“Are you going to search the open space preserve?”
“Yes, of course.” It was the first thing Officer Mae had said.
I went into the little room where we had a small desk for the computer, a comfortable couch, and the TV. I went to the cabinet beneath the TV and pulled the latest photo album off the bottom shelf. A lot of people don’t bother with photo albums; they keep everything digitally. Alan and I keep digital copies too, of course, in case there’s a fire or some other disaster. But I like looking at albums. And Brittany likes it. She spends hours reliving family outings and trips with her friends.
I’d updated the album just a few weeks earlier. I could have printed something even more recent off the computer, but I wanted a nice quality picture for the police to distribute. I opened it to the last page, trying not to think about why they needed a photograph. If they found Brittany, they wouldn’t need a picture. A picture was for getting other people looking for her. A picture meant they didn’t expect to find her right away. It meant they might be thinking she was…I couldn’t think about it. I would not think about it. I wanted to go back to the day before, to our Monopoly game, to our slices of pie, to the moment I kissed her goodnight.
I pulled out a picture of Brittany that had been taken by a professional photographer who came to our home to photograph all three of us. She looked adorable. Her hair was in French braids with a narrow dark blue ribbon woven through the braids. She was standing in the garden, holding a tulip as if she’d just plucked it from the ground. She was in the shade and had a dreamy expression on her face. She wore a white dress and her feet were bare. A splash of sunlight covered the area around her, making it look as if the sun was seeking her out, advancing into the shady area.
Officer Carter frowned when I handed it to her. “Don’t you have something that shows her features better?”
“I thought you would want a full-length picture,” I said.
“That’s good, but…” She tucked it into her notebook. “This is fine, for now.”
“What do you mean, for now?” My voice shook. It didn’t matter what she meant by the actual words, because what she was saying was they didn’t think they were going to find her that night. It could be days, weeks. It could be…
“It’s fine,” she said. “Please email me the digital copy.”
She didn’t answer my question.
5
Taylor
The Cushings’ courtyard door swung open just as I was considering giving up and going home to bed. Not that I would have. I wouldn’t have been able to sleep. When I first woke to the madly ringing doorbell, Duncan had stirred slightly, but had obviously fallen back into a deep sleep because he hadn’t come looking for me. That man had the ability to sleep through anything.
It was a little upsetting when I thought too much about it. Knowing he wasn’t aware that I was gone from our bed made me feel separated from him in some way I couldn’t fully explain. It was as if he and I were not as connected as I believed, as much as I wanted us to be. On the rare occasions when he left our bed in the middle of the night for a drink of water, I was awake the moment he opened his eyes. I felt the change in his breathing, the shift in the bed, the emptiness of a place that had been occupied by two bodies.
The police officers emerged from the courtyard. The female cop closed the door. I’d expected Moira and Alan to come outside with them. Luke’s mother, Nicole, stood beside me. I’d texted her the minute the police asked me to leave the Cushings’ living room so they could ask their questions.
Of course, it shouldn’t have surprised me they weren’t coming outside now. They’d kept to themselves more than any of the others on our cul-de-sac. Now that the police were involved, maybe Moira felt she no longer needed me or the other neighbors. They’d existed just fine without community support before. But if that was their view, it was a mistake. People need each other more than they realize. We even need the people we find irritating or those who seem unimportant. It’s built into the genetic code. We’re social creatures. All the experts say so.
I wanted to support her. Even if I wasn’t a mother, I could comfort her; I could imagine what she was going through. Maybe she didn’t believe that.
The cops stood by the closed door, talking in low voices.
After a moment, they walked toward Nicole and me. Nicole was looking down at her phone—texting. I wondered what other friends she had who were awake at that hour. I tried to change my expression for the police officers, hoping I looked helpful instead of nosy, a rubbernecker salivating to see what would happen next.
The female officer held out her badge. “I’m Morgan Carter. I’d like to ask you a few questions. I assume you’re both neighbors? That you know about the missing girl, Brittany Cushing?”
“Yes,” I said.
Nicole echoed with a yes of her own.
“Did you see or hear anything out of the ordinary this evening?”
We both said no.
“Have you witnessed or overheard any altercations between the parents and Brittany?”
“No. Never.”
Morgan glanced back toward the closed courtyard door and then at the other homes circled around us. “I suppose you don’t hear much around here, with all of these enclosed gardens.”
“Not really,” Nicole admitted.
“Which house is yours?”
Each of us gestured toward our home.
“We’d like to come in and ask a few more questions.” Morgan lifted her chin toward me. “I’ll speak with you, and my partner, Officer Mae, will speak to you.” She looked at Nicole.
Officer Carter followed me up my front path. “Who else lives here with you?”
“My husband.”
“And your names?”
“Taylor and Duncan Stanwick.”
As I led the way inside, I turned my head slightly. “I’ll get Duncan. He should be here.”
“Thank you.”
While Duncan pulled on jeans and a T-shirt, I told him what he’d slept through. He didn’t say much, just patted my shoulder when I choked up talking about Brittany being taken right out of her bedroom. He splashed water on his face and dried it quickly.
We sat in the living room. “I can make coffee,” I offered.
“No, thank you,” Officer Carter said.
A look of disappointment crossed Duncan’s face, but he settled back in the chair. He yawned, then tried to cover it by coughing.
“This will only take a few minutes,” Officer Carter said. “Thank you for disturbing your sleep. It’s important to learn all we can as quickly as possible.”
“Are you going to search the open space preserve?” I asked.
“Yes. More officers and a K9 unit are on the way. If you and some of the other neighbors can join, that will be helpful.”
“Absolutely.”
Duncan nodded and leaned forward, supporting his elbows on his knees.
“What’s your relationship like with Mr. and Ms. Cushing?”
“We don’t have a relationship,” Duncan said.
“Well, we—”
“We rarely even see them,” Duncan interrupted. “I’ve never spoken to either one.”
“That seems unusual on a street designed with such an intimate layout.”
He shrugged. “They don’t come out much.”
“Have you observed any arguments? Between the parents and Brittany? Between Mr. and Mrs. Cushing themselves?”
“We never see them,” Duncan said.
She looked directly at me. “And you?”
I sighed. “This was the first time I’ve talked to them.” Hearing it out loud, that we’d lived next door to these people for two months and never spoken, was shocking. I wondered what Officer Carter thought of that. She was right. On a cul-de-sac, you expect people to interact all the time. You’re sort of forced into each other’s lives more directly than on a wide street with traffic acting as a natural barrier. It was what I’d expected when we
first moved in. I still expected it.
“Why do you think she came to your house, since you’ve never spoken?”
“I don’t know. I don’t think she’d met any of the neighbors before this.”
“Have you observed many people coming and going from their home?”
“No.”
“Was there anything in their behavior, aside from their lack of interaction, that’s made you wonder about them?”
“What does that mean?” I crossed my legs and laced my hands together over my knee.
“Did you see or hear any interaction among members of the family that you thought was jarring, something that didn’t seem right?”
“I don’t understand what you’re asking.”
“It’s your gut,” Duncan said. “She’s asking if there’s something in your gut that makes you wonder about these people.”
“Why are you asking that?”
He looked at me, lifting his eyebrows slightly. He yawned without covering his mouth. The signal was clear. Time to wrap this up and get some sleep. The workday was racing toward us. In another half hour or so, reclaiming sleep would be impossible.
“They seemed fine,” I said. It sounded limp, the words echoing inside my head, as if I’d just condemned them to…to what? “I think they’re just private. But my impression is they’re a nice family. They spend a lot of time with their daughter. She’s not out causing trouble. They keep their yard nice. They…” I almost said they had nice clothes, but that sounded beyond superficial. How had I let them live next door and not tried harder to get to know them? What did it say about the world, about our neighborhood that the people sleeping fifty feet away were total strangers?
“Can you describe Moira’s behavior when she woke you?”
“Her behavior?”
“Your general impression. As best you can recall, tell me how she seemed, what she said.”
“She seemed panicked. Not seemed, she was panicked.”
“Was she able to speak coherently?”
“Yes, but she was crying, and she—”
“So she introduced herself before she told you her daughter was missing?”
“Yes.”
“And her assumption was that Brittany had been abducted?”
“Yes. I don’t think it’s an assumption, it’s—”
“Why did she say she wanted your help?”
“She wanted to know if I’d seen anyone around in the area, or seen Brittany, of course.” I tried to remember. Was that right? Who suggested we ask the other neighbors? Had I done that? I didn’t understand why it was so hard to remember.
“Did she seem nervous?”
“She was terrified.”
“That was your primary impression?”
“Yes.”
“Did you believe her?”
“Of course I believed her. Why wouldn’t I? Do you not believe her?”
“What I believe isn’t relevant. I’m checking on your impression. Was there anything that seemed off about her behavior?”
“I don’t understand—”
“She was distraught that her daughter was missing. Was there anything in her behavior that didn’t seem distraught? Out of sync?”
“You think she’s lying?”
“I don’t think anything. When someone is missing, we need to get insight into the entire family.”
“You think they did something? You think they—”
Officer Carter held up her hand. “I’m just asking questions. Please don’t read into it.”
I thought that was a rather tone-deaf response, and quite ironic. She wanted me to read into Moira’s behavior, but I was to avoid reading into the question.
Her face was expressionless, so either she hid the realization of her irony well, or she was completely unaware of it. I didn’t want to answer. After knowing her for only a few minutes, I felt protective of Moira. I felt her pain and her helplessness. The desperate desire to find her daughter was palpable. I wanted to help. I didn’t want to assist the police in wasting time asking about Brittany’s family instead of looking for her. In fact, even if there was something off about her family, didn’t they need to be looking for Brittany? That was the important thing.
I straightened my shoulders and looked directly at her. “There was nothing off about her. She behaved exactly as I’d imagine a mother would behave when she discovered her daughter had been abducted right out of her bed!”
She didn’t correct me or try to insert the possibility that Brittany had run away. I was glad of that.
She stood. “Thank you for your time.”
“I’m happy to help.”
“It’s appreciated. If you think of anything, recall anything that didn’t sit right, or anything unusual that you’ve seen recently in the neighborhood, please contact me.” She held out a business card. “And you don’t need to tell the Cushings about this conversation. It’s confidential.”
I waited a moment before taking the card from her fingers. If she noticed my antagonism, she didn’t mention that either.
“Nothing like this has ever happened here,” I said. “Not even a break-in. Or a car theft.”
She nodded.
“We’re going to pull together to help them.” I stood. “We’ll do anything we can to support them.”
“Slow down,” Duncan said.
“Some people find it helpful to set up a Facebook page,” Officer Carter said. “To share information. To bring the community together.”
“I’m not a fan of social media,” I said.
“It’s just a suggestion.”
“If it helps, I’m happy to do that. All of us want to help. We’re here to support them. Let us know if we can knock on doors or…anything.”
“Officer Carter knows how to conduct an investigation,” Duncan said. “They don’t need community help. The Cushings don’t need us butting into their lives at a time like this.”
I didn’t respond. He was wrong. His attitude was part of the problem with the world—people not wanting to intrude or interfere, people thinking that mutual support and friendliness are the same as intruding. That belief could be the death of us all.
6
Alan
Shortly after the police left our living room to question our neighbors, the world turned to chaos. For the rest of the night we walked through the open space preserve.
There didn’t seem to be any pattern to how we covered the area. Neighbors we’d just met traipsed around in groups, flashlight beams bobbing then swinging wildly up at the dark sky. I couldn’t escape the sense that we looked like a swarm of zombies lurching over uneven earth, along dubious trails, and around clumps of shrubs and threatening tree roots. There was shouting and talking and dogs barking, as a few people who showed up to help seemed to think their family pets might be able to locate Brittany.
It seemed futile from the first step Moira and I took into those acres of emptiness. I couldn’t believe Brittany’s abductor would simply hide out in the middle of all that space. Despite the size, attractive on the surface because that meant it was difficult to search, the risk of exposure for an abductor was huge. In my mind, the guy had whisked her away in a car, and she was already locked inside a warehouse or garage somewhere.
In a suburb with millions of homes, condos, and apartments, how would we ever find her? The thought grabbed at my throat, causing me to utter alternate gasping and gagging sounds. Moira ignored the animal noises coming out of my mouth, lost in her own sea of heart-piercing feelings.
I wondered what she was thinking, wondered if she was even allowing herself to think, trying to avoid the pain of articulated fears. Avoiding pain was her tendency in most situations, hence the nightly swallowing of doxepin. Never having loved a woman besides Moira, I wasn’t sure whether it was common for women to run from pain or if Moira was unusually fragile. I believed it was the latter, but your wife’s fragile mental state is not something you talk to your friends or colleagues about. You
don’t talk to anyone about those things because you certainly can’t discuss it with her, and you don’t want to be talking behind her back. It would be a betrayal of the worst kind.
I gripped the flashlight, trying to keep it from sliding out of my sweaty hand like a banana squeezed out of its peel. I chuckled at the senseless image of a banana shooting out from my grasp.
“You think there’s something amusing about all of this?” Moira hissed at me. “What’s wrong with you?”
“Nerves,” I said. “Cut me some slack, okay?”
She didn’t respond. It was just as well. The last thing we needed was to be overheard arguing, leading to assumptions about our marriage, our home life. Already, that police officer was asking about conflict in our family instead of looking for the damaged individual who had taken our daughter. It disgusted me that the officer’s first thought was that we’d done something to hurt the most precious part of our lives.
I wondered what they’d asked our neighbors. Those same accusing questions? Taylor and Duncan Stanwick had given us warm, sympathetic smiles. The others tended to avoid direct eye contact, but they’d offered comforting words, so maybe they weren’t wary of us.
We traipsed in silence, not entirely sure what we were looking for. I could not get my head around the fact that someone had managed to get into Brittany’s room and removed her from our home without us hearing a sound. Moira’s unconscious state made her lack of awareness understandable. The doxepin put her out every night like she was in a coma. I’m a good sleeper, but the fact I’d heard absolutely nothing, that my usual hyperalertness to potential threats had failed, made me feel alternately terrified and like an utter failure for not protecting my family.
It ate at me as we walked, stirring up bile that tasted foul in the back of my throat, blurring my eyes so it was difficult to see what we were even looking at. Everyone had converged immediately on the field as if a space that large demanded to be thoroughly searched. I wasn’t even sure how they’d known. Who told them all what had happened?
The Good Neighbor Page 3
