Alyvia reached for the cigarette again. “Only you would call the janitor Mister.”
“He worked at the church I used to go to in Saxon Falls when I was a kid.” He’d always been hanging around, sometimes talking to Reverend Mikkelsen, working on the lights, cleaning, or setting up the Christmas decorations. Janie tried to picture Kelsey trusting the pudgy, bearded custodian to take those pictures she’d hidden in Janie’s room. Failed. There’d been $1,000 cash in the envelope. Herb Newman didn’t look like he’d ever had that much money at one time in his life.
“Deedee said something like that, too. That she knew him from church camp or something.”
Janie opened her mouth to ask about the money, then closed it again. It had been a huge leap for her to share the information about Kelsey’s photos, but she hadn’t mentioned the cash. Liv was her best friend, but some things were too raw. Too private. And she hadn’t shared her suspicion that Claire hadn’t given the information to the police. She had protective instincts of her own.
But it made her wonder what other secrets her family might have kept from her.
“What are you going to do?”
Braking for a stoplight, Janie considered the question. She’d had thoughts of giving the name to the BCI, but without the context of her sister’s possible relationship to the photographer, the information would be meaningless to them. Did the pictures have anything to do with Kelsey’s death? There was no way to be certain, short of thoroughly checking out Newman. And the people best prepared to do that were cops.
She’d been ten when her sister was taken. Helpless to do anything to assist. Too young, too disabled to talk to the BCI agents, even if she’d wanted to. And now she had her mother to consider. Janie had learned to read the signs, and experience told her that Claire Willard had been hitting the vodka hard for the last couple of days. No action could be taken that might end up pushing her mom over the edge.
The BCI finding out that she’d been less than open seven years ago would be a gigantic shove.
So Janie had to step carefully. Gather details herself, and then figure out how to share them if necessary in a way that wouldn’t implicate her mother.
“Are you there?” Alyvia snapped her fingers in front of her face. “I asked—”
“I heard you.” Nebulous bits clicked into place as the beginning of a plan began to formulate. One that had her heart and throat constricting simultaneously. “I’m going to talk to Newman. Set up a photo shoot.”
Claire Willard
November 11
9:35 a.m.
The house’s emptiness was always deafening after Janie left for school. Claire finished a bowl of oatmeal she didn’t want and reached for coffee. Her fingers wrapped around the mug, absorbing the heat even as she lifted it to her lips and sipped. A corresponding stream of warmth slid down her throat. Spread. The sensation was pleasant. A splash of vodka in the coffee would be even more . . .
Determinedly she pushed the craving aside. The last two days had been spent in a haze of alcohol and pills, and the residue of self-loathing was even less palatable than the oatmeal had been.
She needed to call Barbara. She should offer an apology. Muscles tensing, she raised the mug again. But she wasn’t sorry. Not really. And her friend would sense that. Barbara knew her better than anyone these days. Certainly better than David did. So she’d explain rather than apologize, but she wondered if she could make her friend understand. Could anyone truly empathize when they hadn’t suffered the same loss? Losing a child made Claire jealous of every moment others had with Kelsey that she hadn’t shared. Life had dealt only a finite number of pieces of her daughter, and now, without her, Claire wanted to selfishly collect and hoard all those bits for herself.
She stared into the dark liquid in the mug blindly. Had she known what fate had in store, she would have guarded the last moments with her daughter more carefully. Now it was too late. Being jealous of her friend’s final sighting of her daughter was completely unreasonable. She realized that. But she was helpless to feel differently.
Taking another long sip of coffee, Claire reached for the fledging threads of inner fortitude she’d pledged to rebuild only days earlier. She was going to slip sometimes. That was to be expected. But what mattered was restarting again. Stronger. More determined than ever to change.
The self-talk was meant to be a confidence booster. Instead, it felt more than a little depressing. Maybe Dr. Schultz had been right. Maybe she should try a therapist again. Especially now, when she was at least willing to—
A distant peal interrupted her thoughts. She blinked, looking toward the kitchen doorway, puzzled. It wasn’t one of Marta’s days, and even if it were, the woman let herself in. Claire froze for a moment, remembering the agent who’d stopped by a couple of days ago. She didn’t want to face him again.
The doorbell rang a second time, more insistently. Claire didn’t move. It could be Barbara. It probably was. It would be like her friend to give Claire time to calm down and then check in on her. The coffee splashed precariously close to the edge of the mug as she set it down hastily, lurching to her feet, and hurried to the front door.
A tremulous smile on her lips, she pulled the door open. “I was just thinking about . . .” The rest of the sentence tapered off as she stared in shock at the woman on her porch.
Shannon DeVries offered her a smile, one that quickly faded. “I’m sorry to show up like this. But . . . strange as it sounds, you’re the only one I know who might understand.”
It felt surreal to be standing in her kitchen, a woman she barely knew ensconced in a chair at the table as Claire poured another mug of coffee. Distantly she noticed that her hand on the carafe was trembling. A ball of dread was knotting in her belly. There was no one she’d rather not talk to than the mother of Whitney DeVries. But the memory of the early days after Kelsey had been taken kept her from sending the woman away. Whatever Shannon had to say, Claire probably would understand.
That still didn’t mean she wanted to hear it.
Turning, she crossed to the table and silently handed the woman the mug, then topped off her own. Finally, having run out of distractions, she slipped into her seat, bringing the coffee to her lips as if to ward off what was to come.