“They were picked up.” My voice sounds slightly muffled. My eyelids flutter with momentary lightheadedness. “Picked up by someone passing by.”
Officer Fletcher grabs me. “Whoa. Emily. Are you okay?”
“I’m fine.”
Didn’t Paul say there was someone? Someone who took Sean and Michael aboard, called 911, and brought them to the boat launch? My thoughts are fuzzy. So much has happened in just a few days.
The trooper asks, “Who returned the sailboat to the boathouse?”
“My husband must’ve . . . he would’ve gone out in the rowboat. And towed it back.” But I doubt my own words. Would Paul have gone out on the lake to retrieve the sailboat before rushing to the hospital? That doesn’t make any sense.
My gaze seeks the symbol scratched into the wood near the boathouse opening. The heart with the arrow through my daughter’s name. Michael’s name. I can’t quite make them out from here. I want to move closer, verify them, and take another look at the words etched into the windowsill just above.
But the next question from the state trooper causes me to forget all about it.
“Mrs. Lindman, do you know Laura Bishop?”
My skin starts to crawl. “Yes.”
“In what capacity?”
A pause. Then: “She was part of a case I consulted on. Years ago.”
The trooper pauses, looks at Fletcher, then back at me. The boats bob in the water; the water makes its hollow sounds. “We’re notified when an inmate is about to be released from state prison.”
“Okay . . .”
“We also receive a cross-report on anyone that inmate may have contacted on the day before his or her release.” The trooper nods to Fletcher, who leads us out of the boathouse and up the hill.
The trooper says, “Laura Bishop is going to be out in a few hours. Eight a.m. this morning. And the last phone call she made was to a Michael Rand. Your daughter’s fiancé.”
CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN
So they’ve been in touch.
Or maybe she just left a message? The police weren’t able to tell me more. No specifics on the time. But I know calls from prison are recorded, so it’s got to be on file somewhere.
What matters more: Michael knows who he is. That seems definitive now. He knows he’s Tom Bishop — why else would he be in contact with Laura? And if he’s been in touch with her, it strongly suggests that the whole “memory loss” thing has been a charade.
I remember him in our driveway, right after I told him I believed him to be Tom Bishop. How he said, “I’m not ready.” Now it makes sense. He wasn’t ready for me to lift the veil off his identity just yet.
I manage to convince the police that they can go. I’ll be all right. They’re skeptical, but since I’m not about to press any charges, and they’re not going to arrest me for a noise complaint, they eventually leave.
As soon as they’re gone, I light a cigarette. Not Joni’s brand. I can’t seem to recall when I bought them or where they came from. But the crackling burn of the tobacco soothes. The smoke cycles through me as I text Joni. Where are you? A familiar pull of frustration and despair is settling into my neck and shoulders. An old feeling. My intractable daughter. Rebellious, unresponsive.
I text Paul, too, apologizing for my earlier abruptness, explaining what happened; the watered-down version. Police checking on things. Everything is okay.
Nothing could be further from the truth. And the fact that I’m withdrawing from Paul, rather than banding together with him in this time of multiple crises and uncertainty, makes things all the bleaker.
Resolving to start anew in the morning and get my life back, I put out the cigarette in the driveway and return to the couch. After a few fitful minutes, I say a prayer. I’m not a particularly religious person, but I ask that my son be looked after. My daughter. And Michael, too.
He lied to you.
But why? Maybe there’s a good reason? Are there things he may be genuinely in the dark about? He might know he’s Tom Bishop, but he might be seeking answers to genuine questions.
No. He’s been messing with you this whole time.
It occurs to me that the simplest solution is usually the best. Occam’s razor. I consider it: Either Michael fabricated an entire life, complete with a college experience that enabled him to meet and woo my daughter, so that he could come here to our lake house to beguile and disturb us — and then to nearly kill his fiancée’s brother — or he’s a lost soul with a hazy, troubled past. Between his subconscious leading him in certain directions and a dash of fate, he’s here.
Which seems more likely?
Unable to answer, I finally fall into a troubled sleep.
*
When the phone rings, morning sunlight is streaming through the southeast-facing windows overlooking the lake. My mouth feels cottony, my head wrapped in wet gauze. Almost like the old days. When Paul and I still cut a rug.
What day is it?
Monday.
What time?
8:23 a.m. Laura Bishop is officially out of prison.
The thought then goes right out of my head when I finally realize who is calling.
I sit bolt upright, wipe my eyes and answer. “Sarah?”
“Emily . . .” Her voice is soft, weathered. Exuding concern. “Are you okay?”
“I’m okay. Thank you for calling. How are you? It’s been so long.”
“I’m well, thank you. Emily, how can I help? Your message was . . . urgent.”
A laugh escapes me that sounds more manic than I’d prefer. I’m up off the couch and headed for the door to check the driveway for Joni’s car. “I know, I just unloaded on you. And I’m sorry.”
“No, it’s all right. It’s fine. I want to talk to you . . . How are you?”
I reach the door and push aside the curtain. Both the rental car and Sean’s car are there. But not Joni’s Subaru. The disappointment feels like a weight. I turn and sag against the door, pinching my temples. Shutting my eyes. “Well, Sarah . . . Joni is . . . She took off last night.”
“You said in your message. And I’m so sorry about Sean. What an absolute tragedy. Oh, my . . . how is he? What are they saying?”
We talk a little bit about his condition, his prognosis, and about the accident. Sarah listens. She absorbs it all quietly, with the occasional tsk or sigh. When I’m finished, she asks, “And Joni hasn’t come back?”
“No. She hasn’t.” I move into the kitchen and take down a glass, run the tap. “She’s angry with me. So angry.”
Sarah is quiet.
I force some water down. “Do you remember? I was still seeing you sometimes. And Joni would disappear. She’d just take off.”
That soft voice: “I remember.”
“She didn’t even have a phone then. When she first ran away. She was twelve. And then when she did have a phone, she just ignored us. I’d be up until four in the morning, waiting for her to come home. We were so helpless.”
“It was a difficult time for you.”
I shrug off the bad memories. I need to get moving. Take a quick shower to clear my head. Maybe some coffee. Then I need to get to the hospital, see my son. Maybe find out if Paul knows who brought our sailboat home. It seems like a small thing, but now I need to know. Maybe Paul has the phone number of the Good Samaritan who helped.