And then I go back to the computer.
The first thing I do is look through the images, expecting to see Willow’s face staring right back at me. But instead I find some redheaded celeb of the same name. A brunette blotting various social media pages, appearing far too immodest—boobs spilling out of a scoop-neck shirt, a paunch overhanging a pair of cutoff jeans—to be our Willow. A town called Willow in Greer County, Oklahoma. Various homes for sale in Greer, South Carolina. According to the virtual phone book, there are six people living in the United States with the name Willow Greer. Not to be confused with Stephen Greer who lives on Willow Ridge Drive in Cincinnati. Only four of six Willow Greers are listed. I yank a sheet of scratch paper from the printer and begin jotting the information down. Willow Greer of Old Saybrook, Connecticut, is in the forty-to forty-four-year-old age range. Too old. Willow Greer of Billingsley, Alabama, is even older at 65+. She could be ninety. I write it down anyway; maybe Ms. Greer of Billingsley, Alabama, is our Willow’s grandma. Or great-grandma. The others don’t list an age range.
I jot down what sparse information I can find, and then it occurs to me: do you have to be eighteen to be listed in the phone book? Or, more importantly, own property?
I quickly type in Zoe Wood in Chicago, Illinois, and come up empty.
Damn.
I twiddle my thumbs for a split second, thinking. Where would I find Zoe online, if not the white pages? I quickly scan the various social media pages I’m familiar with, which are few and far between. Facebook. Myspace. I’d probably get a lot further in my investigation if I let my twelve-year-old help, the same way she navigates my cell phone for me when I’m stuck. I consider calling her, a stealthy call to her cell, but then picture the confiscated phone at home on the counter beside Heidi’s. Crap.
I begin searching for variations of the name Willow Greer. I try Willow G., followed by Willow Grier. I try Willow with one l. I humor myself and drop the second w: Willo. You never know.
And then I come across a Twitter account for a W. Greer, username @LostWithoutU. I know nothing about Twitter, but I find the tweets dark and depressing, made up of all sorts of suicidal innuendos and allegations. Gonna do it. 2nite. But the profile shot of this girl, of this W. Greer, is not the one living in my home. This girl is older, a legitimate eighteen or nineteen years old, showing off lacerations on her wrist, a disturbing smile. The last tweet was posted two weeks ago. I wonder if she did it, if she made the decision to end her life.
And how.
“Hi there, stranger.”
I minimize the screen lightning fast, relax in the chair as if I haven’t just been caught red-handed, doing something wrong. Is stalking a crime? Never mind stalking, I think. This is research.
And yet, I’m certain a declaration of guilt is plastered to my face.
Cassidy Knudsen stands in the doorway. She’s replaced the pencil skirt and three-inch heels with something a little less formal—and a lot more attractive in my opinion: skintight jeans and a roomy ebony sweater that falls from a shoulder, leaving a lacy red bra strap exposed. She tugs on the sweater, as if trying to amend its crookedness, but it falls back out of place. She leaves it alone, crosses one foot over the other—her Converse All Stars are, somehow, hotter than the three-inch heels—and leans against the frame. “Thought you were working from home this weekend.”
“So did I,” I say as I reach for the receipt—the words Willow Greer on the back—and crumple it into a ball. “Offering memorandum,” I add, tossing the wad of paper back and forth between my hands, and then, “Things were a little too chaotic at home.”
“Zoe?” she asks because, of course, who wouldn’t think the twelve-year-old was responsible for the chaos?
“Actually,” I admit, “Heidi,” and Cassidy apologizes sympathetically as if I’ve just alluded to marital problems. This überconcerned look crosses her face: the buttery-blond hair and gray-blue eyes, the fair skin.
“So sorry to hear that, Chris,” she says, welcoming herself into the office and having a seat on one of the armless teal chairs that sit facing my desk. “Anything you want to talk about?” she asks as she crosses her legs and leans in, like only a woman can do. Men catch a whiff of melancholy and go running in the opposite direction; women lean into it, the need to talk it out feeding their soul.
“Just Heidi being Heidi,” I say, instantly sorry for saying anything in the realm of negativity about my marriage. “Which isn’t a bad thing,” I add shamefacedly, and Cassidy offers, “Heidi is a good woman.”