by Lisa Unger
She explained this to Cooper.
“I understand,” said Jones again. Something about the way he said it was comforting, not judgmental, and put her at ease.
“Although it might not make me mother of the year,” she said. “I was fully functional, and my problems had nothing to do with Abbey going missing.”
Was that really true? She still didn’t know.
“Except that I should have been with them and I wasn’t always myself,” she added.
He reached out a hand and put it on her arm. Usually, she drew away from people, hated their touch. Especially since Abbey, and since she’d been off the pills. She felt like there was an electric current constantly running through her. But she was okay with him.
“I know you didn’t have anything to do with what happened to your daughter,” he said.
She looked down so that he couldn’t see how close she was to tears. It was embarrassing to be crying all the time in front of people. She had never gotten used to it, how raw she was, how near she always was to breaking apart.
“Please don’t waste any more time on those things,” she said. “I didn’t hire you to get stuck in old grooves in the road. I need a fresh approach.”
She was trying hard not to sound edgy, but she was practically vibrating with urgency. There was a clock in her head; she could hear it ticking. Every second Abbey was farther away.
“I had to hear about those things from you,” he said. “I wouldn’t be doing my job if I didn’t ask.”
He explained to her how he was going over the files, and how he had gone to the lake house, and to the trail. And Merri was sure that was the right way to do things. But it was just more of the same.
“What about Miss Montgomery?” she asked. “Will she be able to help?”
He’d been clear with Merri that there were no guarantees, and she got that. There had been a number of private detectives before Cooper, and she knew how it went with them. With the presentation of that first big retainer check, every single one of them believed that he’d be the one to bring Abbey home. But then when the weeks wore on, the calls would be less frequent; then Merri’s calls would go unreturned. Inevitably there would be a conversation about how all the leads were cold, the police had done a decent job, nothing had been missed. Nothing missed—except her daughter.
Now she was that mother who, in her desperation, had turned to a psychic. A terribly sad cliché, something people had laughed about (mirthlessly) in one of the groups she’d visited for families of missing children. They’re waiting like vultures for us, these charlatans, one father had said bitterly. How do they live with themselves, taking our money when we’ve lost everything else?
But Merri had an aunt who’d had prophetic dreams, the stuff of family legend. And there had been a few strange things about Abbey, too. She had a dream that her hamster Daisy was going to die, and the next day he (there had been some gender confusion) did. Sometimes when Abbey had tantrums, the lights in their apartment would flicker. And she hadn’t wanted to go to the lake house. She’d had nightmares about it for weeks leading up to the trip. But, of course, they’d dismissed it.
There’s a monster in the woods.
No such things as monsters, kiddo. You know that.
“I went to see Eloise,” said Jones in response to her question. “Her granddaughter thinks she might be able to help. Eloise isn’t getting anything yet.”
“Is her granddaughter a psychic?” asked Merri.
“So I’m told.”
“You’re not a believer?” she asked. She had to say the guy wasn’t into selling himself, which was a bit of a change.
The waitress brought their food but seemed to linger nearby, needlessly wiping down clean tables and fussing with condiment trays that acted as centerpieces. Was she listening to their conversation? Would what Merri said become fodder for the gossip mill around town? Jones went quiet, took a bite of his sandwich. She sensed that he, too, was waiting for the waitress to leave the proximity. Finally, she did.
“I’ve been around long enough to know there’s more to this life than we can see or understand. Let’s say I have a healthy respect for Eloise, as well as a healthy skepticism.”
Merri nodded. That put them on the same wavelength.
“And her granddaughter?”
“Eloise seems to think she’s something special. I trust Eloise. And Finley seems like a good kid.”
“Kid?”
“She’s twenty-one.”
“Wow.”
“I know,” said Jones, rubbing his eyes. “I don’t even remember twenty-one.”
Merri smiled a little.
“This is not a bait and switch if that’s what you’re thinking,” said Jones. “It’s not an exact thing, whatever it is we do. But I will say Eloise has had some big successes. Finley is untried, but she’s the one who’s picking up the signals—or whatever it is. So, up to you if you want me to continue.”
He was giving her an out. Maybe she should take it.
“We didn’t discuss your fee,” said Merri.
“There’s no fee unless we find your daughter,” he said. “Then we can discuss what you think is fair. We don’t do this for the money.”
Merri, who was not surprised very often, found herself taken aback. “Then why do you do this?”
He looked up at her, as if considering the answer.
“It’s just what we do.”
He’d polished off his patty melt, and he was working on his fries. She’d barely touched her soup, which had grown cold while they talked. She thought about what that meant, taking money out of the equation for now, how it shifted the balance of power. She could hardly insist that he take money from her. She turned it over a moment, stirring at the greasy liquid in her bowl.
“So with that said, is there anything surrounding Abbey’s disappearance, before or after that you didn’t tell the police?”
Merri felt a rise of indignation, of defensiveness. There had been so many accusations, suspicious stares, brows wrinkled in a kind of curious pity. Like: I feel bad for you, but surely this is your fault somehow. Cooper lifted a palm, as if he could see the protest in her. And maybe he could; her shoulders had hiked up around her ears.
“What I mean is, is there anything that you dismissed as inconsequential, silly even? Ideas, feelings, suspicions. Given the nature of this investigation, is there anything?”
The waitress was behind the counter; there was no one else in the restaurant. Outside, the sky had gone a threatening white gray. Instead of censoring herself, she told him about Jackson’s premonition instigated by the news story he’d overheard regarding the two missing children, about Abbey’s dreams. She told him also about Jackson’s fixation on the missing man. He took a small notebook out of his pocket and started scribbling. No judgment. When she was done:
“Does that help?”
He shook his head and offered a slight shrug. “I don’t know. I’m not the psychic.”
Here he smiled a little, which made his face surprisingly warm and boyish. When she’d researched him, she’d learned that he was a former school sports star turned cop. There’d been some kind of problem that caused him to retire early—she wasn’t sure what. He was a big man, with graying brown hair, a ruddy complexion, and blue (or were they gray?) eyes, still handsome, virile. He was the kind of man that made women silly with the desire to please. And very married. Anyone could see that. It was one of the things that had always upset her about Wolf, even before she knew what it was. He never took himself off the market. He was always looking. Jones Cooper was taken—not that she was interested in him or anyone. Just an observation.
“I had already planned to go see Betty Fitzpatrick, mother of the other missing children,” he said. “And that news story about the developer caught my attention this morning.”
He was still writing.
“It’s not so different, what they do and what I do,” he said when he was done. She knew he was ta
lking about Eloise and her granddaughter. “A lot of it has to do with instinct. Going where other people didn’t think or didn’t bother to go.”
She took a sip of her tea, which had gone cold like her soup.
“Oh,” she said, remembering. She dug into her bag and took out Abbey’s binky. It was so tattered and worn, so threadbare that it almost looked like a rag. Once pink with hopping bunnies, it had gone gray. It had been a gift from Merri’s mother, and it had been in Abbey’s crib since before she was even born. It became her most beloved binky; she never slept without it. Merri had slept with it every night since her girl went missing. “I brought this for Eloise—or I guess Finley. Please don’t lose it.”
It was a silly thing to say. A man like Jones Cooper never lost anything.
“The change purse I gave you,” she said. “It didn’t mean anything to her, just a trinket I bought her when we got to town. But this—”
She found she couldn’t go on.
“I’d like to make promises,” he said. His voice was soothing, even though his words weren’t. “But we both know I can’t do that.”
“I know,” she said.
This was rock bottom. That same man in the support group that she and Wolf had dutifully attended had said one evening: When you engage the psychic, you have allowed despair to separate you from reality.
She wondered if he was right. She really didn’t care. Honestly, whether it was self-delusion or not, there was a sparkle of hope that had been all but lost before she came to see Jones Cooper. And that was something, wasn’t it? Reality, especially Merri’s, was highly overrated.
“Will I get to meet her?” Merri asked. “Finley, I mean?”
Did she sound desperate? She probably did. She didn’t care about that either. That was the other thing she’d learned, that it didn’t matter a damn what people thought of you. The world was a hard, unyielding place no matter whether people thought you were a saint or a sinner.
He drained his water glass. “Do you want to?” he asked with a frown, as if he hadn’t been asked the question before.
“If you think it would help,” she said. “Would it help?”
“I’ll ask her how she wants to proceed,” he said. “I’ll say that Eloise didn’t often meet with clients.”
“Why not?” asked Merri.
“It just isn’t how she works,” he said. “It isn’t always about the person looking. That’s not always how she connects to the case. Maybe for Finley it’s different. Like I say, she’s untried.”
He was very matter-of-fact about the whole thing.
“And it’s hard for Eloise, I guess,” he went on. “She can’t always help, and it’s very disappointing for folks, difficult to accept. Some people become hostile; she’s had a lot of threats.”
She nodded her understanding; she could see it, remembering how bitter the man was in her grief-counseling group. How would she feel if this investigation led her back to the place where she was when she drove up here—sick with desperation, lost, afraid that the day Abbey was taken was the last of any livable life? Would she be angry, hostile? Would she level threats? No. Most likely, she would just turn to ash, blow away on the wind, unable to keep herself together even for her remaining child who needed her so badly.
FIFTEEN
When Finley got home, her grandmother’s car was still gone. Something about the absence of the car in the drive unsettled her. She didn’t dwell on it long, however, because there was another car there instead. Rainer was asleep in his old Mustang, parked in the driveway. She pulled her bike up alongside him. He was so sound asleep, head leaning back, mouth agog, that he didn’t even wake up. And her engine was loud. She’d always envied him his deep and untroubled, dreamless slumber.
His car was old, not as in vintage, but old as in a hunk of junk. The fact the he’d driven it from Seattle defied the laws of physics. The whole vehicle actually rattled when he got up over fifty-five miles an hour, reeked inside of pot smoke. With its black-tinted windows and primer-only paint job, it looked like something out of a postapocalyptic science fiction movie. Finley had a weird affection for that car, though. It was uniquely Rainer, and they’d had a lot of good times driving around in it—and parking it.
How could you go out with a guy who drives a piece of garbage like that? her father had wanted to know. A man’s car says everything about him.
Her father had a brand-new black Range Rover and a Porsche 911 Targa 4 in electric blue, both cars that made people stare with unmasked envy. What did he think that said about him? she wondered. That he was an elitist jerk? A ridiculous middle-aged show-off? If so, then he was dead on.
I really don’t think that’s true, Dad.
It is. Trust me. A man who drives a piece of crap like that will never amount to anything.
It’s what he can afford.
Exactly.
He’s eighteen, she’d countered, which he had been at the time of the argument. The fact that he was still driving the thing was a testament to his endurance, his ability to make anything work. I don’t think that logic applies to teenagers.
You’re eighteen. You’re driving an Acura.
That you bought for me. If it were up to me to buy a car, I’d be taking the bus.
Well, her father said. He never lost an argument; or rather never let you think that you had won. It’s different for a girl. Add sexist to his many annoying characteristics. But still, her dad always made her laugh.
She knocked on the window, and Rainer stirred awake, not one to startle. He climbed out and stretched with the relaxed ease of someone who was deeply comfortable in his own skin. He had ink on his hands, a purple stain on his jeans. He was wearing the same charcoal-gray tee-shirt he’d been wearing last night, hadn’t shaved. It was possible that he was a little high, his eyes slightly glassy. He smoked a lot of dope, nothing worse. But it was a problem for her. “Sober most of the time” was a top item on the boyfriend checklist.
“You skipped class,” he said, lifting his arms to the sky in an elaborate reach, exposing his toned belly. A little flutter of desire made Finley blush and turn away.
“What are you doing here?” she asked. It came out a little sharp, but Rainer was tone deaf.
“I wanted to see you,” he said. “Check your tat. Take you out for ice cream or something.”
She walked toward the front door, and he followed her onto the porch. Finley gazed up the road, wondered about her grandmother again and when she’d be home. Eloise didn’t exactly love Rainer any more than Finley’s parents did, although she said she didn’t think he was a bad guy. Just a little lost—rudderless was the word Eloise had used. It was true, to some extent. His mom was kind of a hard case, not exactly warm and fuzzy. His dad was a flake, a drummer for a Seattle band, and a lot more interested in the club scene than he was in Rainer. Eloise had never said that Rainer wasn’t welcome, but Finley had the sense that he wasn’t. She felt like she was sneaking around, having him here. Then she got mad about feeling that way. She wasn’t a child, was she?
“So where were you?” he asked.
The warmth inside the house made her realize how cold the air had turned outside. The sky seemed moody and threatening. It was too early for snow, wasn’t it? The trees weren’t even bare. She shivered a little as Rainer shut the door behind him.
“I thought we weren’t going to do this,” she said. There was a simmer of anger that she wasn’t sure was about him.
“I’m not hassling you,” he said, stripping off his leather jacket and exposing those thick arms sleeved in tattoos. “I was just wondering.”
Tracking her, being possessive, grilling her on where she’d been and what she’d been doing. Trying to catch her in lies she hadn’t told. Then being cagey about his own activities. Screwing around with any hot girl that showed up at the tattoo parlor where he’d been interning in Seattle. Just thinking about how things were with him made her throat go tight with anxiety. He brought out the worst in Finl
ey. Maybe they brought out the worst in each other.
When your relationship to a man makes you act like someone you don’t want to be, you had better do some soul searching, Amanda had warned.
“Let me see your back,” he said. He followed her into the kitchen. Finley turned around and leaned on the counter. She held up her tee-shirt, felt him peel away the bandage.
“Did you do Neosporin this morning?” he asked.
And yet he was loving, caring, talented, and good. He was a great listener, always willing to help with anything. Need to move your stuff, a ride to the airport, a place to crash—call Rainer. He was hardworking; when he had his mind on something, no one could stop him. Why were people so complicated?
“Yes,” she said. His hands were strong, but his touch always gentle.
“Looks okay,” he said. He pressed the bandage back and pulled her tee-shirt down. “Does it still ache?”
She took the ground coffee from the fridge and filled the pot with water, wondering about that for a second. Then, “How did you know it was aching?”
He smiled and gave a confused shake of his head.
“You texted me this morning,” he said. “That’s why I went to school. I didn’t see your bike, so I came here.”
He looked at his watch, an old analog Timex that belonged to his dad.
“I have to go soon anyway,” he said when she didn’t answer. “My shift starts in an hour.”
Finley still didn’t say anything, puzzling. She didn’t remember texting him. She wouldn’t have. Would she? He snaked an arm around her waist, careful to avoid the new tattoo. She felt his heat, then his lips on hers just gently, chastely. Then she was hugging him, not wanting to let go. Ever. Then she was pushing him away again. Poor Rainer.
No, she thought. I definitely didn’t text him.
She took the phone from her pocket, scrolled through her texts. There it was.
Tat is aching. Can you come take a look at it? It really hurts.
A pouty, childish text fishing for attention from someone she had been trying to push away. Abigail, she thought.
