Finley watched the woman. She seemed to deflate under the weight of the conversation. Much of the flush was gone from her cheeks. Finley could see her running, pushing her body to the edge of its endurance just for the fatigue that would follow. She didn’t run for her health; she ran to quiet the grief.
“It’s such a cliché,” she said. “The police assumed from the beginning that it was him, and I’m not sure that they ever looked for any other possibility.”
Jones made a noncommittal but affirming noise, and Betty turned subtly toward him.
“When the other girl—Abbey Gleason—went missing, they started to wonder if they missed something. But then they picked that family apart, too.”
Again, Jones gave a sympathetic nod. He wouldn’t trash the police work that was done, even if he didn’t agree with the way the investigation had been conducted. That wasn’t his way. Jones Cooper kept his opinions to himself.
“They reopened the investigation at that time,” Betty said. Finley noticed then a kind of flat, glassy quality to the woman’s eyes. She was on meds of some kind, understandably.
“You moved here about a year before their disappearance?” Jones asked. “Is that right?”
She nodded. “You know, the city is so expensive, we could give the kids a better life—all that.”
“What drew you to The Hollows?” Finley asked. They had that in common, the Gleasons and the Fitzpatricks—they were outsiders, come to The Hollows from elsewhere.
“My family is from here,” she said. “My maternal grandmother Hester Briar was born here. I never knew her, but I remembered visiting the town when I was a kid. When Jed and I were looking for a place to live, we came here and fell in love with it. I felt like I instantly belonged. Jed—not so much. I think it was one of the things that pushed us over the brink to divorce.”
There was a kind of ripple in Finley’s perception. And then the little girl appeared at her mother’s feet, brushing the hair of a Barbie doll. The boy was over by the television, holding a video game controller in his hand, tapping it violently and jerking his body side-to-side like he was driving a racecar. Then they were gone.
Finley looked at the Xbox, cords wrapped and stowed on a tidy shelf next to a stack of game sleeves. There were books in a basket under the coffee table, and a small wicker toy box in the corner. It was a room waiting for children.
“Do you mind an odd question?” asked Finley. She felt the heat of Jones’s eyes on her. But Betty smiled sadly and shook her head, as if there was no question that hadn’t already been asked of her.
“Did either of your children ever experience prophetic dreams? Or maybe play with imaginary friends? See people who weren’t there?”
Betty leaned back in her chair and looked up at the ceiling as if trying to retrieve the answer.
“Well, Eliza has a wild imagination,” she said. “She’s always making up stories, creating cartoon characters. I wouldn’t say she had prophetic dreams. But now that you mention it, there was an imaginary friend for a while after we moved here. We didn’t think much of it. Just her way of adjusting to a new life, missing her old friends and teachers.”
Betty’s eyes drifted over to one of the pictures of the kids on the mantle.
“Joshua, on the other hand, is all about math and science,” she said. “Not even much of a reader. He has an engineer’s mind, just like his dad. No imaginary friends for him.”
A tear escaped Betty’s eye, and she excused herself and got up, left the room. Finley and Jones sat awkwardly, waiting. Finley watched as the little boy returned, playing with his Xbox. He seemed familiar, not just from the photos she’d seen. Something about his energy was known to her. She watched as he rocked back and forth, his face grim with intent, his hands working at the game control.
“What are you looking at?” Jones asked.
“Nothing,” Finley lied.
Finally Betty returned, looking utterly composed and dry-eyed.
“Did they hire you to find Abbey?” Betty asked when she sat again. Her hands twisted in her lap, like she was working in lotion.
“We’re looking for Abbey,” Jones said. “Yes.”
“Then you’re looking for Eliza, Josh, and Jed, too,” she said. Even through Betty’s flat affect, Finley could see that she was still daring to hope that her family might come home to her.
“It’s not out of the realm of possibility that the two cases are connected,” said Jones with a careful nod.
“Did Abbey have dreams?” Betty asked.
“Her mother says that she did,” answered Jones.
Finley wondered how much he could tell or should tell about another client. She guessed he did what he had to do to make people comfortable, to get them talking without breaking important confidences. It must be a delicate balance.
“Why does it matter?” Betty asked. “I mean, why did you ask me about that?”
“Maybe it doesn’t,” said Jones, casting a glance at Finley. “We’re just looking for connections, no matter how remote.”
But Betty had her eyes on Finley. “I know you,” she said quietly. “I know your grandmother.”
Finley didn’t say anything.
“Are you a psychic?” Betty asked.