Where They Found Her

by Kimberly McCreight

  “Can I get you something to drink?” Barbara offered. But he shook his head and frowned as he sat down at the kitchen table across from her.

  The volume on the TV out in the living room got loud, than sank just as quickly back down.

  “TV on a Tuesday?” Steve asked with a tired smile. He supported Barbara’s rules, took them on as his own, especially in front of the children, but they were always Barbara’s rules.

  “Like I said, it’s been a rough day all around.”

  Steve nodded, then got up for the drink of water he’d refused. He stood at the sink with his back to her, filling a glass from the tap. Barbara watched him there at the counter, so steady and strong. The man she’d always known would step up and take care of her. The man she would do anything to protect. No matter what. For the third time in one day, Barbara felt like she was going to cry. It was ridiculous.

  “Hey, what’s wrong?” Steve asked as he turned back to her.

  “Oh, it’s just this whole mess with Cole and that conversation with Rhea and then—” The words shot out like a breath Barbara had been holding. Steve came back over and rested a firm hand on her shoulder. “And then just now, when Hannah picked him up from Will’s house, Cole was hysterical. He even had this—I don’t know, this episode right here.” She gestured to the kitchen floor, the scene of the crime. “It was horrible. Just awful, Steve. There is something wrong, really wrong. For all we know, he was abused over there. Molested.”

  “Molested?” Steve pulled his chin in. “Where’d that come from?”

  “When kids start acting out, sometimes it’s because something has been done to them. Between that woman and her boyfriends and her older son and whoever—”

  “Wait, what woman are you talking about?”

  “Stella! Come on, Steve, I’ve been telling you. Have you not even been listening?” This was their son they were talking about. Steve needed to pull it together and pay attention. The rest of town would just have to get in line.

  “Hold on and back up,” Steve said firmly, sitting across from Barbara. At least he seemed focused. “Cole had a bad day. I get that, but everyone’s entitled to one of those, right?”

  “But that’s not—”

  He held up a hand, silencing her. “One thing at a time. Do you have any proof that’s not all this is? That this isn’t going to be like Hannah with the bridges? You remember that? One day out of nowhere, we can’t drive anywhere over water without her screaming her head off. Screaming, in case you’ve forgotten. Then one day she’s fine again. You have proof that this isn’t just like that?”

  Barbara stared into Steve’s clear bright blue eyes. There was so much feeling in them, so much caring. Sometimes it aggravated her that Steve was more emotional than she was; always it mystified her. He certainly hadn’t gotten his overactive heart from his mother. A widow who died of breast cancer, Wanda was always cold as a corpse. And yet there was Steve, all mushy under that hard masculine exterior. God love him—and Barbara did, every last ounce of him—but Steve could be too trusting and too generous in general. Still, his being so emotional did make it seem like he understood things Barbara didn’t. And right then she needed to believe he was right. Steve stood up and came around behind Barbara, putting a hand on her neck and kneading the knots at the base of her skull. Slowly, her shoulders lowered.

  “You’re right, I guess,” she said, letting her eyes slide closed.

  This could be just like Hannah with the bridges. Barbara had forgotten all about that. At Cole’s age, Hannah was always having an episode about one thing or another. She was still high-maintenance, but she was well within the range of normal for a teenager. Maybe none of this was as serious as Barbara was letting herself believe. Maybe she did need to calm down. She tried to focus on Steve’s fingers on her neck, the sensation of her muscles unraveling.

  “Wait, what’s that?” Steve asked, the sleepy warmth suddenly gone from his voice. When Barbara opened her eyes, he was staring at her open laptop. “Find him. Before he finds you?”

  She’d forgotten all about the Reader comments. Steve hardly needed another thing to worry about. And now she’d lose him again to the investigation. He’d be gone for the rest of the night without ever leaving the house.

  “Someone trying to make some stupid point,” Barbara said. It was so obvious to her now that the message was not some well-calculated threat. It was a stupid prank. She really was letting herself get too wound up about everything. “You know this town: God knows what their point is, but you can be sure they think they have one.”

  “What is it?” Steve’s voice was sharp as he stepped closer to the computer. “Where is it from?”

  “Oh, they’re comments on the articles from the Reader,” she said. “You know how people love to comment on there. They find a way to go at each other about the annual Turkey Trot.”

  “Great, just what I need, somebody causing a panic.” He shook his head in disgust. “Are there other comments like that?”

  “Not that I’ve noticed, but I haven’t had the chance to get through them all.” Barbara dragged her finger across the touchpad, scrolling down. “Can’t you just contact the Reader and make them take it down or trace the email or something?”

  He shook his head. “First Amendment. They’re not actually threatening anybody, and you have a constitutional right to be a jerk. Besides, the Reader isn’t going to crack open its computer records to the police, not for something like this.” He ran a finger down the screen, blowing out some air. “Dammit. I looked at the articles. There was nothing to them. These people really can make a damn mountain out of a molehill.”

  “They’re just worried,” Barbara offered because it felt like Steve was talking about her. And that part was understandable. “It makes them feel better to yammer on about it. Like they’re in control of something.”

  “Wait, stop.” Steve tapped the screen.

  Another Ridgedale murder?? Barbara had known as soon as they found the baby near the Essex Bridge that Simon Barton’s death would come up eventually. But she was surprised it had happened so soon.

  I don’t care how long ago it was, that seems like a crazy coincidence.

  “Seems this Molly Sanderson is just dying to make something out of nothing,” Barbara said.

  “I think the problem is she really believes what happened to Simon is something,” Steve said quietly.

  “Well, tell her it’s not.”

  “I did.” His eyes were on the computer screen.

  “Then tell her again and make her listen, Steve,” Barbara snapped. She wasn’t going to tolerate some reporter adding to their troubles by bringing up something upsetting from years ago. “You are the chief of police. Who is she?”

  “Actually, you know her, or she knows you,” he said. “They just moved here last fall. Her daughter is in Cole’s class.”

  “You’re kidding me.” Ella’s mother, it must be. Ella was the only new child in the class. Barbara had exchanged niceties with her mother, but that was it. Molly was friends with Stella, and that was all Barbara needed to know to get her to steer clear. “Well, this is a hell of a way for her to make new friends.”

  Steve stayed quiet. He’d been staring at the computer longer than it could have taken for him to read the rest of the comments. The muscle in his jaw had lifted like a walnut. “Print those out for me, will you?” His voice was so low it didn’t sound like his.

  “You weren’t even a police officer back then,” Barbara said. Because there he went again, responsible for everyone and everything. He probably felt like he should have kept Simon from getting so drunk that night. Steve had never been much of a drinker himself. “We were all upset about what happened to Simon. But whatever should have or could have been done at the time—it really has nothing to do with you.”

  She did realize that might be easier for her to say. Barbara had been way on the other side of the woods that night, near the circle of logs where the girls hung out, a
t least the ones who weren’t off hooking up with boys in the wet leaves. The logs were the only place they could sit without getting filthy. The boys, meanwhile, were always taking off into the woods to play something they called “drunk obstacle,” seeing who could scramble the fastest over a pitch-black course of branches and logs. Dumb high school jocks: Everything’s got to be a competition. Steve had never wanted to talk about the details of that night—it upset him too much—but he and some of the other boys had seen Simon slip.

  Steve nodded. “Just print them out, okay?” He straightened up and headed for the steps. “What I really need now is to wash that creek off me. I’ve got it coming out of my pores.”

  “Okay, but try to be quick,” Barbara said tentatively. She had no choice but to warn him. “My mom’s coming back in a few minutes. For dinner. It’s Tuesday, remember?”

  Steve paused on the stairs. His head dropped as he rested a hand on the banister. “Okay,” he said, looking up at Barbara and forcing a smile, obviously steeling himself. “Okay.”

  As he drifted up the steps, part of her wished he’d demanded that she cancel dinner with her parents. Because, lately, his doing what she wanted seemed in inverse proportion to his affection for her.

  After Steve was gone, Barbara went out to the sitting room. Cole wasn’t in front of the TV, a sure sign she’d left him out there far too long. Instead, he was sitting at his small table, tucked in the corner. His back was to Barbara. From across the room, she couldn’t see what he was doing, but the closer she got, the more it looked like he wasn’t doing much of anything. Except sitting there, staring once again, at nothing.

  “Cole, honey,” Barbara called, slowing halfway across the room. She was afraid of startling him. She raised her voice, hoping he’d snap out of it before she got too close. “Bob’s not so interesting today?”

  Cole didn’t answer. And he didn’t move—not an inch, not a twitch. Barbara couldn’t even tell if he was breathing.

  “We have Nana’s lasagna for dinner, Cole.” Barbara made her voice louder but cheery as she made her way over to him, her hands clasped so tightly they had started to throb. “With no green things in it, just the way you like.”

  She saw the markers then, the short, chubby ones. All fifty were scattered across the table and on the floor, most of their caps off, as though someone had tossed them into the air and let them rain down. Why would he do that? Cole was a neat, particular kid. He worried about things like markers drying out. Barbara was a couple feet behind him now. She reached out a hand as a hole opened up in her stomach.

  “Bob the Builder, can we fix it?” Bob and his friends sang from behind her.

  “Cole,” Barbara said more loudly. Her fingers stroked the air. “Cole, please. Look at me.”

  She was right behind him now. She was right there. But he hadn’t moved. And she was so afraid to touch him. Afraid of what he might do—that was it. She felt afraid of her son. And why? It made no sense, but it was true. And she hated herself for it.

  “Can we build it? Yes, we can!”

  Cole was at least breathing, panting. “Honey?” Her voice was high and choppy. “Are you okay? Please, Cole, say something.”

  There was only his breath, puff, puff, puff.

  And then Barbara was close enough to see it. There, on the table. The drawing Cole had been working on. It was rough and childish, all jagged lines and out of proportion, like all of his drawings. But there was no pretending it was anything other than what it was.

  A picture of a boy with his arm cut off.

  Molly Sanderson, Session 10, May 1, 2013

  (Audio Transcription, Session Recorded with

  Patient Knowledge and Consent)

  Q: Do you think you’re ready to talk about what happened that night?

  M.S.: You mean the night I lost the baby? We’ve talked about that a couple times. We can talk about it again if you want.

  Q: I mean after that. The night that brought you to see me the first time.

  M.S.: You’re making it sound more serious than it was.

  Q: Justin had to call an ambulance.

  M.S.: He did call an ambulance. He didn’t have to call an ambulance.

  Q: What happened that night, Molly?

  M.S.: Justin panicked. I’m not blaming him, but that’s what happened. It was five stitches. I didn’t need an ambulance.

  Q: I think it’s important that we talk about it. You’ve made good progress here. But I don’t want to overlook the fact that we’ve been treading lightly around some pretty significant issues.

  M.S.: I dropped a glass. It broke. Then I slipped when I was cleaning it up.

  Q: You slipped on your arm?

  M.S.: Yes. That’s what happened.

  Q: And Ella?

  M.S.: I didn’t realize I was bleeding until Justin came home. I never would have picked her up. If I’d been trying to kill myself, do you really think I would have done it when I was home alone with her?

  Q: You wouldn’t have?

  M.S.: No. I would have waited until I was by myself. And then I would have been sure to finish the job.

  Molly

  From the sitting room, I heard the front door open. Justin. I listened to the familiar sounds of him dropping his bag, hanging up his jacket. I looked past my laptop to Ella, sound asleep on the couch next to me. Justin wouldn’t approve of my having let her fall asleep here instead of taking her up to bed. Admittedly, I was our weak link in the sleep department. But I couldn’t bring myself to say good night. I’d needed Ella’s warm little body pressed up against me. I thought about picking her up and hustling for the steps to hide the evidence, but before I could move, I got a text from Erik. Any word on that former student in the hospital?

  Police holding her for questioning, I replied. I’ll need official confirmation before I report.

  The more I thought about it, the less comfortable I was covering Rose’s part in the story. And that was unlikely to change after I had confirmation she was a suspect. She was probably like so many of those women I had worked on behalf of for years—scared, alone, traumatized. Not thinking clearly. That was something I certainly knew all about. How could I possibly add fuel to the police fire? I wished Stella had never called me, that I’d never met Rose. Especially after what Ella had told me. Had Stella invented the story about Rose’s sexual assault to protect Aidan? It was hard to believe that even Stella could be that good an actress or that calculated.

  Hold off mentioning her until we see where it goes, Erik wrote back. We don’t want to jump the gun with something like this.

  Okay, I wrote back, glad to be off the hook, but surprised by the sudden caution, at odds with Erik’s usual take-no-prisoners approach. Any idea when you’ll be back?

  Soon, I hope. Helping with uncle’s funeral arrangements.

  Your uncle?

  Yes, elderly. Long illness.

  Sorry to hear. My sympathies to your family.

  Thx. Be in touch soon.

  Nancy had said Erik’s cousin’s house had burned down. Now it was a dead elderly uncle. It was possible Nancy had gotten it wrong. Possible but unlikely. From the beginning, Erik’s abrupt disappearance had been suspicious. Now I felt sure that whatever Erik was doing had nothing to do with a dead uncle or a house fire.

  I held a finger to my lips when Justin appeared in the doorway to our small sitting room, then I gestured guiltily toward Ella. He smiled—no hint of the irritation I’d expected—looking especially handsome in the suit he had on. The faculty cocktail party, I’d forgotten all about it. He must have come home to change after I’d seen him at the Black Cat. It was only then that I looked at the clock: almost eleven p.m. I’d gotten so wrapped up in fruitlessly searching for a connection between Rose and Aidan that I’d lost track of time.

  There were no photos of Aidan on Rose’s Instagram account (dormant for days) and no mention of Rose on Aidan’s sparse Facebook page, wide open for the world to see with its absence of privacy setti
ngs. I’d come across Rose’s raw-food blog, which included mentions of her roommate, Laurie, and a handful of photos of her friends. But no mention of any boyfriend.

  Justin motioned for me to follow him toward the kitchen as he loosened his tie. When I’d slid carefully off the couch without waking Ella and made my way to the kitchen, Justin had his back turned. He was pouring two glasses of Scotch, his twice the size of mine.

  “Rough day, huh?” I asked.

  “Not the best I’ve had.” His voice was low and heavy.

  “Want to talk about it?” I asked, crossing the room to him.

  “Feels stupid on a day like today,” Justin said, shaking his head and gesturing toward me—the baby they’d found, he meant. “Different university, same old politics. That’s all. Not very interesting.” He took a long swallow of his whiskey, so long that it verged on a gulp.

  “Wow, it must be bad.” I pressed my body against Justin’s back, hooking my arms under his. “Come on, talk to me.”

  I wanted him to tell me everything. It had been so long since I’d been able to be there for Justin, to listen to his problems, no matter how trivial, relatively speaking. It was nice to think of our marriage regaining the equilibrium I’d once prided myself on.

  “It’s just hard to compete when you’re the new kid on the block. Miles Cooper doesn’t have half my publications, but the president of the university was his professor at Yale. And he plays basketball every Wednesday with the dean of students.”

  “You could play basketball,” I offered, kissing him on the neck. “You’re good at basketball.”

  “I think you’d be a better way to curry favor with Thomas Price,” he said. “He was there tonight. Seems you made quite the impression.”

  “I’m sorry I didn’t give you more warning than a text two seconds before. Talking to him was very last-minute.”

  Justin turned around to look at me. He smoothed the hair out of my face. “I hope you made Thomas Price uncomfortable under the weight of your incisive questioning.”