“No, it’s not,” Susan said. “It makes people feel important, even the pranksters.”
“Has anyone in your family ever been the victim of a violent crime?” I asked.
“We’ve been lucky.” She sipped from her mug. “We don’t have to talk about your daughter,” she said. “We can talk about other things. We can talk about your job, for example. I saw in the paper you teach at the university. What’s that like?”
“Oh, God,” I said. “No one wants to hear about that. I’m writing a book on Nathaniel Hawthorne. That should tell you all you need to know.”
“I love to read,” she said. “I was a literature minor—”
“I don’t want to waste your time,” I said. Despite Susan’s openness, a discomfort gnawed at my insides, a raw rubbing I couldn’t shake. Being there and talking felt unnatural to me. “Maybe this isn’t the best thing for me. It’s unusual—” I stopped and turned away from Susan, letting my gaze wander out the window to the traffic circling the square. I felt muddled and unfocused. “You’re a complete stranger, and I’m somewhat of a private person.”
“I understand that this is difficult,” she said. “We can talk about the weather if you’d like.”
“I don’t know. It’s just . . . this sketch, the drawing of this man. It’s the best lead we’ve had, you know? But in some ways it’s making things worse for me.”
“How?”
“I don’t know.”
Susan Goff didn’t say anything. She just sat there, coffee mug before her, waiting.
“I’m afraid,” I said finally.
“Of what?”
I paused. “I’m afraid if I admit my doubts, they’ll become reality.”
She kept her steady gaze on me. “What are you afraid of?”
I didn’t answer. I couldn’t say it. I refused to say it.
“Are you afraid she’s dead?” Susan asked.
“Jesus Christ. You can’t just say that to somebody. You can’t just be so cavalier about it.”
Susan straightened a little in her chair. “You’re right,” she said. “I can’t. I’m sorry.”
“Jesus.”
“Maybe I’m overstepping too soon.”
“Maybe.”
“But I was just trying to give voice to what you were already thinking.” She cleared her throat. “You’re here because you want to know something about yourself. You feel guilty. And you want to know if it makes you a bad father to allow yourself to think the worst. It’s not an unusual response. I worked with a woman a few years back. Her sixteen-year-old son had been killed in a car accident. Sixteen. About a year after the accident she decided to give his clothes to Goodwill. She felt so guilty and like such a bad mother, she practically collapsed. She went to bed for a week. I had to go and talk to her in her bedroom. Do you see how this can affect people?”
“I guess you’re right.” My voice sounded thin and distant even to my own ears.
“Why would you think she’s dead?”
I felt small in the chair, like a child. “It’s been four years. With no real advances in the case. Even the recent events, this man—”
“This is the man from the strip club? The one in the sketch in the paper?”
“Yes.”
“The man who Tracy saw.”
“Has she talked to you about him?” I asked. “Has she said anything about this man?”
She didn’t answer.
“You can’t say,” I said. “Or you won’t say. Which is it?”
“If one of your students came to you and asked about another student’s grade, what would you say?”
“I get it,” I said.
“Let me ask you this—why would it be such a problem to admit that your daughter is in all likelihood dead?”
“I’m not supposed to. I have to believe she’s not gone.”
“Why?”
“I’m her father.” It was the best and simplest answer I could summon.
“But you don’t really seem to believe this. I can tell. You’re full of doubt. And that’s why you’re here, right? That’s why you’re talking to a complete stranger after all this time, when I know you’ve had plenty of opportunities to talk to shrinks and social workers. You’re here because you’ve been playing the big, strong man all this time, and now the doubts are starting to win. Right?”
“I thought you didn’t offer opinions or judgment unless asked?”
“You seem like you can handle it,” she said. “So, am I right?”
My throat felt constricted and phlegmy. “When I look around, I see that everyone else is moving on, has moved on, and maybe I should do the same.”
“Maybe?”
“I should move on,” I said.
“But why? Why now? What’s changed?”
I reached into my own coat pocket and brought out a ziplock bag. I handed it across the table. Susan took it, examined it, and then looked at me.
“A wilted flower,” she said.
“Before I came over here today, I went into Caitlin’s room. I do that from time to time.”
“Is it still her room?” Susan asked. “Have you changed it?”
I shook my head. “It’s exactly the same.”