Bone Deep

by O'Brien, Kim;

  He peers so long into the hole that my already-dry throat seems to swell shut and my stomach clenches tight as a fist. And then he slowly extracts the other shoe, puts it in a plastic evidence bag, and then hands it to my father. He reaches back into the hole and pulls out a folded square of paper. It looks like part of a page ripped from a paperback novel.

  Nothing in his face changes. After a long moment, he looks up and begins to read: “Why why you’re asking here’s why her hair. I mean her hair! I mean like I saw it in the sun it’s pale silky gold like corn tassels and in the sun sparks might catch. And her eyes that smiled at me sort of nervous and hopeful like she could not know (but who could know?) what is Jude’s wish. For I am Jude the Obscure, I am the Master of Eyes. I am not to be judged by crude eyes like yours, assholes.”

  There’s a long moment of silence. The officer’s gaze moves over each of us. “Anyone recognize the passage?”

  No one answers.

  “Can I see it?” Jalen asks.

  The detective holds the ripped page out to him, letting Jalen take a closer look without touching it. Jalen frowns and studies the words. “No idea.”

  “How about you, professor?”

  “No,” both Dr. Shum and my father reply at the same time. They exchange glances and then turn back to the police officer.

  “Someone climbs up here, fills a sneaker with dried corn kernels, rips out a page from a book about a girl with blonde hair, and you have no idea what it means?” The detective’s voice sounds casual, but his gaze fixes intently on my father’s face.

  My father shifts his weight. A fresh line of sweat trickles down the side of his face. He shakes his head slowly. “You asked about the excerpt you just read. I have no idea where it comes from.”

  “But the shoes and the corn,” the officer presses. “They mean something to you?”

  My father pulls his hat lower on his head. “Maybe,” he admits.

  The detective waits, rereading the words on that torn page, but when it’s clear that’s all my father is planning to say, he looks up. “You have a theory? Tell us, Dr. Patterson.”

  Something about the way he asks the question makes me nervous. My father wipes his face with a dirty-looking bandana. He hesitates, and then says, “I think the sneakers and the corn are symbolic. A lot of ancient tribal burial ceremonies involved placing moccasins and food along with the body of the loved one. The moccasins symbolized a swift journey to the next world, and the food was to provide nourishment along the way.”

  “So, theoretically, Miss Linton is dead and her body is buried somewhere near here?” Detective Torres’s voice is friendly, as if he and my father are having an intellectual conversation, not discussing murder. Emily’s murder.

  Why doesn’t Detective Torres ask Dr. Shum these questions?

  “I have no idea what happened to Emily Linton,” my father says. “I’m just telling you what I think these items mean.”

  “I have a theory as well, Dr. Patterson.” The detective smiles, revealing a row of even, white teeth. “I think someone was obsessed with Emily Linton. Maybe he lured her or maybe she met him willingly, but something happened. Maybe she slipped climbing up here—an accident—or she changed her mind about sex and things got rough. So this man, who never meant to hurt her, finds himself with a dead girl. A dead underage girl. He knows it looks bad, so he hides the body. He knows this park so well that he knows exactly where to put it so no one will ever find her. But this man—he’s not a monster—he feels bad about what happened. He can’t sleep, can’t get her out of his mind. His guilt is eating him alive, and so he holds his own little funeral—complete with a Native American twist—for her up here. Is that what happened, Dr. Patterson?”

  My father’s mouth opens, but no sound comes out. “My God,” he sputters. “You think I…” His voice strengthens, becomes indignant. “I had nothing to do with Emily’s disappearance.”

  “Accidents happen. Why did Stuart Lowe take out a restraining order on you, Dr. Patterson?”

  Stuart Lowe—my mother’s boss and new fiancé—filed a restraining order against my father?

  Surprise flashes in my father’s eyes. He opens his mouth, but nothing comes out. “That was a misunderstanding,” he says at last. “We had words. There was custody involved. The man’s a lawyer. He knows how to work the system.” He doesn’t look at me.

  I feel myself start to freak out. What does he mean, there was custody involved?

  “You had more than words,” the detective prompts. “You threatened the man’s life. Why? Do you have a temper, Dr. Patterson?”

  My father’s expression hardens. “No,” he says coldly.

  “I think you do. We’ve got a missing girl, and her supervisor has a history of violence. I’m giving you a chance to explain your side of the story.”

  My father squares his shoulders. “What happened in New Jersey has nothing to do with whatever happened to Emily.”

  What happened in New Jersey? I study his face. How much more don’t I know about him? In a small, distant part of my brain, I realize that Jalen has moved next to me, stationed himself beside me.

  “Duke,” Dr. Shum cautions, “don’t say anything else without a lawyer present.”

  My father shakes his head. Beneath the tan, his face looks strained, incredulous. “I’ve done nothing wrong.” His voice rises. “I have nothing to hide.”

  The detective shrugs. “We’re going to find out where this passage comes from, and eventually, we’re going to find Emily Linton. So maybe it’s a good idea, Dr. Patterson, if you have that lawyer ready.”

  TWENTY-SIX

  Paige

  While the police search the ledge, I escape to Whale Rock to be alone. Dangling my legs into the murky waters of Otter Creek, my mind spins. Emily dead? My father her killer? I try to picture him tying bows on her Nikes, scattering corn kernels inside, and then placing them with the page of a book—like a eulogy—into the crevice, but I can’t.

  But then, I guess, what daughter thinks her father is capable of murder?

  I kick my legs and watch the diamond beads scatter on the surface. It’s hot on the rock and I can feel the skin on my shoulders burning, but I don’t care. My mind wanders back to Jalen—why did he kiss me in the first place?

  “Paige,” my father’s voice says.

  I turn around, disappointed that it’s not Jalen who has come to tell me that he’s changed his mind, that what he feels for me is more than friendship.

  My father squats down on the rock next to me. “You okay? I’ve been texting you.” Behind his dark glasses, his eyes are impossible to read. “It’s time to go.”

  “Okay.” But I don’t get up, and after a moment he sinks onto the rock beside me. I stare straight ahead, into the creek. It looks still and serene, but I know you can’t see the current or the water snakes beneath the surface.

  “Do you remember the time you gave your Barbie a water burial?” He doesn’t wait for me to reply. “It rained and the current got her. You didn’t cry. You tested the flow of the stream with different-sized sticks and saw where they got tangled. It took you three days, but you found your Barbie.”

  I remember that, but I’m surprised that he does and that he would bring it up now. When I glance at him, I see he’s taken off his sunglasses. His blue eyes, for once, are soft.

  “You’re strong, Paige. You’re going to get through this.” His gaze stays steady on my face. “I’ve hired a lawyer. Her name is Bonita Begay. If something happens, if the police arrest me, I want you to call her. And then call your mother. I’ve arranged for you to stay with the Shums until she can get here.”

  He hasn’t said he’s innocent. I ball my hands together so tightly my fingernails bite into my skin. “Why did Stuart Lowe take out a restraining order against you?”

  He goes very still, as if the question holds him at gunpoint. A line of sweat rolls down the side of his face, but he makes no move to wipe it away. And then his shoulders see
m to sag a little. “Because I threatened him.”

  “Why?”

  “Because I was angry. I made a mistake.”

  “What happened? How am I supposed to believe you didn’t have anything to do with Emily’s disappearance if you won’t talk to me?”

  He opens his mouth as if he’s going to speak and then shuts it again. Finally, he says. “You have to trust me, Paige. What happened in New Jersey has nothing to do with whatever happened to Emily.”

  He wants me to let it go, but I can’t. “You told the police it was about custody. Were you and Stuart fighting over who got me?” Is it wrong to hope they were? That my father wanted me—wanted me so badly he lost his temper?

  He gives me a small half-smile. “No, honey. You had nothing to do with it.”

  I look away. It’s never about me and never will be. When am I going to figure that out and stop hoping for more? And still, something tenacious and unrelenting won’t let me drop it. “If it wasn’t me, wasn’t about the custody, why did you tell that to the police?”

  “It became a custody issue, but it didn’t start out as one. Let’s drop this, okay? We really need to get going. The lawyer’s office closes at five.”

  He starts to rise, but I stay exactly where I am. “Stop treating me like I’m a little kid. Why won’t you tell me the truth?”

  “Because you’re my child. I love you.”

  “That isn’t love.” I feel the frustration and fury shoot through my veins like acid, eating me up inside. Pulling my knees to my chest, I lower my head. He’d rather be arrested than tell me about Stuart Lowe. What could possibly be so bad?

  He taps my leg. “Let’s get going. I’ll even spring for takeout pizza tonight.”

  “Did you threaten him verbally or physically?”

  “It doesn’t matter.”

  “It matters to me.”

  He sighs. “Physically, but I didn’t mean it. I just got carried away.”

  What could possibly make him so mad? If it wasn’t me and it wasn’t custody, then what? The only person left is my mother. My mother?

  I look up. He’s turned so that he’s facing the water and seems so lost in his thoughts he might as well be alone.

  “Why did you keep those photos of you and Mom? I found them in your drawer.”

  He stiffens. “You were in my room?”

  “You hate her, and yet you kept those photos. Why?”

  “You shouldn’t have been going through my things.”

  “You physically threatened Stuart Lowe, who just happens to be engaged to Mom. It was about her, wasn’t it?” And then suddenly another piece falls into place—the dream about my mother. You were dreaming, Paige. You didn’t see him. What if it hadn’t been a dream but a memory?

  “Don’t, Paige,” my father says, but it’s too late.

  I remember the night my parents were arguing and how the word affair came out, sharply, like a curse. But it wasn’t the college girls hanging out in my father’s office. He hadn’t been the one having an affair. The truth explodes inside me, shattering me in a thousand new ways and leaving me feeling incredibly stupid for not seeing it.

  “Mom was having an affair with Stuart Lowe. You found out and threatened him. That’s the affair I heard you and Mom arguing about that night.”

  His face is somehow terrible in its stillness.

  “Mom was having an affair.” Repeating it a second time doesn’t make it any less awful.

  “There are things you don’t understand.”

  “I think I understand this pretty well.” My voice rises. “How could you not tell me? Why did you let me believe you were to blame?”

  He looks at me a long time. I see the weariness in his eyes. “The marriage failed. Leave it at that.”

  “Mom cheated. How long?”

  “It doesn’t matter.” He holds up his hand. “Before you start blaming your mother, being angry at her, I want you to know that I don’t blame her for what she did. Well…maybe a little.” He smiles wryly. “But the truth is that I closed my eyes when I knew she wasn’t happy. I took jobs that kept me away from home for weeks, months sometimes. People get lonely. I haven’t always understood that very well.” He looks at me sadly. “But I do now.”

  When was the last time my father and I talked like this? Have we ever? It hurts to look at him, to see the pain in his eyes. And I remember Emily telling me what a broken, lonely man he was when he arrived in Arizona. I never saw that person until now.

  “You should have talked to me. You should have said something. You barely even said goodbye. Dad, you acted like you didn’t even care that you were leaving.”

  “I’m sorry. I just didn’t know what to say to you.” He shakes his head. “I’m so sorry.”

  He’d had plenty to say to my mother. I think of their arguments in the weeks leading up to the divorce. He closed me out. Why was it so hard to talk to me? And then I know the answer—because I wouldn’t have listened. I was too angry. Every time he came near me, I’d wanted to hurt him as much as I could. I took Mom’s side without ever giving him a chance to tell his.

  I see the deep lines on his face and the sadness in his eyes. When he puts his arm around me, I lean into the warmth of his body. He was protecting my mother by not admitting that it was her affair that caused the divorce, and he was trying to protect me, too. He knew me well enough to understand that, if I’d discovered what she did, it would make me hate her, as I hated him, and he didn’t want that to happen.

  I still have so many questions, but right now, letting him hold me, knowing what he did was done out of love, is enough.

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  Paige

  At the park the next morning, my father shields me from the reporters clustered around the entrance gate. A flashbulb goes off, and voices shout on top of each other: Dr. Patterson! What evidence was found in the ruins? Dr. Patterson! Why are police calling you a person of interest?

  One reporter wiggles her way along the fence line and catches us as my father unlocks the gate.

  “Dr. Patterson, I need to talk with you.” She has bright red lipstick, dark hair cut short and straight, and a scary sharpness to her gaze. When my father shakes his head, she thrusts a card into his hand. “I have photos of you with Emily Linton at Pottery Barn. Why were you with her? Don’t you want to tell your side of the story?”

  My father pockets the card. “No comment,” he says and shuts the gate behind us. Closing his fingers around my upper arm, he pulls me away from the crowd that continues to shout at us.

  “Why didn’t you tell her what really happened?”

  My father’s steps don’t slow. “You can’t trust the press. They’re looking for a good story, not the truth.”

  Jalen, John Yazzi, and the rest of the maintenance crew are waiting outside the information center for their morning assignment. Jalen’s gaze meets mine briefly. His eyes ask if I’m okay. They are the eyes of someone who cares about me, but only as a friend. I give him a fake smile that hopefully falls into the friend category. A spot between my shoulders tingles as I turn away. I’m pretty sure his gaze follows me into the information center.

  The lights are on in the building, but no one is in the gift shop or the museum. I head for my father’s office and shut the door. His ancient chair creaks as I collapse into it and then scoot it closer to the desk.

  If it wasn’t my father, then who left those sneakers in the cliffs, and where did that page in the book come from? I try to remember the exact words. It was some funny wording about her hair. Something like, Why why you’re asking? Her hair? And then there was something about it being yellow and the sunlight.

  Spinning the chair around, I turn on the power on a PC that wheezes and groans and slowly grinds itself to life. I go to Bing and type in, “Why Why her hair.” I get about a zillion hits ranging from “why does my dog have gray hair” to “why does Melissa dye her hair with Kool-Aid.”

  I try a different search. “Hair like sunshi
ne.” Again, the results are meaningless. I don’t give up, though. The page was important to whoever left it in the cliffs. The detective said the person was obsessed, and so I search, “obsession + blonde hair + book.” I get some interesting titles on Amazon, but after an hour, I sit back in frustration. Nothing is working.

  I decide to turn to social media and post the excerpt on my Connections page. I ask my friends if they can identify the book the passage came from, and if they can’t, to post it on their pages. I’m pretty sure someone will recognize it.

  Almost immediately my friends start replying. Unfortunately, most are more curious than helpful. I keep my answers vague because of the investigation, and am in the middle of talking to my friend Missy from the soccer team when someone knocks.

  “Come in,” I call out. Instinctively, I shut down the website.

  Mrs. Shum stands in the doorway, her strawberry-blonde hair tied back with a colorful scarf. She’s wearing tight capri jeans and a paint-stained, long-sleeved shirt. More than ever, her elfish features remind me of Nicole Kidman.

  “Hello, honey. Hope I didn’t disturb you.”

  “No. I was just surfing.”

  She reaches the desk and perches on the corner. “I’ve been thinking about you. How hard it had to be for you to find those sneakers.”

  I look up into her green eyes. “It was. But I’m okay.” When she doesn’t say anything, I add, “Thanks.”

  She nods, her gaze never leaving my face. “I’m finished early, and with everything that’s happened, I was wondering if you’d like to have lunch with me. After, I’ll take you to my studio.”

  She’s nice, but the thought of spending time with her isn’t very appealing. I remember now that Emily didn’t like her. “Thanks, Mrs. Shum, but I’d better hang out here. My father…”

  “…thought it was a great idea.” She leans forward, and I smell the faint odor of paint and turpentine. “Honey, you’re skin and bones. Let me feed you, show you around, and then bring you home.” Her smile widens. “It might be good. More of those reporters are around, trolling for stories. Honestly, they’re like sharks.”