by Jeff Abbott
“Oh,” she says. “You scared me.” She’s still scared—she doesn’t know this man.
“Sorry. Some of the neighborhood dads and moms organized just to walk around, make sure no one suspicious is lurking. I got assigned this stretch of greenbelt leading to Ned’s house.”
“Oh,” she says. “Ned’s not there. He’s at the Horvath house.”
“Yeah, I saw the police took over Ned’s house,” the man says again. “Let me guess, you’re heading over there to see him.”
How does this man know about her friendship with Ned? Well, probably she and Ned were mentioned multiple times on the Winding Creek Neighborhood Faceplace page.
“I’m Julia,” she says.
“I know,” he says with a neighborly smile. “I’m Marland. Friend of Ned’s. I take it your parents don’t know you’re out.”
“Please don’t say anything. I just want to check on Ned. In person.” She tries not to blush.
“It’s not my business,” Marland says with a slight smile. “I can’t imagine how horrible his day has been. He’s lucky to have a friend like you.”
She nods and goes past him. “Are there other people patrolling on the greenbelt?”
“Just me along this stretch. We want to keep the curiosity seekers from Ned’s house. There are others up by the park.”
“Thanks. Bye.” She nods again and hurries on, glancing back at him once. It strikes her as odd he called it Ned’s house, like a teenager would…not Danielle’s house. Odd that an adult described himself as a friend of Ned’s rather than Danielle’s. She hopes no one else is along the greenbelt, to snitch on her to her parents.
She passes several more houses, exits the greenbelt, cuts between two homes, and she’s on another street. If she stuck to the greenbelt, she’d still get to Mike’s house. It would just take longer. She crosses the street and heads to the backyard. There’s an iron fence fronting the greenbelt here, a low mesh barrier on the ground, to dissuade the snakes and field mice, and a gate, usually locked. She climbs over the fence and approaches the back door of Mike Horvath’s house.
She hears Ned’s and Mike’s voices inside, talking softly.
“…Not going to London. Or Ghana.”
“I’ll talk to him.” Mike, calm and quiet.
“He said I have to go!” Ned’s voice, rising.
“Of course you should finish school here. You’ll always have…” and then Mike’s deep voice fading, moving away from the door that leads into a back mudroom connected to the garage, and Ned’s voice, pleading, fades as well. She waits. Then she knocks gently.
The door opens. But it’s not Ned. It’s Peter, Mike’s son, a year older than her and Ned. He’s dressed as per normal for him: a hoodie with some obscure computer symbol on it, faded khakis, high-top sneakers. Dark blond curling hair, a frown. His eyes are red-rimmed, and she realizes he’s been crying. She has been worried about Ned and Mike but not Peter. Peter’s just sort of…there. Sometimes she’s felt the weight of his gaze on her and she thinks: If Peter could be a little more social, dress a little nicer, find some topics of conversation beyond computers, he’d have a chance with a girl. He could be, she has thought, an interesting project. Not for her, but for a friend.
“Hi, Peter,” she says evenly. “How are you?”
“I’m all right,” he says. He moved down from Canada with his father; there had been whispers about school problems, which was why he’d had to stay an extra year. “I’m sorry for what you went through this morning,” he says. Not looking at her.
“Thanks. Is Ned here?”
“Yes. Sure. Come on in.” He mumbles a lot, and she has to strain to hear his words.
She steps inside, and Peter Horvath closes the door behind her. He doesn’t yell or announce her name but gestures at her to stay put and leaves. Then Ned comes into the mudroom, and she folds her arms around him, like a simple embrace could make it better, but it is all she can do. He isn’t crying now, but she feels the tremble on his jaw, of his body. She tries to imagine if it had been her mom killed, and the image won’t even come. The idea is like something shielded in darkness, not visible, beyond her thoughts. Her fingers go into his dark hair, stroking his scalp gently, and he gives a little sigh. For a moment she wonders if she should kiss him; she has wanted to for a long while. But not today. Not so close to this awfulness. She doesn’t want them linked in his mind. But then she thinks: I’ll always be the girl who found his dead mom with him. What does that mean for us? Then she shoves the thought away.
“Mike is upstairs,” he whispers. “Peter won’t tell.”
“Am I not supposed to be here?” Their faces are very close together.
“He wants to grieve in private,” Ned says. “He’s falling apart. People were over here earlier to see us, just neighbors, and Mike lost it. I think he just needs time alone.”
“Oh. Of course. I just wanted to see if you’re…” What, all right? He wasn’t. He wasn’t OK or all right or keeping it together. “I just wanted to see you,” she amends quickly.
“Thanks.” He steps back from her, suddenly speechless. He was a guy, and he’d let her see how vulnerable he could be, and so he was probably going to all guy up right now. She wants to hold his hand, but she doesn’t.
“My father wants me to move to London and live with him. Or even go back to Ghana, go to school there, live with my grandparents.” The words spill out in a flood. “I won’t do it. I don’t want to leave Lakehaven. My friends. You.”
“You can live with our family,” she says. “To finish school. There’s no way Mom or Dad wouldn’t agree to that.”
“Sure they might. Your mom doesn’t like me.”
“Of course she does.”
“She just doesn’t. She didn’t like my mom, either.”
“Ned. If she didn’t like you, she wouldn’t have come with us to the station.”
“She did that for you, not me.”
“Ned…” But she doesn’t want to argue with him. Not now, on the day his mother died. “We wouldn’t have Grant without your mom. My mom always said that.” She puts her hand on his shoulder.
“I’m not going to London or Ghana. Mike said I could stay with him and Peter, but Mike doesn’t have any rights. My dad has all the rights, and he’ll be just enough of a jerk…” Now the tears shine in his eyes. “Mike’s got a friend with a private jet. He’s flying Dad here from London. He’ll be here in the morning. I have to figure out what to do.”
“You know, maybe we can talk to your dad. He can’t want to disrupt your life further.”
“He wants to take care of me. Now. Now he decides to be my dad.” Ned’s voice rises slightly. “I haven’t seen him maybe but ten times in my whole life.” Ned gives off an awful, choking laugh. “But Mom’s dead, and so he knows he has to…he has to…step up, because, like, the world is watching.”
“Let us talk to him.”
“He won’t care what Mike or your parents say. But he is going to have to drag me onto a plane. I will kick and scream and someone in the airport will film it and it will go viral and…”
She pats his shoulders, trying to calm him. “Let’s not worry about that right now.”
He nods. He swallows. He looks her in the eye. She thinks for a moment he might kiss her, and maybe a kiss would be a solace. “I have to pick out a coffin.”
The words are a punch in her gut.
“I mean, that’s what Mike said. The police will release her body at some point, and then we’ll have a funeral, and I have to pick out her dress and her coffin and what songs they play. Even though she wasn’t much for church, we’ll have it at a church. I guess I have to pick the church, too. At Christmas, if we went, we went to the Episcopal one.” His voice is soft. “I can’t even think straight. I can’t.”
“What can I do to help you?”
He tilts his head slightly, studying her. “I keep thinking. The cops found a phone near her feet. And I saw her arguing on a phone last night, telling someo
ne she wanted out. But it wasn’t her regular phone.”
“What could your mom have wanted out of?”
His voice lowers. “The relationship with Mike. Her business. An upcoming adoption? Or maybe she’d gotten involved with someone other than Mike.” He makes the last part a whisper. “I don’t think Peter can hear us, but he was in the kitchen. Mike’s upstairs.”
“Do you think she was cheating on Mike?”
“I don’t know. She seemed happy. But preoccupied. Whoever she was in touch with on that phone, that could be who killed her. They won’t show me the number.”
“Have you mentioned this to Mike or Peter?”
He shakes his head. “Not yet. I can’t…I can’t stay here thinking that Mike could have hurt her.”
“This is Mike. He never would hurt her.”
“People do terrible, unimaginable things sometimes,” Ned says in a low voice. “And then the neighbors are always surprised.”
She doesn’t know what to say, but she decides it is better not to say anything and make it worse. She watches him. She has known him since they were small and his mother found her brother for them. Most of her life, through childhood and the awkward middle school years, he’d been her constant friend, annoying at times, sweet at others. But everything feels changed between them ever since they stopped looking at each other as just friends but as something more. There are cuter boys at school, boys who aren’t too shy to flirt with her and let her know of their interest, but Ned is Ned and he is a little dangerous. She sees it in those dark eyes, with their stare that promises something more. The kid who always charms the teachers but skirts the rules, who smiles at the parents while the flask is hidden in his backpack, who manages to sweet-talk his way out of setbacks and troubles. That boy always lands on his feet, she’d heard Mike once say, and she thought Ned hadn’t considered a world where he might trip or stumble.
He murmurs something, so quiet she can't hear.
“What?” she asks, leaning close, whispering.
“Do…do you think what I’ve done…had anything…?” And then his voice stops, turns to a ragged breath.
“No. No, Ned. It couldn’t.” She grabs his forearm, squeezes it. “It couldn’t.”
“What if…?” he says. “What if…?” And Julia realizes these are the two most poisonous words ever.
She takes a deep breath. “But you have to stop doing it. For a while.”
“I’ll get in trouble if I stop.”
“No. It’ll be fine.”
Slowly he shakes his head.
She cannot argue with him, not at the end of this awful day, so she doesn’t. But she squeezes his hand.
“I think I just want to go to bed,” he says. “Like, for days.”
It’s not a time for big decisions, but they may not have a choice. “Let me take care of this problem for you,” she says. “I’ll talk to the guy for you.”
He shakes his head. “It doesn’t work that way, Jules.”
But she’s already decided. She just won’t tell him. “All right,” she says. “I won’t do anything. We’ll get through this. Are you sure you’ll be OK?”
He shakes his head. “I can walk you back to your house,” he says.
“No, I’m fine. There’s a patrol out there. I saw a friend of yours on the trail, near your house. Keeping an eye on it. Guy named Marland?”
Ned’s eyes grow wide. “Tall guy? Older?”
She nods.
If she didn’t know him well, she wouldn’t see him gather himself this way. But she does see it.
He’s scared. Of this man who was so friendly to her on the greenbelt.
“What?” she asks. “Who is he?”
“I’ll walk you back.” Ned goes into the kitchen, then the den, and she hears him telling Peter he’ll be back in a few. Then they head out, back to her house, skipping the greenbelt, sticking to the streets. They cut through a yard to the trail, but Marland is gone. For a moment Ned stands there.
“Who is he?” she asks again. “Is he…the guy?”
“Don’t tell anyone you saw him. I beg you. I’ll be in so much trouble, Jules. Please. It…it has nothing to do with Mom. OK? Please.”
“All right.” But she’s not one bit sure about keeping this odd promise. Something is terribly wrong. She goes into her house silently, Ned waiting until she’s inside, and as she shuts the door, she sees Ned turn and run into the darkness, eager to be gone.
15
Grant
Grant can’t sleep. He guessed that Julia would duck out, at least to go check on Ned in person, and he watches from his upstairs bedroom window as his sister sneaks into the greenbelt. She’ll walk right past the tree where the money was left for him, and he wonders if he should stay at the window, waiting for her return.
Or go out to the tree and see what’s there now. What if it’s more money?
What are these lies he’s been told? What is the bad thing his father’s done? He doesn’t want to believe it has to do with Danielle. It can’t. That’s his dad.
Be the cat, looking out the window.
Does that mean the person leaving stuff for him in the tree can see him right now? He goes back to the window, the room lit up behind him, and stares out into the night.
Then he thinks about it: How does the Sender know about his tree? Who knew? His family. Did either of his parents tell people about it? Maybe they told Danielle? Oh, guess what Grant does. It’s so funny. Who would remember that? Who would care? He’s sure he hasn’t mentioned it to anyone.
He needs to find a way to catch the Sender. If they’ve left him something in the tree again, they might do so a third time. He could catch them then.
But he’s scared to go out in the night and check the tree right now. Danielle went out in the night and died. Julia just went and he did nothing, but he can guess where she’s going. Mike’s house, to see Ned. He wonders how Mike and Peter and Ned are doing. Instead he goes to the computer.
He opens the Sender’s email and reads it again. He hates email. It’s so much worse than texting. Maybe this is an older person who doesn’t text? His friends have complained about grandparents who won’t bother to learn texting. So he has these few clues to go on: the pictures sent to him, the Gmail address, the spoofing of Drew’s address to send him the original mail.
You don’t have to wait for the Sender to tell you who he or she is. You could find out. His parents were always telling him this—to take the initiative, to be a leader. It looks good on college applications, and it’s simply never too early to worry about that.
How do you trace an email?
He knew who he should ask, but he feels weird asking him. Peter Horvath, Mike’s son. He’s a computer geek. He’s a senior and Grant’s a freshman, so their paths don’t cross much, but he knows Peter. And he knows Peter is not into the activities his father, Mike, is into: fishing, football, basketball. All of which Grant loves. Peter and Grant have never had a private conversation and he has no idea what state Peter is in—his father’s girlfriend was just murdered. But maybe he would help.
Mom has already told him and Julia they’re not going to school in the morning. He assumes Peter won’t as well. He does have Peter’s number in his phone. He texts him: Hey. It’s Grant. Really sorry about Danielle. I hope you all are doing ok. I mean of course you’re not ok. I mean…I’m just really sorry.
He doesn’t expect an answer, but he gets one quickly: Thanks. Your sister is here right now with Ned.
I figured, Grant texts. How are you?
Numb. Not sure how to help my dad. Probably more than you wanted to know.
Grant wants to text you have a great dad, but that seems like too much. Just be there for him, I guess, he texts instead.
Yeah. Thanks for checking in on us.
Grant takes a deep breath and writes: I wonder if you can help me. Something weird is going on, but not related to Danielle. It might take your mind off all this sadness if you need a distract
ion.
He waits and he waits, and finally an answer comes: What?
Grant hesitates—he has to be very careful with what he shares with Peter—and then he writes: I think I need a hacker.
And presses send.
16
Iris
The next morning, Iris awakens groggy with sleep and has a strange thought: that she’s dead and she only just now realizes it. For a moment she believes this and then she breathes hard, which jolts her to full wakefulness. She pulls the covers over her head, feeling sick. She slept very badly.
Kyle is still asleep, snoring softly. She knew he tossed and turned much of the night as well before slipping into quiet slumber. She watches him sleep. She thinks about when they first met. She didn’t really notice him and then she did, running daily with a club at college past her Houston apartment, and he was all she could think about. The intensity of his gaze, the strength of his stride. She actually waited on the sidewalk for him to run past and asked him out for a coffee as he ran past; he was a shy college senior and she was a year out of college and already starting to write for bands. But he’d stopped and jogged back to her, smiling awkwardly, and she said, If not coffee, then a bottle of water so you can hydrate, and he’d laughed and asked her for her number and the next day they’d met for coffee. That young man is still somewhere inside Kyle, not yet eroded away. She touches his hair; he doesn’t awaken. His face is bruised from his fall on the greenbelt. She studies the marks as if they’re a map.
I love you, she wants to tell him, but she doesn’t.
Then she gets up and goes to the kitchen. She brews coffee and opens her laptop, half hoping that the Lakehaven police will have made an arrest, solved the case, and delivered justice. No such luck. Danielle’s murder isn’t even the lead on the front page of the Austin news website she reads. She’s overshadowed by a plane crash near Munich and a political scandal that blew up overnight; Danielle, older woman dead in a park, is halfway down the page. She reads the article. There’s not much there, mainly a few details about Danielle’s work as a lawyer who coordinated international adoptions. Her friend Francie, who convinced Iris to adopt from Russia, is quoted as saying what a wonderful person she was.
