Though it seemed unlikely.
She unfolded the pages, hands shaking, and alarming phrases wasted no time leaping off the page at her.
A middle-of-the-night search frenzy relating to domestic violence resources …
What some might call a lame excuse for not allowing police to search the house more thoroughly …
The presumed innocent man seemed uneasy, asked if he was a suspect …
The article ended, Clara had to admit, somewhat smartly, considering that its author was a twelve-year-old.
At a time when so much has been made of the missing life insurance money, one must ask: Was more than one kind of life insurance at play?
She turned the page. The next sheet contained a simple calendar of events, a call for submissions or story ideas to be sent to [email protected], and, in the top left corner, a masthead.
Editor and Lead Staff Writer: Hallie King.
Editorial Adviser: Clara Tiffin.
No. Hallie wouldn’t have. She couldn’t have—
But she had.
Once, when Clara was a child, her mother had yelled at her so terribly that she’d run straight to the trash can and thrown up, right in the middle of the kitchen. It had silenced and shocked her mother, as they both knew Clara hadn’t done anything all that wrong—at any rate, surely nothing to warrant screaming or vomiting. What had it been? A missed chore? A missed bus? A missed grade? All Clara could remember was that her mother had apologized, a rare occurrence, and taken her for ice cream, a rarer one.
She was transported back to that kitchen now, filled with that sense of being in terrible trouble that was not completely unwarranted but was far worse than what was due. She wondered if she might deposit her lunch right here on the curb. She wondered if she might pass out. Her vision was tunneling, ever so slightly. She turned toward Paul’s driveway and saw his car parked there. A cold foreboding shivered through her.
She was going to have so very much explaining to do. She didn’t have the energy for this. She didn’t have the time for this. She had a house full of sick children. She hadn’t slept in days. All she wanted was to be left alone.
Clara quickly folded the paper and stuffed it into the stack of bills and catalogs she was holding, as if doing so might hide it from the whole neighborhood. She surveyed the street, not bothering to pretend she wasn’t. She didn’t see anyone. Maybe they hadn’t gotten their copies yet? Maybe she could still retrieve them all?
She envisioned herself running along the curb, opening each mailbox, reaching in, swiping the flyer, and running on to the next one. She then imagined Paul pulling up next to her while she had a fistful of Gazettes—how she would fumble trying to explain she was not involved in a situation that was the very definition of being caught red-handed. What would he possibly say to her after this? He was her next-door neighbor, for pity’s sake!
And not just any confused, grieving neighbor. One who police had reason to suspect might have a violent streak.
It seemed too risky to gather them all up and be seen.
It seemed too risky not to.
She fled up the walk and back inside. She needed a second to think. The door closed too loudly behind her, and Maddie let out a wail from upstairs. Great. So much for her little reconnaissance mission. Unless the stroller could serve as a cover … Maybe it could! She’d be just another mom, out for a walk in the fresh air, conveniently stopping at every mailbox to … well, to teach her children about the mailman. Or something. She’d come up with a story on the spot, if she needed to. At least the stroller had a pouch where she could stash the vile things.
Maddie’s fever had finally broken—her outfit was soaked with sweat. Clara’s mind raced as she wrestled the wriggly little arms and legs into a fresh one-piece outfit that snapped up the front, humming “Twinkle, Twinkle” in an effort to keep them both calm. How many houses might Hallie have delivered these to? Surely not the whole of Yellow Springs. Was Clara lucky enough that it might have been just this block? But when had she even done it? The afternoon school bus hadn’t come yet. It had to have been this morning, before school. Unless maybe Natalie had kept her home again today? Maybe to compensate for her dad’s departure?
There was no telling how much damage had been done, or how much Clara could still undo, but she had to try. And she couldn’t leave Thomas here alone, sound asleep though he seemed. Maddie in her arms, she burst into his room. “Naptime’s over, buddy,” she told him, tickling his tummy. He moaned, and she glanced at the robot clock on his wall. He’d been down only an hour. Hardly long enough, given how sick he’d been. This was not all-star parenting. But neither was having your name plastered on something that could rile up the entire neighborhood and … what, get her sued for slander or libel? She tried to remember the difference between the two. It hardly mattered. Could it put her family in danger?
She coaxed Thomas out of bed with the promise of a popsicle if he’d just put on his shoes and come along for a ride in the stroller. With each valuable moment that ticked by as she attempted to wrangle her sluggish children, her fury with Hallie was building. Blind fury—pure, hot, and indiscriminating. What could the girl possibly have been thinking?
Thomas finally fastened the last Velcro strip of his shoes, and she scooped him up, though he was getting too heavy to carry this way, and clumped down the stairs as quickly as she could with a child under each arm. She set Maddie up with a bottle, Thomas with a popsicle, and debated whether the kids should have light coats. The temperature was hovering under seventy, chillier in the breeze, and they’d been sick …
Forget it. There was no time. She flew to the front closet, set the children on the bottom step of the staircase behind her, clumsily yanked the double stroller out, and with a flick of her wrist shoved the front door open with her shoulder—only to come face-to-face with Detective Bryant.
“Going somewhere?” he asked, unsmiling. He held up a copy of The Color-Blind Gazette, and Clara stopped where she stood.
“I did not editorially advise that,” she blurted out. “In fact, I told Hallie that she should not, could not print it.”
“How did she get it?”
Clara looked past him, in the direction of Paul’s house. Through the sprawling branches of the trees, she could tell his car was still in the driveway, but there was no sign of anyone.
“Please.” She hated that her voice was such a desperate plea. “I can explain, but I was about to go try to—” How to phrase this in a way that didn’t sound unlawful? “Gather them up.”
“We have someone on that. Let’s talk inside, shall we?”
She wheeled the massive stroller backward, and the detective filled the doorway. He caught sight of the children sitting on the step and eyed them uneasily. She half expected Thomas to jump up and ask about the woowoo again, but he was curled into a sleepy ball, his head resting on the step above him, staring forlornly at them.
“They’ve been sick,” Clara told him. “I can’t unload them on anyone right now.”
“Why don’t you give me the short version.”
So she told him, right there in the entryway, while Maddie sucked her bottle and Thomas licked his popsicle and she tried to behave as if a talk with a detective was nothing to be alarmed about in the middle of an ordinary day in her ordinary life. She told him about Hallie having the idea for the paper before she’d even known Kristin was missing, and how she’d forgotten about it until the girl showed up with “breaking news.” About how she’d stressed to her the importance of going no farther with what she’d heard. About how she’d had every intention of telling the girl’s parents, until she’d walked into the Folgers commercial reunion and felt heartless bringing it up just then. About how they were going out of town, and she’d made the judgment call that filling them in could wait until today. Which was obviously, in hindsight, not the right call.
When she was finished, Detective Bryant sighed heavily.
“Look. I’m a cop, but
I’m a human being too. I can understand how what you went through in Cincinnati might have made you hypervigilant—”
“I am not a vigilante.”
He stared at her.
“I’m not. Detective, this is my neighborhood! I can’t believe she put my name on this. Given what I was thrust into the middle of against my will once before, I don’t want anything other than to mind my own business in this case. Or any case. Believe me.”
He looked at her for a long moment, then sighed again. “And at no point did it occur to you to let us know about this little development?”
“Report a twelve-year-old to the police for eavesdropping?”
She could tell he was debating saying more but decided to let it go. “Any clue whether Hallie’s mother has seen this yet?”
“Natalie was going to be my next stop.”
“Well. We better get to it.”
* * *
Clara maneuvered the stroller up Natalie’s lone front step and stood awkwardly to the side while Detective Bryant knocked. In unspoken agreement, they’d taken the long way around the block so as not to walk past Paul’s house. Clara wondered exactly how Paul himself factored in to the detective’s containment plan. She was still clinging to some small hope that he might never learn of the paper, however unlikely.
It took a moment for Natalie to come to the door, and when she finally opened it, Clara’s heart sank. Her eyes were puffy from crying. She wore a huge sweatshirt that had to belong to her husband, and half her hair had come loose from its ponytail. She looked from Clara to the detective and back again.
“Oh, God,” she said. “What? Have you found Kristin?”
Clara shook her head, and Detective Bryant cleared his throat and held up the flyer. “Have you seen this?” he asked simply.
Natalie shook her head. “I haven’t gotten the mail. I’m having kind of a hard day. This isn’t the best time—”
“Clara told me about your husband coming home and leaving again. I’m sorry to barge in at a time like this. But it’s important.”
Natalie hesitated, then stepped aside and held the door open wide. Clara lifted Maddie and took Thomas by the hand, and followed Detective Bryant into the living room. She’d been inside Natalie’s house only once before, and she took in its coziness and the obvious signs of sadness—the rumpled blanket on the L-shaped sectional, the family photo album open on the coffee table, the ball of soggy tissues.
“You’d think I’d be used to it by now,” Natalie said quietly, coming up behind her. “But nothing can ever soften the fact that you might not see someone you love again.” She clapped her hands together decisively. “How about a cartoon?” she asked the kids, her voice bright.
Clara had always admired those moms who could slip into take-charge mode at a moment’s notice. In a flurry, Natalie had a pile of picture books on the floor in front of Maddie, Nickelodeon on the TV for Thomas, and the table in the adjoining dining room set with three mugs of steaming coffee, one of which Detective Bryant gladly accepted. Clara kept her eyes on her children, feeling chagrined that on neither of the detective’s visits had she offered him a thing. She’d merely blinked at him like a deer on a nighttime highway and complied with his requests. Clearly she’d overestimated her ability to keep it together in times of stress and confusion.
Then again, she hadn’t anticipated quite so many such times. At least, not like this.
“Now, what’s this about?” Natalie asked, taking a seat across from them.
The detective slid the paper toward her, and Clara watched her flinch at the initial sight of Hallie’s name, and the widening of her eyes as she read.
“Oh, my God, I have no idea how she gets these things into her head,” Natalie said, groaning. “How many people got this little gazette, exactly?”
“We’re not sure yet. A lot.”
She covered her face with her hands. “I’m horrified. You have to understand, she has a vivid imagination. I didn’t even realize she’d been so affected by what’s been happening, by the news of Kristin and the twins gone. I’ve had other things on my mind…” Her voice trailed off, and she dropped her hands to the table. “Surely we can just explain to everyone that this is a fabrication, the product of a child’s imagination?”
“I’m afraid it’s not that simple,” Detective Bryant said. “For one thing, it’s true.”
“What? What do you mean, it’s true? How would she possibly know?”
Clara shifted uncomfortably in her seat, and Natalie’s eyes locked on hers as if only just registering her presence. “I’m sorry,” she said, turning back to Detective Bryant. “Why is Clara here?”
“Turn the page,” he said simply. Clara blanched. So he was going to leave the explaining to her. Fair enough.
Natalie took in the masthead. “I don’t understand,” she said, her eyes not leaving the paper.
Clara did her best to explain, from the beginning.
When she was finished, Natalie’s eyes blazed. “I don’t give a damn if it seemed like ‘a bad time’ to tell us on Thursday,” she snapped. “It didn’t occur to you that it might actually have been a good time? For once, I had my husband here to help me parent the kid! And now I have to deal with this myself. Again.” She burst into tears.
“I’m so sorry,” Clara said, her own voice breaking, her own tears welling. “You have to believe me that I didn’t—”
The slamming of the front door jolted them all. Hallie stopped short as she took in the kids in the living room, the adults seated at the table, and her mother furiously wiping at her wet cheeks with her sleeve. The girl’s mouth opened, but nothing came out.
“Don’t pretend like you don’t know what this is about,” Natalie said sternly, her composure returning. “Why don’t you join us and fill us in, like the reporter you are.”
Slowly, Hallie crossed the room and slid into a chair, dropping her backpack with a thud. “I thought you’d be proud of me,” she muttered.
“When did you even write this? When did you print it?”
“The kids club at the lodge had a computer room. One of the girls working in there helped me. She seemed to think it was pretty cool.”
Clara and Detective Bryant exchanged a glance. So someone outside the neighborhood had seen it too. Exactly how “cool” had she found it?
“Do you remember her name?” he asked casually.
“Stephanie. I remember perfectly because I used to want my name to be Stephanie when I grew up, but then Mom told me I would always be stuck with Hallie.” The girl glared at her mom, who glared back.
“Hallie,” Clara said firmly, trying to steer her back. “I thought I made it clear that making that recording was wrong. Not to mention sharing it with the neighborhood!”
She expected the girl to concede that she’d disobeyed, but to her surprise, Hallie stood her ground. “Yeah, but you also said that maybe my project could be to print only good news. You said that’s what this world needs more of. I thought about it, and you were right. And this is good news!” Clara stared at her, stunned, and Hallie turned to her mother. “People have Kristin all wrong, thinking she was greedy. This could help clear her name.”
Clara shook her head. “You and I both know that isn’t what I meant. And you promised me you wouldn’t print this!”
“I never promised. You told me to promise but I never actually said anything after that.”
Natalie wheeled on Clara. “I still can’t believe you knew my daughter was over there creeping around that man’s house, playing Nancy Drew or Girl Friday or whatever the hell, and you didn’t tell me. You didn’t want to ruin Jim’s surprise on Thursday? Fine. We got home last night! You should have been banging on my door!”
“The kids have been horribly sick…” She sounded so pathetic, even to herself, that she couldn’t even bother to finish the thought. “I’m sorry,” she said again, stealing another look at Hallie, half expecting her to pipe up and apologize, at the very least for h
aving printed her name. But she remained silent.
“We’re going to do as much damage control as we can on our end,” Detective Bryant said finally. “But you’re both going to have a fair amount to do too. Just assume that everyone has seen it. We’re gathering up as many of these as we can, but it’s out there. We got the initial call alerting us to the matter from the professors down the street.”
“Which one?” Clara asked. There were at least three houses she could think of.
“All of them,” he said.
14
If you really want me to, I can tell you about the first time I realized he was capable of killing me. The story itself is unremarkable. Not much more than a run-of-the-mill argument, really.
The look in his eyes, however, was something else.
I was already in it, deep—he’d made quick work of that—so all I could do was rationalize. Just because he was capable of it didn’t mean he would do it. The circumstances that could drive him that far seemed unlikely. And now that I was learning what they were—the precise buttons to in no event push—surely I could minimize the risk. I could handle this. I could handle him. If anyone could do it, it was me. In fact, I still believe that’s why he chose me. All the more satisfying to triumph over a worthy opponent.
The day I knew that he wasn’t just capable of killing me, but was very likely going to? That all the wrong buttons were stuck in the On position? That nothing could stand in his way?
That’s the better story.
But you won’t hear it from me. I’ve broken enough promises to myself to last a lifetime, and breathing a word of that horrible night would be breaking one more.
The details aren’t important anyway. The point is, there’s a line. Sometimes you can make it out, sometimes not. I guess in that respect you might consider me one of the lucky ones.
15
People are drawn to Yellow Springs for its authenticity …
Not That I Could Tell: A Novel Page 11
