at Voyages for ten years, and she and Ben get along well. They have the same philosophy, part of which involves un-teaching the lessons the kids’ parents have taught them about what’s right and wrong. Not that they’re that direct about it. They would’ve lost their jobs a long time ago if they were.
Given what’s in the Nelson Daily, I’m not surprised Ben’s phone is blowing up. I’m surprised my own isn’t as well. Rich and Detective Donaldson must be livid that the Daily got wind of John Phillips’s ID of the kid. Especially since they both seem hell-bent on not pursuing any course of investigation that doesn’t involve John Phillips. I wonder how Joshua Wicks found out about it? Maybe someone in the department’s leaking information? But if that’s the case, then how come he doesn’t know about the foreclosure on John Phillips’s house?
I wait for the iron to heat up while Ben finishes his phone call. He’s pacing back and forth like a lion in a cage, giving largely monosyllabic answers. “Yeah.” “You may be right.” “No, I haven’t heard anything.” “She’s right here. I’ll ask her.”
He ends the call as I snap his shirt onto the ironing board. I place the iron on the fabric. It spurts out steam.
“Ask me what?” I say.
“If you’re going to be conducting interviews at the school today.”
“Where’d you hear that?”
“Stands to reason if the police think one of our kids did it. Shit. Did John Phillips really ID one of them?”
“He did.”
“Who is it?”
I look at the shirt carefully, making sure I’m doing it right. Ironing’s not usually my department.
“You know I can’t tell you that.”
“That’s what I told Janet.”
He sighs as he sits on the edge of the bed. “Today is going to be such a shit show.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Not your fault,” he says, then gives me a rueful look when he realizes that, in a way, it is.
“Look,” I say, “you didn’t hear it from me, okay, but yes. John Phillips has identified a kid from Voyages as one of the teens who’s been hanging out on his property. But he didn’t see anyone that night, which makes it all speculation at this point. And I don’t know if there’s going to be interviews at the school today. Rich and Detective Donaldson think John Phillips did it.”
“Careful,” Ben says, pointing to the iron. I’ve let it rest in one place too long. Thankfully it hasn’t left a mark. “Well, that’s good, then. Janet will be relieved.”
“Only you can’t tell her.”
“Right, I know.”
“Seriously, Ben, I mean it. I could lose my job.”
“I said I wouldn’t, okay? I won’t.”
I look down at the shirt again. I know this place. This teetering tone we take with ea
ch other, which could tip into a fight if we don’t take care but probably won’t if we do.
We haven’t been taking care. Not for a long time.
But I’m so sick of fighting, and I can still feel the pressure of Ben’s lips on mine from yesterday.
So.
“I know you won’t,” I say. “Here’s your shirt. Ready for the day.”
He starts to put it on. I stand in front of him like the traditional wife I’ve never been and take over doing up the buttons. When I get to the top, I smooth it out and give him a light kiss on the mouth.
“There you go, all set.”
He smiles at me, amused and momentarily distracted from his phone, which is still pinging every few seconds. My own phone starts to vibrate in the pocket of my robe, but I ignore it.
“About yesterday,” he says.
“I’m glad it happened.”
“You are?”
“Aren’t you?”
“I thought, you know, because of . . .” The divorce, he’s going to say but doesn’t. Saying that word once was enough. “This is confusing.”
“It is.”
“We should . . . try to figure this out.”
“We should.” My hands are resting on his shoulders. He’s tall enough that I have to crane my neck back a bit to look directly into his eyes. “I didn’t think it would be this complicated.” I didn’t think it would be this hard. “Maybe . . . Why don’t we see this as an opportunity.”
“How so?”
“Like a vacation or something,” I say. “Maybe we can put all that stuff to the side for right now and concentrate on what’s in front of us.”
“That doesn’t sound like you.”
“But that’s the problem, isn’t it? Me? Us?”
“Where are you going with this?” Ben asks. “You’re the one who wanted . . .”
“You know I’m not any good at this sort of thing.”
He looks me straight in the eye for a moment, holding my gaze in a way he hasn’t in a while. Then there’s a low thrumming sound outside that builds and builds until another plane empties the contents of its reservoir, and the moment, if it was a moment, is lost.
CHAPTER 18
I Know What You Did
Mindy
Outside of family matters, one of the things Mindy regretted most in her life was saying those few simple words to Elizabeth: I think I may be pregnant again. Oh, what a stupid, stupid thing to say to a friend who she knew longed to have a child and had been trying so hard to do so. And then to compound it by revealing that she was thinking of not keeping it . . . Mindy had no idea what she was thinking. Of course, she wasn’t thinking, she was panicking. Panicking at the thought that she might have another baby whose heart was missing a central piece growing inside her. Panicking at the thought that this one might not make it. Knowing full well she couldn’t survive going through that again.
But it was stupid and thoughtless just the same, and when Elizabeth had thrown her words back in her face and stormed out of the dinner, Mindy laid her head down on the greasy Formica and wept.
When she’d gotten her period the next day, she’d e-mailed Elizabeth to let her know. She felt like she owed her that much, at least. But she wasn’t going to apologize. Elizabeth had revealed what she really thought of Mindy, and there wasn’t any going back from that. Of course, they had both said cruel things, so cruel Mindy surprised herself. How long had it been since she’d argued with someone like that? When had she ever done so? But she wasn’t going to apologize, just the same. Especially after Elizabeth didn’t even write back to acknowledge that the thing that had sent them spiraling out of friendship had never even existed at all.
Mindy was still frozen in front of the computer when the rest of her family finally stirred to life.
She had spent hours reading through what she found and still didn’t feel like she could process it. Angus had said that kids could be “mean.” Mindy knew mean. This wasn’t mean, it was cruel. Manipulative. Deliberate. In fact, the more Mindy thought about it, the more the word sociopath skittered through her mind. Or was it psychopath? She could never remember the difference. Regardless of the terminology, the important thing was that, for the better part of a year now, the kids Angus was hanging out with, who Mindy thought were his friends, were using him as a whipping post.
The fact that she’d missed what was going on filled Mindy with shame. Even though she’d known there was something wrong with Angus, she hadn’t pushed. She hadn’t made it her business to get to the bottom of it, even though it was supposed to be her occupation. Her children. Their happiness. That was her going concern. And now Mindy had that same feeling she’d had all those years ago when she found out about Carrie’s illness. As if she were the cause. That some flaw in her mothering had left her son vulnerable, had made it so he would not only be the target but keep it to himself.
Oh, Angus, she thought. Why didn’t you say anything?
But Mindy knew the answer to that question. It was all over the pages she was reading. Angus had clearly decided that keeping the lowest profile possible was the only way to survive. That going along with it all, being the toe kick of his little gang of thugs, was preferable to the alternative.
Angus was, quite simply, afraid.
It rang through in his tentative exchanges with Tucker and the others, and in the difference in tone when he wrote to Willow, whose interest he’d been sure for months was some ruse. Mindy had cried when she read the exchanges between them when Angus had finally decided to trust Willow and open up about what was going on. She cried and then she stopped reading because those messages were innocent and belonged to her son.
But that certainly wasn’t true about the others, the ones from those boys.
As her family moved around upstairs and the planes droned constantly outside, Mindy’s whole body quivered with rage as she read through the last exchange, the one that started Tuesday morning on Ask.fm, their current instrument of torture.
The way it was set up (a simple ask-one-of-your-friends-a-question mechanism) seemed to Mindy to be the perfect device for bullying with plausible deniability. Because if it’s phrased as a question, you’re not actually saying something happened, you’re just asking. Just asking! Just asking things like, Is it true that Willow hooked up with Tucker last night? Is it true you were watching? Did Angus start the fire at John Phillips’s house?
That last question made absolutely no sense to Mindy until her e-mail pinged with an alert about the latest article in the Daily. The headline said it all, really. “Local Teen Should Be Interviewed.”
Mindy scanned the article, her eyes stopping on the word “Voyages.” She felt sick to her stomach. So many possibilities skittered through her mind. Tucker was an awful child, and he could be using the mystery around the fire as one more arrow in his quiver of abuse. Or he could be trying to cast blame on Angus for something he himself had done. Or . . . But Mindy’s mind couldn’t take her any further.
Because she couldn’t help thinking that maybe, just maybe, what Tucker was asking was true.
Mindy was bumped from her thoughts by the reality of Peter and Carrie coming downstairs in all their usual noise for breakfast.
“There you are,” Peter said, looking relieved. “Have you been up all night?”
Mindy finished shutting off the computer. She wasn’t sure what error in the system allowed her to get past Angus’s defenses and see into his account; she only prayed that rebooting the computer would hide her tracks and that Angus couldn’t tell that she’d taken screen shots of the messages and forwarded them to her own e-mail account. Even though she knew she’d have to confront him with what she’d found soon, she needed some time to think about the implications.
“The planes woke me up,” she said as another one shook the house for emphasis. “How did you sleep through it?”
“If years of crying babies didn’t get through . . .”
“Oh, right. How’d I let you get aw
ay with that again?”
“Beats me,” Peter said, kissing her on the cheek. “But why don’t I make it up to you by taking care of the monsters this morning while you go back to bed?”
“Like one sugar-cereal breakfast is going to make up for years of sleepless nights.”
“A man can dream, can’t he?”
Mindy kissed him back with a pounding heart. Why hadn’t she told Peter? Right then, in the kitchen, while Angus was still in the shower?
Mindy went upstairs determined to print the messages in the office nook in their bedroom so she could show them to Peter after he’d taken the kids to school. She’d go to his office and they’d talk this through like they did everything. And then they’d come up with a plan.
Mindy felt calmer once she decided this. Another plane passed by. Mindy pressed her face to the window that faced Nelson Peak to see if she could observe it dumping its load. There was too much smoke to see that far, but not too much to see that someone was hanging out by their trash cans, looking hesitant.
Mindy hurried down the stairs and shoved her feet into the first pair of sneakers she could find. She was still in her nightgown, but she wasn’t worried about that at the moment. A teenage girl was standing by the garbage cans, shifting her feet nervously as she looked up at Angus’s window.
“Willow?” Mindy said. “What are you doing here?”
Willow started like a doe. She looked ready to run away on her thin legs, encased in those ankle boots Mindy couldn’t understand the appeal of. Her thin, almost white-blonde hair was straight as a pin and covered half of her angular face.
“Willow?” Mindy said again.
“I thought I’d . . . wait for Angus. He said he might want to walk today.”
“Does your mother know you’re here?”
Mindy was close enough to her now to feel Willow’s trembling.
“Noooo. You won’t tell her, will you?”
Willow’s mother was notoriously strict even in the best of circumstances, and these were anything but—though, of course, Mindy wasn’t supposed to know that.
Smoke Page 13
