Cemetery Girl

“Did you check his house?” I asked.

 

Ryan nodded. “Of course. I need you to tell me other places we might find him.”

 

“I don’t know—”

 

“And I need to know if you’ve heard from him lately. Anything at all.”

 

Ryan held his gaze on mine, his eyes boring into me like an X-ray.

 

“Buster is . . .” My voice trailed off. I tried again. “Look . . .” I replayed the scene in the car early that morning. His words. He’d been right, I had to admit. He had always stood by me when we were children, and I couldn’t underestimate that. Even if he had been involved—which I doubted, I really doubted—I wanted to find that out for myself. I couldn’t bear the thought of handing him over to the police, to strangers. I drew the line there. “I don’t know where he is. We had a falling out. We often have them. I haven’t spoken to him in a few weeks. In fact, the last time I saw him was right here at this house. And you were here, too. Listen, Ryan, are you really telling me Buster was directly involved? Just because this woman said something about him?”

 

“Like I said, we’re moving forward on the case with the goal of placing Colter in custody again,” Ryan said. “We need to talk to William as well. If he comes in voluntarily, it can be easier on him. If not . . .”

 

“Tom?” Abby asked. “Where is he?”

 

“I don’t know. I said I haven’t seen him.”

 

Ryan let out a little sigh. He placed his hands on his knees and pushed himself up out of the chair. He straightened his jacket by tugging on the lapels.

 

“You’ll let us know if anything else happens,” Abby said.

 

“I will.” Ryan pointed at my face. “And if I were you, I’d put some ice on that eye. Whoever you fell on was probably trying to hurt you.”

 

 

 

 

 

Chapter Forty-eight

 

 

 

Abby and I remained on opposite ends of the couch, not saying anything to each other. Not moving. I shifted a little, adjusting my position, trying to get comfortable.

 

“Aren’t you going to say anything, Tom?”

 

“What’s there to say?” I looked to the hallway, to the space where Caitlin’s pictures had been removed.

 

“I should have known it was him,” she said. “I should have known it would be someone in the family, someone close to us. It always is. Statistically, you know, it’s always a family member involved. And considering Buster’s past, his record. And you defended him. You said he wouldn’t hurt Caitlin.”

 

“Where is she?”

 

“Upstairs. Asleep. At least she was when Ryan called.”

 

I brought my hand up and touched my cheek. It felt tender and a little puffy. Ryan was right. It needed ice.

 

“Where were you?” she asked. “Really. Where were you?”

 

“I thought I heard someone trying to get into the house. I came downstairs and looked. I couldn’t go back to sleep, so I took a walk.”

 

“Someone tried to get into the house and you left us?”

 

“I thought someone tried to get into the house.”

 

“Did you really fall?”

 

I looked toward the stairs. “It was wet. The dew. I was wearing these shoes.” I pointed at my feet distractedly. “I’m going to talk to her.”

 

“About what?”

 

“I’m going to ask her about Buster.”

 

“Good. Bring her down here.”

 

“No. I think it would be better if I went alone. She’ll listen to me.”

 

Abby made a bitter, dismissive noise. It sounded like Hut. “She hasn’t listened to you for four years, Tom. She never listened to you. You were more like friends. That’s why she liked you. She didn’t have to hear or obey anything you said.”

 

I stood up. Slowly, gingerly, taking one step at a time, I went up the stairs.

 

 

 

 

 

I knocked on the door of the master bedroom and didn’t wait for a response before I pushed the door open. Caitlin was sitting on the floor, her back against the bed frame, the bulk of a sleeping bag spread underneath her. She was wearing long underwear—tops and bottoms—and she looked wide awake, her eyes alert.

 

I moved over to the bed and eased myself down. A stitch of pain poked me in the side, and I winced. Caitlin showed no concern.

 

I pointed to my puffy cheek. “Do you know who did this to me? Buster. Your Uncle Buster. We haven’t fought like that since we were kids. It used to be more even then. But last night, he kicked my ass.”

 

Her eyes widened.

 

“Was he there, Caitlin? With Colter? Was Buster ever there?”

 

She looked down at her hands and started picking at the cuticles. Her nails were short, the skin around them red and scabbed, as though she’d picked them over more than once.

 

“Caitlin? I’m not going to tell Mom.”

 

I was ready to let it go when she spoke up.

 

“I thought I heard his voice once,” she said. She continued to stare at her hands. “I thought maybe I imagined it. At first . . .” She paused a long time. “I used to hear a lot of voices. I used to think a lot of people were there, looking for me.” She hesitated. “I even used to think I heard you and Mom.”