“A lot of historic places are.”
“But these were heinous, bloody crimes. Unsolved crimes. That casts a pall.”
“So now you’re on the bandwagon with all those -people who think Mundy’s Landing is cursed? Mom and Dad always said that was ridiculous. How can you—-”
“I don’t think it’s cursed. I just think it’s depressing. You can’t argue with that.”
Rowan could, and tried. Unsuccessfully.
“So what are you saying?” she finally asked Noreen. “After today, you’re never coming back here again?”
“There’s nothing to come back to.”
“Mundy’s Landing will always be home to me. It’s your home, too.”
“Not anymore.” Not with their parents gone and the house on the market and a burgeoning life on Long Island.
A perfect life.
For a while, anyway.
Rowan was right. Places change, just like -people.
Not always for the better, but sometimes . . .
With a sigh, Noreen reaches for her cell phone and dials her sister’s number.
Rowan snatches it up on the first ring. “Noreen?”
“I just got to town.”
“Okay, go over to my house and let yourself in. There’s a key hidden under the pot on the back steps. I’m on my way over to the high school.”
“Why?”
“I just have to . . . take care of something. I’ll be home as soon as I can.”
“Okay. Where’s Rick?
“He just texted that he’s on his way to my house.”
“You told him where you live?”
“No. But obviously, he’s figured it out, because he didn’t ask me for an address. If he gets there before I do, just . . . deal with him.”
“Deal with him? What does that mean?”
“I’m sorry, I’ve got to go.”
Rowan might as well have said, You’re the big sister. Just do whatever you have to do to fix things and get me out of trouble.
Noreen hangs up with a sigh.
Yes, some -people change—-and some never do.
Trying not to panic, Mick sits in Mr. Goodall’s office under the watchful gaze of the principal and a man he’s been addressing as Coach Calhoun since his youth soccer league days. Today, however, he’s not wearing a red team shirt and a whistle around his neck; he’s in uniform as the chief of police here in Mundy’s Landing.
That Brianna is missing is a nightmare. That anyone thinks Mick could possibly have something to do with it is crazy.
Coach—-Chief—-Calhoun asked about the gifts he left her, though he didn’t come right out and say Mick is suspected of being anything other than a stupid, stupid, stupid Secret Santa. But why else would he be here, with the other cop, Officer Greenlea, standing guard just outside the door?
The office is unbearably hot and stuffy despite the window being cracked open a few inches. Snow is falling outside.
In the distance, a salt truck rumbles, but the room is so silent he can hear the two men breathing and swallowing. By comparison, his own breathing and swallowing sound deafening.
He wishes they’d say something, or even interrogate him like they do in movies, but they seem to be waiting for Mom to get here.
He keeps wondering if he should just come right out and proclaim his innocence. Or maybe ask for a lawyer.
But that might make him seem guilty of . . .
What? What the hell is happening?
Where’s Brianna?
The dread that something terrible has happened to her mingles miserably with terror over his own predicament, so acute that any second now he might pass out or throw up, or—-far worse—-start to cry.
At last, the phone on the desk rings. Mr. Goodall answers it, says, “Okay, good. Have her wait right there,” hangs up, and looks at Mick. “Your mom is here.”
He can only nod mutely as a surge of emotion mixes with the lump of nausea threatening to burst from his throat. If anyone can fix this, it’s his mother. She’ll set them straight, whatever it is that they’re thinking.