chapter Thirty-two
“I thought they’d never let you out.” Eric was waiting in the lobby on the other side of the bulletproof glass, and put his iPad aside.
“You and me both.” The sight of his smile gave Casey’s weary heart a lift. How had this man, whom she’d known for less than a month, become someone who could set her pulse racing? She wanted to press up against him right there in the police station, and feel his strong arms around her back. It was crazy. Where was any sense in that? She stood in front of his chair, looking down into his face. “Did they question you, too?”
“Only for an hour or so. Apparently you get treated differently when you assault a police officer.”
“I didn’t—” She cut off when she saw his grin.
“Come on.” He stood. “Let’s get out of here.”
They were on the opposite side of town from their motel, but seeing how the entire town was only a few blocks long it wasn’t a hardship.
“All that questioning made me hungry,” Casey said as they walked. “But I don’t think I can stomach that diner again.”
“Great minds, and all that,” Eric said. “I found us a place a few miles down the road.”
“You know they’re going to be watching. Some infant cop will probably try to stop us from leaving town.”
“And you’re going to let him?”
Casey looked back as they left, only to see Death gesturing frantically toward the police station. “I’m going to stay. See if I can get photos of the rest of the file. Now that you’ve asked those questions, she’s got to go through it all again. I’ll be in touch. Yikes! She’s starting!” And Death was gone.
Casey and Eric got back to their rooms, washed up, and headed out in the rental car. He made a detour down a side street and parked at the edge of a community park. Parents were out playing with their kids for this last hour before bedtime, and the air was filled with shrieks and laughter. To one side a small group of boys, from about nine to thirteen years of age, were arguing, one of the bigger ones holding a football, with one of the smaller boys in his face. As Casey watched, they worked out their differences, as boys will do, and began to play.
“What are we doing here?”
“You know that photo of Cyrus with his car? This is where he parked it.”
“I hadn’t even thought to check it out. It’s not like there will be anything left to discover.”
“Still. Want to take a quick look?” He led her down the path to the far corner of the park, which was wooded, with a moss and birdpoop-covered picnic table, alongside one of those grills that was more rust than metal, and which no self-respecting cook—or person who wanted to avoid tetanus—would ever use. On the edge of the trees was a scraggly lawn, and beside that was a small, unused parking lot, whose asphalt had become more a mine of cracks and weeds than an actual level slab. Casey pulled the photo from her pocket and tried to line it up with landmarks.
Eric pointed to the left, where the grass met the pavement. “The cop I spoke to said Cyrus was killed right about here. He and Elizabeth would park the car in the corner spot, use the picnic table for eating, and those restrooms.” A still-used, and probably updated, building sat across the park. From that distance Casey could just see the “Boys” and “Girls” signs above the opposite sides.
“Cyrus was found half-on, half-off the asphalt,” Eric continued. “As far as the cops knew, the car hadn’t been burgled. His and Elizabeth’s supper still sat on the picnic table.”
“What about her things? Did she take anything with her?”
“Apparently not. When the family went through the car they couldn’t think of anything that was missing.”
“So when she ran, she was really doing just that. No coming back for stuff.” It wasn’t hard for Casey to imagine the fear, or the grief. Watching her father die, knowing her own life was at risk. Running away with his blood on her clothes. “I wish we could go back. Protect her. Protect them both.”
“World would be a different place if we could do that.”
Casey felt suddenly chilled, and slipped her hand into Eric’s. If he was surprised, he didn’t show it. He squeezed her hand, and his warmth flowed up her arm, until she was ready to leave that place. Soon, without having to discuss it, they let go of each other and walked back to Eric’s car.
Nobody tried to keep them within the town limits, and no one followed as they drove. Eric’s phone stayed quiet while they had a pleasant dinner at a family seafood restaurant, and they didn’t talk much until they’d finished eating and were back in the car.
“Now what?” Eric pointed the car back toward Marshland.
“Nap?”
“I wish. Bed sounds good.” He immediately went red, and Casey felt herself go hot, as well.
“Sleep will come soon enough,” she said, trying not to show her discomfort, and failing miserably, she was sure. “How about Betsy? Should we go by her place and see if she was able to get a hold of any relatives?”
“Sure. Sounds great.”
They drove in silence until they parked in front of Betsy’s house.
“Casey—”
But she couldn’t talk about what was happening between them. Not then. Maybe not ever. She got out of the car and walked up to Betsy’s door. Once she rang the doorbell she heard Eric’s car door close, and his footsteps come up the walk.
A man answered the door. “Oh, you must be Casey and…Eric, is it? It’s them, honey!” he called toward the back of the house. “I’m Scott, Betsy’s husband. Well, that’s kind of obvious, isn’t it?” He laughed. “Kind of weird if I wasn’t, huh? Come on in.” He wore khakis, a light blue, button-down shirt, and slightly crooked wire-rimmed glasses. He was in stocking feet, and his dark hair stuck up in the back, cowlicks gone wild. “We’re just finishing up dinner. Are you hungry?”
“Just ate, thanks.”
“Come on back, if you don’t mind watching us eat. It’s not always pretty.” He grinned and led them back through the dining room to the kitchen. Amusement lit Eric’s eyes, and Casey herself found it hard not to laugh. It didn’t seem exactly kosher to be giggling, what with Betsy’s long-lost cousin being dead and all, and Casey’s brother in prison, but Scott exuded a cloud of good cheer. Her heart lightened—in a completely different way from when she looked at Eric—and she wondered what Scott would be like on a normal day. They’d probably all be on the floor, clutching their sides.
Betsy sat at the table with a teenage boy and a young girl. Casey couldn’t remember their names, but just from looking at them it was obvious they were related to Elizabeth. The girl looked just like her mother—and, therefore, her aunt—and the boy was basically a younger version of Cyrus. It was eerie how familial characteristics could hop from great-uncle to great-nephew, and she wondered if Betsy even saw it.
Scott pulled a couple of chairs in from the dining room and made room at the small table. The remnants of baked spaghetti and garlic bread looked good, even though Casey was full, and she wondered how long it had been since she’d had an actual home-cooked meal.
“So you’re the ones who found Aunt Lizzie?” the boy said.
“Billy!” Betsy went to touch his arm, then jerked her hand back and clenched her hands in her lap.
Billy. Casey remembered now. And the girl’s name was something different. Julie? Janie? Junie.
Casey looked into the boy’s face and saw some of the same strength—and uncertainty—she’d met in a whole group of teens a couple of weeks earlier. Those strong-willed Kansans had proven to her that young people deserved answers. And truth. Even if they were a mess of rampaging hormones. “We didn’t actually find her, Billy. Her landlord did. But we figured out who she was.”
“And she’s dead?”
“I’m sorry.”
He shrugged. “She was gone before I was born.”
“Yes, I know. I never met her, either.”
“Then why do you care who killed her?”
Junie was listening with wide eyes, her mouth slightly open, as if it was taking all her concentration to follow along. Casey wondered about continuing with the conversation in front of her, but figured her parents were sitting right there, and they should be the ones to put a stop to it, or send her to her room. Perhaps they figured the whole answers and truth thing extended to pre-teens, as well.
“My brother Ricky loved her,” she said. “They were seeing each other. Romantically.” What did teenagers call it anymore? Dating? Going out? Hooking up?
“So why isn’t he here? Or is this him?” He gestured at Eric.
“Sorry,” Eric said. “I’m here for Casey. We’re…friends.”
Billy looked at them knowingly, so Casey rushed to continue before he had a chance to remark on what he’d already figured out, which was apparently more than they had. “The cops think Ricky killed her.”
Billy took in this information stoically, working at something in his teeth with his tongue. “You don’t think he did?”
“I know he didn’t.”
“Because he’s your brother?”
“Well…yes.”
“And you’re trying to find out what happened so you can get him out of jail?”
“Yes. He’s a mess. He loved her a lot, apparently, and this is all just—” She was going to say, killing him, but stopped herself in time. “It’s been really hard for him.”
Billy watched her a little longer, then nodded. “Okay.”
Okay. Law enforcement, Elizabeth’s co-workers, the media, they all doubted Ricky’s innocence. This kid in Texas, who didn’t know Ricky from Adam, but could see how his mother was hurting from the final loss of her cousin, believed it instantly. Casey wanted to hug him.
“You think she was killed by somebody from here.” He was watching her closely.
“That’s my guess. She was obviously in hiding. I guess she could have been running from something that happened later, but this is where it all started.”
“You think somebody here found out where she was.”
“It looks that way.”
“How could they have? I mean, if Mom didn’t know, after all this time. The cops, the papers, no one knew, no one could find her.”
Casey glanced at Betsy, then said as gently as she could, “I think people had pretty much stopped trying, Billy. It’s been a long time.”
Scott rubbed Betsy’s shoulder. “Tell them what you found out today, hon.”
She sat frozen for a moment, then patted her mouth with a napkin and pushed herself back from the table. “I’ll show you.”
Billy followed them into the dining room, where the boxes of memorabilia still cluttered the table. Junie stayed behind with her father, and Casey soon heard the clanking of dishes and silverware.
“I called everyone I could think of who Elizabeth might have known.” Betsy handed Casey a handwritten list of names and numbers, all checked off, some with numbers crossed out, and new contact information noted beside them. “Grandparents, aunts and uncles, family friends, her folks’ college roommates, even kids we met at summer camp…I couldn’t find anyone who took her in or who she even approached for help.”
“Or who would admit it,” Casey said. “It might be embarrassing now to say after all these years that they knew she was alive, when they know her family had been wondering all this time.”
“No, I believe them. No one heard from her, no one saw her, no one had a clue where she’d gone. It was like she completely disappeared off the face of the earth. Until now.”
“How could that happen?” Eric said. “How could a teenage girl—and a young teenager, not like eighteen or nineteen—hide out that well and for that long? Don’t shelters and hostels and things like that have to report runaway teens, or wouldn’t they watch the news? Even bus drivers, cops in other towns, you know. Isn’t there a network?”
“Sure, there’s a network,” Casey said, “but this is a huge country, and there are thousands of homeless teens. Cyrus probably had some cash in the car, or had hidden some in another place. Especially if he was mixed up with some folks who weren’t exactly above-board. Elizabeth could have grabbed the money when she ran, and used it to hop a bus or train or something that would take her far away from here. It’s not that hard to disappear if you really want to, and back then they wouldn’t have insisted on ID like they do now. But even today, use a fake name, lie about your age, it’s amazing what you can get away with.”
Eric looked surprised for a moment, then smiled gently. “Fake names. I remember those. And it’s not like fake IDs are that hard to come by, even for kids.”
“She was only fourteen!” Betsy said.
“I’m seventeen,” Billy said. “You don’t think I could disappear if I wanted?”
“I certainly hope not!” She grabbed his arm. “What are you talking about?”
“Mom, don’t freak out.” He pushed her away. “I’m not going anywhere. I’m just saying. Sometimes people have reasons. Sometimes things aren’t what you think. Sometimes people just want…” He shrugged. “Never mind.”
Casey watched the panicked mother, and the son. Something about the son…
“Billy,” Casey said, “what is it?”
He chewed his lip, looked back at the kitchen, and shoved his hands in his pockets. Emotions ran crazily across his face—stubbornness, anger, fear, and finally worry, or was it sorrow? His eyes shone with tears.
“Billy?” Betsy placed her hand on his arm again, this time with gently. “What is it, honey?”
“It’s my fault.” His lips trembled.
“What is?”
“That Aunt Lizzy’s dead.”
“Honey, it couldn’t possibly be—”
“What happened, Billy?” Casey saw it in his face. He really thought he was to blame. “What did you do?”
He hesitated, then lifted his eyes to meet hers. A lone tear escaped and dripped down his cheek. “I saw her. I saw Aunt Lizzie. And then I sort of told them where she was.”