by David Bell
“Thank you.”
“You grew up with Logan. You went to school with him a long time, right?”
“You know that.”
“Well, I’ll let you look those over. I have some laundry to put in. When I come back, I want you to let me know if you see anything strange in there.”
She stood up and left the room. Jason didn’t care. He’d been fighting the urge to rip the rubber band off ever since she’d dropped the letters in front of him.
* * *
The cards were not arranged chronologically. The first one he picked up was from 1995, according to the postmark, nine years after they graduated from high school. The card came from Salt Lake City, Utah. The postage stamp showed an image of Mount Rushmore. Jason noticed right away that the address—Peter Shaw’s address—had been generated by a computer. Someone entered it and printed a label, then affixed it to the front of the envelope. There was no return address.
Jason removed the birthday card for Mr. Shaw. The front showed a forest scene with an embossed caption that said, “For a special father.” Jason opened it up and inside there was some syrupy verse, no doubt written by a starving poet trying to make a little money on the side. At the bottom Logan’s name was signed. Jason stared at the signature for a long moment. Who printed an address label on a computer when sending their father a birthday card? And on what planet would Logan even get his father a sappy card?
Jason flipped through the others, checking postmarks and dates. The postmarks came from various places in the country. Arizona and New Mexico, with one from Denver and a couple during 1999 from Chicago. The cards arrived for the same occasions—Mr. Shaw’s birthday and Father’s Day, which both fell during the summer. Jason noticed there were none for Christmas or Easter. There were never personal messages or greetings in the cards. Just Logan’s name, and Jason almost immediately realized what Pauline was talking about. A couple of the cards had handwritten addresses, which only raised Jason’s suspicions.
He studied the writing, trying to remember clearly what Logan’s looked like. He felt confident it didn’t look like the signature before him. In grade school, they had had a particularly uptight teacher who liked to criticize the way Logan made the “L” in his name. No matter how much she rode him, Logan never could—or never tried—to make it the way it looked on the chart above the chalkboard. His “L” was always tilted almost to the point that it was horizontal. The writing in the cards seemed familiar, though, almost feminine. The person had tried to copy Logan’s tilted and horizontal “L” but didn’t get it exactly right.
Jason thought: Chicago, 1999.
He’d seen that “L” before. The other times it had much more flourish to it. The person copying Logan’s handwriting had tried to tone it down but couldn’t quite. Not completely.
By the time Pauline came back into the kitchen, Jason was looking through the cards again. She sat down across from Jason. “Well?”
“I wish I’d seen all of them,” he said.
“If wishes were horses . . . I can’t promise you that Mr. Shaw doesn’t have a stash of them somewhere else. But he’s a neat and orderly man. He tends to keep his things organized.”
“Why are they just sitting in the kitchen like this? Doesn’t he have a study?”
“All I know is I’ve come into the kitchen a couple of times over the years—I’m talking twice maybe—and I’ve found him sitting at that desk over there looking at these cards.” She tapped the stack again. “When I came in and saw him doing that, he hurried and put them away, almost like he was embarrassed.”
“He probably was if they made him feel emotional.”
“Exactly.”
“And you asked me about school because you figured I saw Logan’s handwriting a lot when we were growing up.”
“I’m guessing you’ve seen a lot of his tests and quizzes and papers and other things. You’d know his handwriting pretty well. Even after all these years.” Pauline wore a satisfied smile on her face. She had proved her point. “So what do you think now that you’ve seen these cards?” she asked.
“It’s not Logan’s handwriting,” Jason said. “It’s similar, but I don’t think it’s his.”
“Are you sure?” Pauline asked, taking on the role of detective. Jason wondered if everybody he met wanted to question him about something. “Hasn’t it been a long time since you’ve seen his writing? And do boys really notice such things?”
“I’m sure,” Jason said. “Jesus, we were best friends. We studied together. I know. And I’m guessing you’re positive it’s not Logan’s writing either, or you wouldn’t be asking me. It seems a little too feminine.”
“I didn’t think it was his, but I wanted a second opinion.”
“I have a more important question—why doesn’t Mr. Shaw know that it isn’t Logan’s writing? Or does he know it isn’t?”
Pauline took her time answering. She seemed to be giving the question a good going-over in her mind before she spoke. “I’ve wondered about that. It’s not something that can be attributed to his illness, because these letters started arriving a long time ago. And, like I said, he never acted like he thought Logan was dead. He had the chance to file a missing persons report many times over the years, and he didn’t. When the police came, he insisted that Logan was still alive. That’s why he hired the investigators eventually, to prove them wrong.” Pauline stopped speaking and held up her index finger. She tilted her head toward the other side of the house, the side where Mr. Shaw’s bedroom was, and listened. She shook her head. “I have to listen carefully. Sometimes he tries to get up. I forgot to bring the monitor out here with me.”
“So he just chose not to believe that Logan was dead. He chose not to recognize that this wasn’t his son’s handwriting.”
“Denial is a strong force,” Pauline said, as though she knew from experience.
“Could he just not recognize Logan’s handwriting?” Jason asked. “He was a pretty detached father when I used to come around here.”
“I know he seemed that way. But he cared about Logan a great deal. A great deal. He always got the boy the right birthday presents. He always knew the things he was interested in. He got him to the doctor’s and the dentist like clockwork. He could have handed that stuff off to a nanny or a new wife, but he didn’t. I think he just didn’t want to or couldn’t accept that the boy was really dead. He couldn’t get it into his head. Logan was all he had left.”
“What about that?” Jason asked.
“About what?”
“Logan’s mother.”
Pauline made a snorting noise. “What about her?”
“You don’t like her?”
“I have to admit, I don’t really know her. I started working here not long before they got divorced. But she never seemed that interested in the boy. When she came around here, and that wasn’t much, she had her nose in the air. She didn’t have much time for me, of course. But to not be totally involved with your boy? What’s going on there?”
“Did she ever see these cards?”
“I don’t know. For all I know, she’s been getting Mother’s Day cards the whole time.”
“But she’d see that the handwriting wasn’t Logan’s. She’d have to. A mother wouldn’t be that far out to lunch.”
“Maybe she knows. Maybe she doesn’t.”
“And why didn’t she file a missing persons report?” Jason asked. “I would guess any relative could. Maybe anybody can. But certainly his mother could do it. If Mr. Shaw was in denial, then wouldn’t Mrs. Shaw be able to file a report and get the police asking questions?”
“If you’re looking to me to explain all of these things, then you’ve come to the wrong place.”
Jason placed his finger on the stack of cards. “Can I take these?”
“No, sir. I couldn’t bear to take them away from that man,
even if they are fake. He might ask to see them someday, and if I couldn’t produce them, it would break his heart.”
“That’s fine.” Jason stood up. “Thanks for your help.”
Pauline didn’t stand. She looked up at Jason. “You know, the former Mrs. Shaw still lives about an hour from here, over in Barker County. She’s remarried. Her name is Mrs. Tyndal now.”
“Elaine, right?”
“That’s right. You could go ask her yourself.”
“Thanks.”
“Is there any chance you recognize that handwriting?” Pauline asked.
“Why do you ask that?”
“You had a strange look on your face, like you knew something but didn’t want to say. Are you going to let me in on the secret?”
“I have to ask someone else about it first,” he said. “The way things are going, maybe we’ll all know a lot about it soon.”
Chapter Thirty-six
When Jason stepped outside the Shaw house, it was getting close to five o’clock, and he needed to head home. But when he saw the car parked behind his, he knew he wouldn’t be able to go right away.
Regan leaned against the driver’s side of her car, and she straightened up when she saw him. They walked toward each other, stopping when they were just a few feet apart.
“Are you okay?” Jason asked.
“Why wouldn’t I be?”
“Because I’ve been trying to call you all day, and you haven’t answered. And at work they told me you went off with Jesse Dean last night.”
“Who told you that?” She sounded only mildly agitated. “Oh, wait. Never mind. I know who.” She crossed her arms and looked down. “I didn’t go off with him. He . . . wanted to talk to me about something.”
“Why didn’t you call the police? He might know where Hayden is.”
“He says he doesn’t know where Hayden is. That’s about all I could get out of him.”
“Oh, you asked him. And since he’s such an honest guy, he told you the truth. What did he want with you?”
“He wanted to talk about everything that’s going on,” she said. “He’s . . . I don’t want to say he’s scared. That’s not right. He’s agitated that people are hounding him. He mentioned you.”
Jason pointed to his neck. “Who is hounding who? And why did he want to talk to you about it? Are you his confidante? Jesus, Regan. The guy’s dangerous.”
“It’s not so simple.”
“You need to tell the police—” Jason stopped. He looked Regan in the eye. “Is there something about him? I mean, were you friends in high school and I didn’t know? Were you and he . . . ?”
“No, Jason. Jesus. We didn’t fuck. Then or now.”
“Then I don’t get it. What’s the connection between the two of you?”
“There’s no connection, Jason.” She looked away, and her hands moved before she spoke. “He knows I’m friends with you. He wanted me to tell you to stay away from him.”
“Is that why you’re here? To deliver Jesse Dean’s threat?”
“I thought you might be at the Shaws’. I tried your house.”
“Did you talk to Nora?”
“No,” she said. “I looked for your car. I tried your office too. Then I thought that on a day like this, with the news about Logan, you might come out here and try to talk to his father. You mentioned visiting him the other day. I wanted to see how you were doing. I know the news is terrible, and it’s going to land on you like a ton of bricks.”
“You too,” Jason said. “You sounded upset this morning.”
“I was. I am.”
“None of it makes any sense to me. All these years I thought Logan was alive. Was I just a dumbass? A dreamer? Am I so naive that I couldn’t accept the truth?”
“He was your friend. It’s tough to accept.”
“You know what I just found out? I found out that Logan’s dad had those cards, and they’re clearly not written by Logan. And despite that, the old man never accepted that Logan was dead. Am I no different than him? Am I as clueless as that old man in there, thinking Logan couldn’t die?”
“Don’t beat yourself up over it. There was no proof he was dead.”
“You don’t seem surprised that the letters weren’t written by Logan?” he asked.
Regan hesitated. “He’s dead. He couldn’t have written the letters.”
“Do you know who did write them?”
“How would I?”
“Have you seen them?”
“No, I haven’t. I don’t know anything about them except that they were sent to Logan’s dad.” She studied Jason. “Did you learn something about them? Is that why you’re here?”
“I just saw them.”
“And?”
“I think it’s Hayden’s handwriting. Hayden sent those cards to Mr. Shaw.”
Regan seemed to be processing the information, but she didn’t look surprised. She raised her hand to her jacket and touched the zipper. “I thought the cards all came from out west.”
“Mostly. Hayden was gone all the time. She ran around a lot. I didn’t always know where she was or what she was doing. Hell, she could have written the cards here and given them to someone who was going out west. And a couple of them came from Chicago in 1999. Do you know where Hayden was in 1999?”
“Chicago?”
“She got arrested there for public drunkenness. In the summer of 1999.”
“And now you’re wondering why she did it?”
“Yes, I am,” Jason said. “Whatever she knows about the cards must be related to why she came back here.”
“You’re assuming things.”
Jason paced in between the two cars. He brought his hand up and rubbed at his forehead, working on the tension that grew there. He turned back to Regan. “Are you going to call the police on Jesse Dean?”
“He didn’t do anything to me.” Her voice was calm, firm. She stood there, watching Jason pace. She moved her head in time to his movements, like she was following a tennis match.
“Regan?” he said.
“What is it?”
“The police wouldn’t tell me how Logan died,” he said.
“They said it was a homicide.”
“Right. But they wouldn’t say how. Or what caused it.”
“How could they know after twenty-seven years? There must just be bones, I guess. What else could be there?”
Jason stopped moving. He leaned against the back of his car. “The detective said something. He said bones can tell a story. He knows how Logan died, but he didn’t want to tell me.” Jason looked down at his hands. He closed them into fists and then opened them again. “They don’t tell a suspect how a victim died. They keep things from him so they can trip him up later.”
“What are you saying?”
“I’m a suspect again,” Jason said. “They’re going to keep asking me questions about that night. What if I hit him hard enough to break his skull and they can see that?”
“What if he was drunk, and he tripped and fell? That could happen too, you know. Just tell them the truth. That’s all you have to do.”
“I wanted to hurt Logan that night. I wanted to punch him in the face. Hard. I wanted to draw blood. I tried to do that. Draw blood. I hit him, though. I really did. What if I did something to him in that fight? What if I hit him so hard that he walked away from me and then eventually just collapsed and died? That happens, you know. People have car accidents and hit their heads, and then hours later they die. What if that is what happened to Logan? I’d be responsible. I’d have killed him.”
“You can’t jump to that conclusion. The police are being cautious.”
“What if Hayden saw Logan? What if Hayden knew how he died, and she was covering for me? Wouldn’t that be a switch? My crazy sister covering my ass for
something awful I did?”
“I think you just need to go home,” Regan said. “You’ve had a long day. You’ve had a lot to process. The police are going to come to all of us again eventually.” Something passed across Regan’s body as she said that, something like a shiver, as though she was recalling or anticipating something unpleasant. “Just . . . tell the truth.”
“You saw Logan that night, after we fought. Was he . . . Did he seem hurt?”
“No. He seemed . . . agitated. But not hurt. It was dark, of course, but I don’t think you bloodied him or anything. He was fine. Jason, all of this speculation isn’t productive. I think you need to just head home.”
Regan came over to Jason and placed her hand on his arm. She applied some pressure, trying to nudge him off the back of the car and toward the driver’s-side door.
Jason took a couple of steps toward his car, then stopped. He looked back at Regan.
“We came close back then, you and I,” he said.
“Close?”
“To trying it as a couple.”
Regan nodded. “Sure.” She smiled. “We were good friends. That doesn’t always work the other way.”
“I probably would have driven you nuts,” Jason said. “And I wouldn’t have met Nora. You know, we’ve had our problems, but I think we’re doing better. We’re getting closer as time moves on.”
“That’s good, Jason. Take it from me, divorce is no fun.”
“I saw your husband at your house. Tim. He seemed like a good guy. He was playing ball with your son.”
“He is a good guy,” Regan said. “And a good father.”
She turned and got into her car.
Chapter Thirty-seven
When Jason came in the front door, he saw Sierra sitting on the couch watching TV. And she wasn’t alone. Another girl about the same age sat next to her, holding a phone in both hands, her thumbs dancing across the tiny keypad with machinelike precision.
“Hello,” Jason said. “Where’s Nora?”
“She’s upstairs,” Sierra said. “This is my friend Tricia. I mentioned her before, remember? We’ve known each other since I was a kid.”
