He nodded. “Your husband mentioned that you had once attended the same church as Brian DeVries’s mother.”
“Yes, years ago.” Claire couldn’t recall the last time she’d been to church. The faith that she’d been raised with had seemed to slip from her grasp after Kelsey was gone. Just one more thing that had vanished with her daughter.
“And you took the girls?”
“Um . . . Kelsey more often than Janie, probably, but certainly both of them at times. Kelsey is the only one who attended any youth activities. That would have been very difficult for Janie back then.” And wouldn’t be a favored activity even now.
“What sort of activities?”
Claire tried to recall. Her mind was a hopeless jumble of thoughts. She sent a beseeching look to her friend, who put in smoothly, “There were youth church nights on Wednesdays. Bible school on Sundays, and I know our kids attended church camp at least a couple of summers together.”
Seizing on the information, Claire nodded. “Yes, Kelsey refused to go back to camp after the second time. By twelve, she’d outgrown it, I think. The following year I switched to a church here in town. I wasn’t really a fan of the new pastor who’d taken over a couple of years earlier. Even less of a fan of his wife.” She sent an apologetic look to her friend. Barbara had been on the church board that had hired the Reverend Mikkelsen.
Mark looked at Barbara. “What about you, Ms. Hunt? Are you still a member of that church?”
“I am, yes. While I don’t always agree with some of Reverend Mikkelsen’s more conservative views, the church does a lot of good work for the community. I know Helen DeVries well and am acquainted with her daughter-in-law.”
“And Whitney DeVries?”
“She’s attended church occasionally with Helen. I’ve met her a time or two.”
“Did she ever take part in the youth activities that your families did?”
Barbara smoothed her slacks with her free hand and took a sip from the mug she held. “I wouldn’t know. I don’t have children that age anymore, and I haven’t been on the church board for years.”
The man stared at her for a moment before snapping his fingers. “Barbara Hunt. I knew that name sounded familiar. You gave a statement after Kelsey Willard disappeared.”
Claire stilled. She shouldn’t be surprised. Anyone connected to their family would have been questioned. And as much time as she’d spent with Claire, Barbara had known her family well.
But something in the woman’s face had needles of caution stabbing through her. “Yes.”
Mark used his free hand to check both his coat pockets before finding a notebook and drawing it out. Expertly, he flipped it open and thumbed through it. Stopped for a moment to read before glancing up again. “You were the last on record to report seeing Kelsey Willard the day she disappeared.”
Claire swayed in her seat. “You . . . you saw Kelsey? When? Where?” Barbara reached for her hand. She snatched it away. “You never told me that. Never. How could you not have told me that?”
Her expression tortured, the woman said, “I didn’t see how it would help you to hear it. It was on Baltimore Street, about three miles from here. She was on her bike. I saw her for only an instant.”
Kelsey’s bike had been found much farther away than that. On Gilbert, just around the corner and down the block from the fire station. Which had been empty, because it was staffed by volunteers on an as-needed basis. Six miles from her house. The one Claire had forbidden her to leave. The one Kelsey had stormed out of, anyway.
You’re not going anywhere, young lady. Not with that attitude. And not on a school night.
I wouldn’t have an attitude if you weren’t on my back about every little thing. She’d shoved her arms through the sleeves of her jacket, her jaw jutted in a way that was becoming all too familiar.
Honestly, you’re just so mercurial these days. I don’t see—
That’s just it, Claire, you don’t see. You don’t see anything, because you’re blind!
The slam of the door like a rifle shot sounding through the house. Her frantic calls to David, because of course, they had to go after her. Find her. But no one had ever found Kelsey. And Claire had been left to replay that final scene over and over in her mind, picking it apart for clues to a puzzle she’d never solved.
“Do you have anything to add to your original statement, Ms. Hunt?”
Barbara shook her head, looking miserable. The agent consulted his notes again. “One thing you said struck me. That you glimpsed Kelsey well enough to be certain it was her. And that she looked anguished.”
The walls were pressing in on her, squeezing the air from the room. Claire bolted to her feet with a suddenness that had the coffee sloshing over the edge of the mug. “How could you?” The words were a furious hiss. “How could you keep that from me?” She and David had clung to every bit of information the agents had shared with them. Going over and over every word, wringing each detail to sift for precious news of their daughter. They’d certainly been told where Kelsey had last been seen.
But not by whom.
She looked anguished . . .
“Mrs. Willard, I don’t think—”
“You have to leave now.” It was an effort to put one foot in front of the other. The floor felt like quicksand shifting beneath her feet. Unsteady, she set the mug down on the end table as she went by. “Both of you. Go.”
“Claire.” Barbara rushed after her, catching up with her at the staircase. “It didn’t change anything. And I was trying to spare you, that’s all. You didn’t need . . .”
With great effort Claire turned her head to look at the other woman. “You knew how desperate we were for every detail. Not sharing this with us . . . it was cruel. I told you how it felt for us to be kept in the dark by the police. The agents. For you to do the same thing, knowing that . . .” The taste of betrayal was bitter.
“I didn’t. At least . . . I mean, David knew. He . . . we decided there was no use burdening you with it. It doesn’t change anything.”
There was a part of her that knew that was true. Kelsey had been so angry when she left the house. A sudden temper that had seemingly bubbled out of nowhere and escalated into inexplicable fury. Maybe that temper had fueled her energy to ride six miles across town. In God’s name, what had happened to her normally sunny-dispositioned daughter?
“Maybe not.” She turned, grasping the railing for the support she desperately needed and started upstairs. “But that wasn’t your decision to make. Or David’s. You should have told me.”
David Willard
November 9
4:38 p.m.