Esther took a drink of her coffee. “What was that?”
“She couldn’t wait to get rid of us, just like last time,” he said, stirring the pale mixture. “She said she had an appointment to go to, but I really don’t think so. She wouldn’t have gotten dressed if we hadn’t shown up. I bet she didn’t have anywhere to go.”
“Maybe she ran out of wine,” Esther said.
“Yeah,” Jake said. “I smelled that too.”
The detectives left, and Liz stood immobile by the front door. She kept her eye on the peephole until Esther and Jake disappeared. She listened for their car to start and waited for the sound of the tires moving the loose gravel over the surface of the blacktop. Their appearance hadn’t been unexpected. She knew there would be a time when the police would circle back. She thought she’d be prepared for it, but it had been hard sitting there, telling them lie after lie. Her hands were shaking, and she held them together while she went back to the kitchen to get a drink. She needed to steady her nerves. She was in serious trouble. Just one glass of wine, and she prayed that God would help her figure out what to do. She was so sorry for everything she’d done. She knew it was impossible to undo any of it. It was beyond grotesque.
One glass turned into two. She paced around the house, glancing at the river every now and then, squinting her tired eyes as the sparkles of light bounced through the old glass of the original window. The laughter of some kids floating on the water turned her stomach. Maybe it was the wine? No, she knew, it was the fact that she’d killed a little boy. She imagined for the thousandth time telling Carole what she’d done, but there was no scenario in which she could imagine forgiveness. Not even a little.
I need to do something.
Owen needs to do something.
She put down her wineglass and retrieved her purse from the bedroom. A painting her mother did of her brother and Seth mocked her. Bonnie Camden insisted it was her best work. It showed the boys sitting in a red canoe on Mirror Pond.
It was an accident.
People say that, and those involved cling to it. A tragedy’s main players have no control over how other people might choose to perceive an error in judgment. The parents who leave their child in a hot car “only for a minute,” the teens who double-dare a buddy to jump from a cliff “because if you don’t, you’re a wuss”—no one means to do harm, but those outside of the scenario are always quick to assign blame.
Her parents had done that to Dr. Miller.
Others would do that to her. The difference was, while what happened to Charlie was absolutely an accident, what she did afterward ensured that she’d never escape blame.
She got into her RAV4 and started for Lumatyx. Outside, the world was bright, sunny. The radio played an upbeat pop song. Everything was at odds with how she felt.
When she got inside Owen’s building, the receptionist said her husband was at an off-site meeting.
“What off-site meeting?” Owen hadn’t mentioned anything. But then, he hadn’t told her much about what was going on at work. She could feel him pushing her to the sidelines. “Where?”
“He can’t be disturbed, Liz.”
Liz balled her fists and pounded the surface of the receptionist’s desk, as if she needed to make some kind of gesture to show how urgent the situation had become. Words couldn’t be used because every sentence that carried the truth was an indictment.
“Look, I need him,” Liz said. “It’s important.”
“Sorry,” the young woman said.
“Everyone is sorry,” she said, raising her voice. “We’re all so goddamn sorry!”
The receptionist blinked. Owen’s wife was scaring her.
“You need to see someone,” she called after Liz as she hurried away. “You’re coming unhinged.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
MISSING: EIGHT DAYS
The Liz drama lingered. Everyone at Lumatyx talked about it. After the off-site, the two partners returned to the conference room. It was after 8:00 p.m. Damon West shut the big glass door and turned around to face Owen, who sat at the end of the massive live-edge Douglas fir conference table.
“Thanks for sticking around,” he said.
“Fine. Seems serious. What’s up?”
“It is serious, Owen. Ordinarily it would be none of my business. I’ve got plenty on my plate right now. Now this . . . this needs addressing right now.”
Owen knew Damon enjoyed poking his nose in everyone’s business. He dug in deep like a tick. Always acting concerned. Soulful, caring eyes. In reality, Damon was no different from Owen. To be fair, he might have been at one time. But not now. Not when dollar signs replaced the work behind their ambitions. Owen studied everyone’s weaknesses. His arm around an employee’s shoulder was often a choke hold.
They didn’t know it, of course.
“What does?” Owen asked.
“This is hard for me,” Damon said.
You love this and you know it.
“What is it, man?”
“Just a reminder,” Damon said, looking serious and very concerned. “We have a lot at stake here. The VCs can get very touchy. They don’t want any trouble.”
“Trouble?” Owen leaned forward. He was not about to be pushed around by his backstabbing partner. “Why are you saying this to me? I get that. I know it as well as you do.”
“Do you, Owen?”
“Get to the point, Damon.”
“Your wife,” he said. “She’s becoming a problem. I know she’s wrapped up in the missing neighbor kid’s case. I’m sorry about that. Really I am. She scared Paula. She’s losing it, big-time, and people are starting to talk.”
“Talk about what? What do you mean? Get to the point already!”
“When she can’t get you on your phone, she calls the front desk. She’s always frantically trying to reach you. I don’t know what is going on with her, but it’s hit the office gossip circuit.”
Which you run like a side business.
“She’s devastated.”
“She seems to be unstable.”
“Don’t talk about her like that,” Owen said. Although you’re right, he thought.
“This wasn’t easy for me. We’re on the cusp of something big and I don’t have to remind you that if either of us makes a mistake that causes the money guys to have the slightest concern, we’re dead.”
“Not both of us, Damon. The one who causes the problem.”
“Morality clauses are vague. But yes. The one who gets in the way of everything we’ve fought for is out. Left with nothing.”
Owen quietly seethed.
“Just get her to pull herself together,” Damon said. “All right?”
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
MISSING: EIGHT DAYS