“That’s who the fight was with, yes. Riana claims it caught fire . . . by itself.”
Detective Harper raised his eyebrows and shook his head, mumbled teenagers. Bridget wanted to grip his forearm. These weren’t fifteen-, sixteen-year-olds. They were seventeen, many eighteen. Looking toward the horizon of freedom, Mt. Oanoke already behind them, nipping at their heels. They weren’t looking back. Which is why none of the venom against Lucia made sense. In a matter of mere weeks, they could all choose to never see her, think of her again.
Then again, Bridget had experienced firsthand Lucia’s personal brand of strangeness, the way she could needle a person, get under their skin. But then she heard Taylor’s voice, Sometimes I think it’s all she has. Bridget wondered if Taylor was right, that fear and hate were at least better than apathy.
“Well, Ms. Peterson, Officer Harris, we’ll look for her. Look into it, go to her house. She’s eighteen, so she’s free to drop out of school and leave town. But considering the allegations at the moment, this will be taken seriously, I can assure you.”
That didn’t make Bridget feel any better. It seemed like she was choosing Lucia’s safety over the appearance of Nate’s innocence, which was never her intention. It seemed as though she was being dismissed.
She stayed, stuck to the chair. Waiting, wanting to say something else.
“We’ll call you if we need anything else,” Detective Harper said finally. Tripp guided Bridget out, through the maze of cubicles.
As they were leaving, Detective Harper said something to Tripp, which sounded like, it’ll come together.
They climbed into Tripp’s truck in the parking lot, and Tripp put the keys in the ignition and didn’t turn the engine over. His hand rested on his knee, flexing and unfurling his fingers, and Bridget watched them. His knee was wide, and even through the denim she could see the thick rope of muscle in his thigh, his knuckles digging into it. She watched his face. He looked at her, his eyes big, his face stricken.
“I have to tell you something, Bridge. I couldn’t have said it before, I guess.” He shifted up on his thigh a bit to look at her. “I’m in a spot, though. It’s kind of terrible.”
“I don’t understand.” Bridget said.
“You know how I said I’ve been working doubles all week?”
Bridget nodded.
“Monday night, the desk clerk fielded a call from Nate. He said he was on Route Six and he saw Lucia. And she ran into the woods.”
“Wait.” Bridget shook her head, to clear it. “Nate saw her? Why wouldn’t you tell me this? I never would have gone to the police.” She pressed her back up against the window, the door of the truck, the anger quick and hot beneath her breastbone.
“Bridget,” Tripp raked a hand through his hair. “I am the police. You came to me. I had to let you report a missing person. I couldn’t tell you what was already being investigated.”
“You set me up,” Bridget accused.
“There’s no setup. I couldn’t tell you what was going on until you talked to the detective. I could lose my job. I’m trying to do the right things here, but this is . . . complicated.” Tripp scrubbed at his cheek, the stubble making a scratching sound. “I’ve barely even seen Nate, talked to Nate. I’m working so much and when I get home, he’s gone.”
“You’re saying that everyone knows that Lucia is missing already?” she asked, her voice sounding far away, underwater.
“No, not really. The call was suspicious, they called him back a few times but he didn’t answer. Eventually they sent a squad car out but didn’t find anything. They checked attendance records and she had been in school on Monday. She was out on Tuesday, but that’s not really a crime. So until now, there wasn’t much to investigate. Does that make sense?”
“Until me, you mean.”
“We just know that according to your timetable,” Tripp’s mouth slacked, his voice slow and sluggish. “Nate was the last person to see her.”
CHAPTER 23
Alecia, Thursday, May 7, 2015
In another life, Alecia cared about Thursdays. On Thursdays, there used to be happy hours and late nights over Jack and Cokes, cigarettes and boozy, furtive whisperings while her coworker stole kisses from the guy in Content Management, you know the blond one with the cute mole-slash-beauty mark? Followed by slightly embarrassing Friday mornings and furtive, giggling conversations in the ladies’ room until it was Thursday night and time to do it all over again, either with the same guy or a different guy, it didn’t matter either way. They were young then.
But now, Mondays looked like Thursdays looked like Wednesdays, the only difference between them being what was scheduled for Gabe that day. So sometimes Alecia forgot the days of the week altogether. When the doorbell rang on Thursday and it was Vi, Nate’s mom, she didn’t think twice about it. She didn’t think about how Vi should be working—she was a receptionist at a dental office and worked every day, despite her sixty-four years, because the paper mill killed Bob Winters. Just keeled over one day at work; it was the fumes, she’d said to anyone who would listen. Even now, if you got her going, she’d tell you. She had to work, she should have been going into the prime of her life but the mill killed Bob and she had to work.
Had Alecia stopped to really think about it, she would have realized that Vi had a reason for showing up at 9 a.m. on a Thursday.
Violet Winters had been aptly named: in the face of any hardship, she shrank. She wasn’t the kind of person to “make a fuss” and waved off even the biggest inconveniences. She had one son, one child, her light and golden life.
“Where’s Nate?” Vi asked, standing in the hallway, clutching her purse to her chest. She wore scrubs and nursing clogs, even though all she ever did was answer the phone.
Alecia waved her hand toward the door. “He’s out, Vi. Hold on, I’ll get Gabe. He’ll be happy to see you.” Which wasn’t really true; Gabe was only ever over-the-moon happy to see one person.
“I came to talk to you.”
Alecia had no idea what Vi knew, but it hadn’t quite been a week since the paper published Nate’s story and only a few days since Nate was “put on leave,” so Alecia didn’t consider it her responsibility to call her mother-in-law and tell her that her son was sleeping with his student and might be fired. She slotted that in her husband’s column of responsibility and moved on with her day. But here Vi stood, worried and uncertain, and somehow this, too, had become her job.
“Oh.” Alecia turned and walked away from her. “In that case, I’ll make tea.”
Alecia really only drank tea around two people: Vi (Lipton) and Bridget (loose-leaf herbal blends that Bridget invented). She boiled the pot and let it whistle, and meanwhile called for Gabe again. He was in his room, oddly quiet, and Alecia was just so tired that she’d sat on the couch maybe a half hour ago and hadn’t even gotten up to check on him, even though a half hour is way too long to leave Gabe unchecked.