The Truth We Bury: A Novel

There were two, one from Paul: “Where in the hell are you? I just got a call from Bushnell. You found AJ’s truck? The goddamn knife out of his kitchen? And I have to hear about it from a cop? Jesus. Call me.”

A second message was from Edward. He had information, he said. The sound of his voice conjured up his face, the smallest details. She loved his smile, the intent way he looked at her when she spoke, as if he cared about her words, as if it mattered to him what she had to say. She had told him her story, and he had heard her out without a sign of censure or judgment. He had offered her comfort, instead. Comfort. Of all things.

Paul wasn’t a comforter, nor did he welcome it. He would scoff at the idea.

She tapped Edward’s number on her screen.

“I’ve got some news,” he said when he answered. “Maybe good. I’m not sure yet.”

“I could use it if it’s good,” she said.

“I heard you found AJ’s truck and possibly the murder weapon.” Edward spoke gently. “How did you know to go to Monarch Lake?”

Lily told him about her dream.

“It doesn’t surprise me,” he said when she’d finished. “I know you don’t believe it, but your connection to AJ is stronger—deeper—than I think you’re aware of.”

“What makes you say that?”

“Just watching you with him in my office. There was a warmth and a kind of respect between you. AJ was more formal with his dad, if that makes any sense.”

“It does,” Lily said. “The dream I had . . . I feel as if AJ is out here somewhere, trying to tell me something.” Edward would laugh now; Lily was sure of it.

But he didn’t. He said, “You might be right. I think you need to follow your instinct on this.”

“The evidence, though, it’s hard not to see it the way the police do—as if AJ is guilty.”

“Evidence can be wrong, and it may well be in this case. Has anyone said anything to you about a traffic altercation that took place here in Dallas a few days before Becca was murdered, between Kate and Becca and a guy driving a light-gray, late-model Ford F1 pickup?”

“No,” Lily said.

“Do you know anyone who drives a truck like that?”

Lily said she didn’t. “Not that I can recall.” She hadn’t seen any vehicle at Harlan Cate’s place other than the Harley.

“Well, evidently this guy was a real head case. The girls were in Becca’s car, and he claims he saw her texting, that she came over into his lane and nearly clipped him. He ran them off I-35 onto the service road and pulled a gun on them. He had both girls on their knees when a highway patrol officer, setting up radar, happened to catch sight of them and went to investigate.”

“My God.”

“If it hadn’t been for the cop, the guy might have killed both girls right there.”

“Who told you this?”

“A connection in the DA’s office, on pain of death if I should ever reveal my source. But here’s the thing—the very significant thing—the guy is missing. The cops have issued a BOLO for him. Not even his wife seems to know where he is. Word is, the guy went missing the very same night that Becca was killed and AJ disappeared.”

Lily felt light-headed. Breathless.

“He has a history of emotional instability, Lily. According to his wife, he’s under court-mandated psychiatric care for going after the woman who drives their daughter’s bus. The woman brought charges against him when he roughed her up after she disciplined the girl for not staying in her seat. Like I said, he’s a head case.”

Lily’s relief, the thrust of her hope, felt wrong and lasted only a moment. “He has AJ,” she said.

“It’s possible,” Edward said. “The cops are actively looking for him.”

Somehow Lily didn’t find it reassuring. “It’s hard, waiting, doing nothing, listening for the phone to ring.”

“I’m so sorry you’re going through this, Lily.”

Her throat closed; tears sanded the undersides of her eyelids. It was his kindness that undid her.

“Try and rest. Eat something.”

“Yes,” she said. “I will.”

“What I said about your instinct, Lily—don’t discount it, okay?”

Lily thought about Edward’s advice on the drive back to the ranch. Maybe it was true. Maybe the bond she shared with AJ, the tie that had so closely connected them when he was small, before Paul took the care of him out of her hands, was still there. She thought of the dream she’d had, the nightmare of reliving AJ’s near-drowning at Monarch Lake. She had perceived the dream as renewed punishment. How could she have done it, brought him into such jeopardy? She didn’t deserve to be his mother. If his life was again at risk, she must be to blame. She had felt all that, as if a sickness had overtaken her, whether it made sense or not.

But maybe that wasn’t the point of the dream.

Maybe, like Scrooge, she’d been given a review of the past so that she could see that although she had put AJ in danger all those years ago, she had saved him, and she might have the means to save him now. It seemed far-fetched. She could imagine Paul’s reaction. He wouldn’t say a word. The only sound would be the disapproving click of his tongue.



Over lunch, Lily told her dad about the traffic altercation involving Becca and Kate. She’d made sliced chicken sandwiches, and they sat at the kitchen island to eat them. “When I spoke to Paul, he said he’d talk to Detective Bushnell about following up.”

“Paul still set against retaining Edward for AJ? He’s going to need a lawyer when we find him, even as promising as this lead sounds.”

“I’m not pushing it,” she said. “I’ll wait till we know more.”

Her dad took their plates to the sink and rinsed them. “I’m going to ride over to Little Bottom Creek,” he said over his shoulder. “The fort’s over that way. I didn’t get a chance to check it out yesterday. You want to come?”

She started to ask how he could still think AJ was close by, but there was something working in his eyes that stopped her, a kind of canniness, a sharp knowing that raised the fine hairs on her neck. She remembered Edward’s advice to trust her intuition. “I’ll come,” she said, “but give me a minute, I want to call Shea and Dru and tell them about the traffic incident.” Neither woman answered, though, and Lily left a brief request for a return call.

A billowing mass of thunderheads the color of ripened plums was gathering in the northwest corner of the sky as Lily and her dad rode out of the barn. They headed in a westerly direction. The wind snapped, an invisible sheet on a line whipping through the canopies of the oaks, turning up the leaves, showing their pale undersides.

“Don’t reckon we’ll beat the rain,” her dad said. “You might want to turn back unless you don’t mind getting soaked.”

She gave him a look.

They didn’t speak again until they’d ridden across the Little Bottom. Her dad paused on the opposite bank, lifted his hat, ran a hand over his hair.

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