“And who was ‘everyone,’ exactly?”
“Natalie—behind me, whose daughter is here now. Izzy—Isabel, who lives across the street. And Randi and Rhoda—” She pointed a diagonal through the backyard. “Around the curve.”
“They the ones with those rusty sculptures out front? The solar panels, the chicken coop, and all that?” Clara thought of telling him her husband called their home an “art bunker,” but thought better of it.
“Yes. They own that boutique in town—Moondance?”
“Oh, sure, my sister loves that place. Didn’t they just have a baby?”
“Yes, a couple months ago. Like I said, we all needed a girls’ night.” She tried to laugh, but it sounded forced.
“So it was just you five?”
She counted silently. “Six, with Kristin.”
“Did she seem nervous about anything?”
“Not that I could tell.”
“Is she a nervous person in general?”
Clara laughed. “She is cool as a cucumber. She puts me to shame.”
“What do you mean?”
She tried to think of a way to quantify her friend. “Well, she’d never answer the door with pants on her head.”
“And how well do you know Paul?”
“Hardly at all.” He’d never been the type to be out in the yard, throwing balls with the kids. Usually, when she did see him, he was on the riding lawn mower, something he still came by to do in the separation. He always raised his hand in a silent wave, but that was it.
“He friendly with your husband?”
She shook her head. When she’d started getting to know Kristin, she’d tried to nudge Benny to reach out to Paul, but he’d called him “more of an indoor guy” and left it at that. She’d been worried Paul would think them unfriendly, but then he had moved out and she’d figured, No harm, no foul.
“I have to ask: Ever notice any signs of domestic abuse next door?”
Clara cringed. “No,” she said truthfully. “Never.”
“Between the two spouses or between them and the kids? It doesn’t have to be physical. Any shouting? Threats? A general sense that something’s not right?”
She shook her head again, trying to ignore the dizzy feeling sweeping through it.
“Thanks. Well, if you think of anything else significant, here’s my card. Call anytime.” He slid it across the table. “We can’t tell you not to talk to the press, but we’d prefer you didn’t. You’ll be seeing this on the news. We’re issuing an AMBER Alert for the minivan—”
“An AMBER Alert?” Clara felt a jolt of fear. “Is she being charged with kidnapping?”
He frowned. “Not exactly. Since Mr. Kirkland never adopted the children, it’s probably something more along the lines of ‘interfering with custody.’ At this point our concern is just to locate them, make sure everyone is okay.”
Clara squinted at him. “I’m sorry—what do you mean, he hasn’t adopted them?”
Detective Bryant seemed to be reassessing her. “I guess I shouldn’t have said that. You’re friends—I assumed you knew the children aren’t biologically his?”
If not his, then … “She was married before?”
“She was widowed.”
“My God.” Her mind raced. It made a little more sense, Clara supposed, how Kristin had seemed a bit blasé about how the kids were taking the divorce. But how—
“An accident. One of those freak things.” He was watching her closely, and suddenly she felt defensive.
“That’s horrible. Awful.” She shook her head. “She probably just didn’t want to discuss that, to bring it up in front of the kids.”
“Right,” he said evenly.
She was still trying to piece it all together. “I thought there was some kind of waiting period, for considering someone missing? I mean, couldn’t this all be some misunderstanding?”
“Let’s hope so. But there’s no waiting when kids are involved. We’re treating this as critical, and we have to assume they’re in danger until we know for certain that they’re not.”
“In danger with Kristin?” Clara shook her head. “That’s ridiculous. Never.”
“We don’t know that they’re with Kristin.” He leveled his gaze at her. “We don’t know where any of them are. You hear from her at all, you call my number on that card, okay?”
Clara nodded, and watched him go.
4
Maybe you’ve had this experience: waiting for someone who’s late coming home. Really late. You call and call their phone, and there’s no answer. Your mind starts to conjure stories of disaster. A patch of black ice. A jackknifed semitruck. A drunk driver. You look out the window every five minutes. You tell yourself you’re being silly. You recheck your phone to make sure you haven’t missed a call. You turn on the porch light as it grows dark, praying you won’t see a police cruiser pull up to deliver bad news. You stare at the TV, not seeing. You pour a glass of water, realizing your mouth has gone dry.
There’s a simple explanation. They come home and tell you so. A dead cell phone battery. A traffic jam. Briefly, you wonder what caused it—maybe another person was in the accident that moments ago seemed such a certain possibility. But it doesn’t matter anymore, not really. It wasn’t your person. Your worry dissolves. It’s easily forgotten. By morning, you’re bickering again.
I used to be that way. A real basket case. Drove my husband crazy when he’d walk through the door and I’d rush at him, all, “Where have you been and why didn’t you call and don’t you know how worried I was?” Then one day, I finally pulled myself together. I was too tired for neurotic, needless worry. I didn’t wait up.
And he never came home.
5
I hear you’re the other one with a mountain bike chained outside. Want to hit the trails Saturday? Buddy system = good. Josh, Room 304
—Note scribbled on the dry-erase board of Izzy’s dorm room door, freshman college year, second week
Izzy could not possibly return her sister’s calls right now. She was far too busy incessantly peeking through the blinds, looking for any sign of change over at Paul and Kristin’s. The gleaming white Victorian stood defiant in the moonlight, every window lit as if to signal, in a luxury version of the old Motel 6 commercials: Please come home. The police had left awhile ago, and Paul had not emerged, but she knew he was in there, waiting. Hoping.
What hell must he be going through?
She’d fill Penny in later, and of course her sister would understand why she hadn’t called her back at a time like this. Never mind that Izzy didn’t actually know Kristin well enough to be truly fraught over her vanishing act, that she thought of herself as more of a curious spectator, even in the surreal moments of the detective’s interview earlier. And no matter that Penny had left messages on both her cell and landline, as well as a text and even an email: Call me? Miss you. Would love to come see the place again, now that you’re settled. It wasn’t the words that stung—it was the sight of Penny’s new name in her in-box. The surname was all wrong.