She lifted herself from the tub and headed downstairs, took her raincoat from the closet, took her purse from the table by the door. She walked out into the rain.
chapter thirty-three
Bethany felt numb, even as beneath that numbness there was a whirring panic, like a siren in the back of her head. She didn’t know why Willow punished her like this. She could hardly love her child more. True, she’d made mistakes. Even now Richard was calling and calling on her cell phone, after she’d asked him not to. She’d alerted him on the off chance that Willow would go to him, knowing that the stripper had left him. Why can’t you keep track of her, Bethany? he’d asked. It was cruel, ridiculous. How could she ever have married someone who would dream of saying something like that? She’d hung up on him.
“It’s okay,” Henry said. “We’ll find her.”
They saw the Beemer sitting by the side of the road, the headlights burning. For a second she thought they were all sitting in the car. And she nearly fainted with relief. But they weren’t. Henry pulled over, and they both got out in the rain, started shouting.
“Willow!” Her voice broke, and she started to cry. She remembered that night still so vividly, racing around New York City, looking in Willow’s favorite places, calling her friends. She’d been so frantic she’d felt unhinged. But this was so much worse somehow. Willow gone in this dark, wet place where the rain took Bethany’s voice and the beam of Henry’s flashlight was eaten by the impenetrable darkness.
She wouldn’t hate herself for inviting Henry to dinner, even for springing it last minute on Willow. Her mistake here was that Willow thought she had a right to act like that, to abuse Bethany and then to run out into the night. Bethany had been too soft on her, too yielding and ready to take blame for Willow’s unhappiness. That was going to change.
She didn’t realize until Henry came up and put his arms around her that she was sobbing. They were both soaked to the skin. The wind had picked up, but she leaned into him, was grateful not to be alone this time.
“We will find her,” he said. She let herself believe him.
The lights of an approaching car had them both moving toward the road. Bethany saw Jones Cooper in the driver’s seat as he brought his SUV to a stop. He stepped out wearing a dark raincoat that was already wet.
“Mrs. Graves,” he said. That natural air of authority had put Bethany, irrationally, at ease. “I’m going to ask you to wait here with the car.”
“No,” she said. “I can’t just sit here.”
“Someone needs to be here if they come out of the woods,” he said. He put a soothing hand on her arm.
“Mr. Cooper-”
“It’s just that Henry and I grew up here,” he said. “We know these woods. It’ll be faster if we go alone.”
She wanted to argue, but he was shepherding her toward the car, telling her to keep her cell phone on her lap. They’d call as soon as they found anything. “Lock the doors. If anyone but the kids approaches the vehicle, call the cops and lean on the horn.”
“What do you mean?” she asked. “Like who?”
“Like Michael Holt.”
Bethany took a deep breath and did as she was told. She watched Henry through the window. He lifted a palm in an “it’s okay” gesture. Then they were gone, swallowed by the trees. The wind was picking up, bending the tips of the pines against the night sky, whistling around the car. Bethany wished she were a religious person. She wished that she could pray.
The clearing at the Chapel was empty. The crime-scene tape around the hole had blown away and wrapped itself around a nearby tree. They walked the perimeter, calling out for the kids. But only the wind answered them. Henry returned to Marla’s grave, stood at the edge peering down into the emptiness. It looked to him like the loneliest, coldest place on earth. Jones came to stand beside him.
“I heard tonight that the ME confirmed the bones were Marla Holt’s,” said Henry.
“I heard, too. On the radio,” Jones said. “I wish I’d known back then. I wish I hadn’t let her lie out here all this time.”
Henry was surprised to hear Jones say something like that. Henry turned to look at the other man. Rain was making rivers down his face. The wind was getting wild, whipping at their slickers.
“I was her friend,” Henry said. “I should have known she wouldn’t run off on her children. I believed the worst of her, like everyone else.”
Jones didn’t say anything, started to move away from the site. Henry grabbed his arm, and Jones turned back toward him.
“I was there that night, Jones,” Henry said. He cast his eyes to the ground. The words felt like the release of a breath held too long. “I’m sorry I never told you, or anyone. I loved her.”
When Henry could bring himself to look at Jones, he saw that the other man was staring at him. Jones Cooper had a chilly, assessing gaze that made people question themselves. What did he see when he looked at Henry? A coward, surely. A fool. Henry squared his shoulders, told him about the night and what had happened.
“I never touched her, except to hold her as she cried that night. She told me that she was unhappy, that there was someone else beside her husband. Michael came home and caught us in an embrace. It was very awkward. I left.”
Henry paused to breathe. “I never thought… she was in danger. I wouldn’t have left her if I had.”
Jones glanced around the clearing, scanning the night with his flashlight.
“Why now?” Jones said. “Why are you telling me this now?”
Henry had a thousand answers. I thought she’d run off with someone else. How could I admit to loving another woman who would never love me? I was ashamed. I was angry. I never thought she’d come to harm. He issued some jumble of those things, couldn’t even bring himself to look at Jones.
“It doesn’t much matter at this point.” Jones had to raise his voice over the wind.
“But would it have mattered then?” Henry asked. He was practically yelling. “Would you have looked at her case differently had you known?”
Jones rolled his head to the side, seemed to ease some tension out of his neck. “I might have looked at you a little harder.”
“But not at Michael. Or Mack?”
“It’s hard to say,” he said. Jones started moving back to the path.
Henry followed. “After my run I went back. I saw Mack’s car in the driveway. Claudia Miller was sitting in her window, watching. Whatever happened that night, she must have seen it. Maybe she lied about the sedan.”
“Why would she lie?”
“That’s what I thought then, too. But who knows why we lie? A hundred reasons big and small.”
“We’ll talk about this later,” said Jones. “We’re wasting time. If those kids are out here in this weather, we need to get them home.”
Jones was walking more quickly now, with a sudden purpose.
“Where are we going?”
“To the river.”
“The Black River?” said Henry, even though there was no other river he could have meant. “Why?”
“Don’t ask,” said Jones. “Just move faster.”
Jones felt as if he were dreaming. Was he? A year ago he’d found himself in the woods on a night like this one. Back then he was trying to bury his past, to protect an awful secret he had hidden for decades. Tonight he was following the path of predictions he didn’t even believe. He could smell the rotting vegetation, slick in the rain, beneath his feet. The rain falling on his hood, the rushing river off in the distance, it all created a cocoon of sound around him. Even though Henry trailed behind him, Jones could believe he was alone in this place. He could turn around at any time, say to Henry that they needed to call the police, conditions were too harsh, the night was too dark. Those kids could be anywhere. And no one would have questioned that. But he didn’t. The irony, of course, was that if Eloise hadn’t come to him, it might never have occurred to him to check the banks of the river.