She takes her time driving across town and walks into her condo at precisely nine-thirty, juggling and almost dropping the stack of Tupperware containers her mom sent home with her. There’s enough leftover lasagna, stroganoff, and cheesecake in there to last well into the New Year. She’s struggling to open the refrigerator when her cellphone rings. Gwendy glances at the counter where she left the phone next to her keys and turns her attention back to the refrigerator. She slides the largest container onto the top shelf next to half-empty cartons of milk and orange juice, and is trying to make room on a lower shelf when the phone rings again. She ignores it and jams in the other two containers, one after the other. The phone rings a third time as Gwendy is closing the refrigerator door, and it’s almost as if a lightning bolt reaches down from the heavens and strikes some sense into her.
She lunges for the cellphone, knocking her keys onto the floor.
“Hello? Hello?”
At first there’s nothing—and then a burst of loud static.
“Hello?” she says again, disappointment washing over her. “Is anyone—”
“Hey, baby girl… I was just about to hang up.”
Every muscle in her body goes limp, and she has to lean against the table to keep from falling. “Ryan…” she says, but it comes out in a whisper.
“You there, Gwen?”
“I’m here, honey. I’m so happy to hear your voice.” The tears come now, gushing down her face.
“Listen… I don’t know how long this line’s gonna last. We haven’t even been able to file our reports with the magazine or any of the newspapers… yesterday… fires all over the place.”
“Are you okay, Ryan? Are you safe?”
“I’m okay. I wanted to tell you… taking care of myself and doing my best… get home to you.”
“I miss you so damn much,” she says, unable to keep the emotion from her voice.
“I miss you, too, baby… know when I’ll be able to call again, but I’ll keep trying… by Christmas.”
“You’re breaking up.”
Staccato bursts of static hijack the line. Gwendy pulls the phone away from her ear and waits for them to decrease in intensity. Amidst the noise, she hears her husband’s faint voice: “…love you.”
She presses the phone back to her ear. “Hello? Are you still there? Please take care of yourself, Ryan!” She’s nearly shouting now.
The line crackles and then goes silent. She holds it tight against her ear, listening and hoping for one more word—anything—but it doesn’t come.
“I love you more,” she finally whispers, and ends the call.
34
FORTY-EIGHT HOURS OF LAZINESS (she tries to tell herself she wasn’t actually being lazy, she was simply relaxing and decompressing—but she’s not buying it) is all Gwendy can tolerate. On Wednesday, she wakes up at dawn and goes for a run.
A sleety, granular snow is falling and the roads are slick with ice, but Gwendy pushes forward, the hood of her sweatshirt cinched tight around her face. Running through downtown Castle Rock is usually a comforting experience for Gwendy. She jogs her normal route—down Main Street, avoiding the unshoveled sidewalks, past the Common, the library, and the Western Auto, circling the long way around the hospital and heading uptown past the Knights of Columbus hall and back toward View Drive—and she feels a sense of rightness in her world, a sense of belonging. She’s traveled all over the country for her work—first as an ad exec, then as a writer/filmmaker, and finally as a public servant—but there’s only one Castle Rock, Maine. Just as her mother had told the stranger in the black hat at the mall, this is home.
But something feels off today.
This morning she feels like a visitor traveling through a foreign and unfriendly landscape. Her mind is cluttered and distracted, her legs sluggish and heavy.
At first she blames this feeling on the way her phone call with Ryan ended the night before—so abrupt and unsettled. After hanging up, she cried herself to sleep with worry.
But when she passes in front of the sheriff’s station as she makes her way uptown, she realizes it’s something else entirely. For the first time, she understands how much she’s dreading the difficult task that awaits her later that morning.
35
GWENDY’S FIRST IMPRESSION OF Caroline Hoffman is that she’s a woman who is used to getting her own way.
When Gwendy walks into the stationhouse at 9:50 AM (a full ten minutes early for the meeting), she’s hoping the Hoffmans haven’t arrived yet so she and Sheriff Ridgewick will have time to discuss the investigation.
Instead, the three of them are waiting for her in the conference room. There’s no sign of Sheila Brigham, the longtime dispatcher for the Castle Rock Sheriff’s Department, so Deputy George Footman escorts Gwendy inside and closes the door behind her.
Sheriff Ridgewick sits on one side of a long, narrow table, a chair standing empty next to him. Mr. and Mrs. Hoffman sit side-by-side across from him, a second empty chair separating them. They make an interesting couple. Frank Hoffman is slight in stature, bespectacled, and dressed in a wrinkled brown suit that has seen better days. He has dark circles under his eyes and a slender nose that has been broken more than once. Caroline Hoffman is at least three or four inches taller than her husband, and thick and broad across the shoulders and chest. She could be a female lumberjack, something not unheard of in this part of the world. She’s wearing jeans and a gray Harley Davidson sweatshirt with the sleeves rolled up. A tattoo of a boat anchor decorates one meaty forearm.
“Sorry to keep you waiting,” Gwendy says, taking a seat beside the sheriff. She places her leather tote on the table in front of her, but quickly removes it and puts it on the floor when she realizes it’s dripping wet from melting snow. She uses the sleeve of her sweater to wipe up the small puddle left behind.
“Morning, Congresswoman,” Sheriff Ridgewick says.
“Can we get started now?” Mrs. Hoffman asks, glaring at the sheriff.
“Sure thing.”
Gwendy leans forward and extends her hand, first to Mr. Hoffman and then to his wife. “Good morning, I’m Gwendy Peterson. I’m very sorry to meet you both under these circumstances.”
“Good morning,” Mr. Hoffman says in a surprisingly deep voice.
“We know who you are,” Mrs. Hoffman says, wiping her hand on her pant leg, like she touched something unsavory. “Question is, how you gonna help us?”
“Well,” Gwendy says, “I’ll do whatever I can to help locate your daughter, Mrs. Hoffman. If Sheriff Ridgewick needs—”
“Her name is Carla,” the big woman interrupts, eyes narrowing again. “Least you can do is say her damn name.”
“Of course. I’ll do whatever I can to help find Carla. If the sheriff needs additional personnel, I’ll make sure he has it. If he needs more equipment or vehicles, I’ll make sure he has that, too. Whatever it takes.”
Mrs. Hoffman looks at Sheriff Ridgewick. “What the sheriff needs is someone to come in here and show him how to do his job properly.”
Gwendy bristles. “Now wait a minute, Mrs. Hoffman—”
The sheriff touches Gwendy’s forearm, silencing her. He looks at the Hoffmans. “I know you folks are desperate for answers. I know you’re unhappy with the way the investigation is progressing.”