He gave his guests a last sympathetic smile. The red light went on.
"Good evening, ladies and gentlemen," Bird said. "I'm Jay Finch, and tonight I bring you a very special interview with two families from Duluth, Minnesota. These four people only met for the first time tonight, but they share a bond that brings them closer together as each day passes."
The camera backed up to reveal the Stoners and McGraths sitting across from Bird on the set.
"Fifteen months ago, Kerry McGrath, the daughter of Mike and Barbara McGrath, disappeared off the streets of Duluth. Three weeks ago tonight, Rachel Deese, daughter of Emily Stoner and stepdaughter of her husband, Graeme, suffered the same terrible fate. Two teenage girls who went to the same school and lived only a few miles apart. Both missing persons. We all pray for their safety, and we all fear for their lives."
Bird's voice hardened. "The police will not tell you these crimes are related. They say simply that both investigations are continuing, although they release no evidence to suggest they are any closer to solving these awful mysteries. Meanwhile, the families of Duluth face another night of uneasy sleep. Each time one of their girls goes off to school, they wonder if she will return home safely. Each time their daughter leaves them to visit a friend, they call to make sure she arrived on time. This is what fear does. This is the price of not knowing. Because everyone in Duluth is whispering the same question: What happened?"
Bird focused his eyes into the camera, as if he were standing in the living room of every viewer.
"What happened? Is there a serial killer stalking the young women of Duluth? Is someone else in danger? Will a year pass this time between crimes, or has the killer's patience been exhausted? Is he back on the street tonight, cruising in a lonely vehicle, slowing down at each person he passes?"
The words burned on his tongue like sour candy. He could feel the fear like a tangible thing, and he knew he was spreading it throughout the state. Bird didn't feel guilty. They needed to be afraid.
"We don't know the answer to those questions," Bird said softly. "We don't know what really happened on those two nights a little over a year apart. God knows we all hope that Kerry and Rachel are both safe somewhere and that in the very near future we will see them back home with their parents. But in the interim, the citizens of this state are looking to the police for answers-answers that are long overdue."
Bird turned to Barbara McGrath. "Now let's hear from the other victims of these crimes, the families who suffer and wonder. Mrs. McGrath, do you believe in your heart that Kerry is still alive?"
Emily heard the woman answer. She said the expected thing. Yes, Kerry was alive; she felt it keenly in her soul; she knew her girl was out there somewhere; she would never give up hope as long as Kerry was missing. Then this stranger next to her, Barbara McGrath, turned and stared at the camera and spoke to it, pleaded with it.
"Kerry, if you're out there," Barbara said, "if you can hear this, I want you to know we love you. We think about you every single day. And we want you to come home to us."
With a sigh, her emotions overran her, and Barbara buried her face in her hands. Her husband leaned over, and Barbara let her head fall against his shoulder. His hand nestled in her black hair and caressed her gently.
Emily stared at them with a curious detachment. She felt far away. When she looked at Graeme, he was studying them, too, with an impenetrable expression on his face, devoid of emotion. She wondered if he was feeling what she felt-envy. She envied these people their pure, uncomplicated grief and their ability to find comfort and strength in each other. She had none of those things. That was why she had resisted the interview for so long, because she knew she would have to lie about so many things. She would have to say the expected things, even if she didn't feel them. She would say how much she missed Rachel, while wondering if she really did. She would hold Graeme's hand for support and feel nothing in his lifeless grip.
The only person who understood, who could help her, wasn't there.
Like a ghost, she felt herself floating above the set. She heard Bird Finch talking to her, his voice echoing from the end of a long tunnel.
"Mrs. Stoner, is there anything you want to tell Rachel?" Bird asked.
Emily stared at the camera and the red light glowing above it. She was frozen. It was as if she could really see Rachel, somewhere in the dark reflection of the lens, and as if Rachel could see her, too. She didn't understand what she was feeling now. The hostility had been an ache inside her for so long that she still didn't know how to live without it. Rachel was gone, and so was the bitter war. It was unimaginable that she could want it back.
Did she? Or was it really better this way?
There had been many times when she had wished that Rachel would disappear. She fantasized that her life would finally get better when the weight was lifted. Maybe she could have a marriage again. Maybe she could love her daughter better when she was gone.
What happened?
"Mrs. Stoner?" Bird asked.
Maybe she should tell them all the truth. If only they knew the secret, maybe they would leave her in peace. And the truth was that Rachel was evil.
Emily had been working two jobs in the years since Tommy died, grinding the debt down, climbing out of the hole in which he had buried them. From eight o'clock to five o'clock, she was a teller at the downtown branch of the Range Bank. Then she jumped in her car, hurried up Miller Hill, and sold romance novels and Playboy magazines from the bookstore until the mall closed at nine. The world was a perpetual haze, in which she felt drugged by stress and sleeplessness.
The only bright spot in her life had arrived three weeks ago, when she brought home a West Highland terrier from the pound. After years of coming home to silence, or to Rachel's quiet hostility, it was refreshing to have the noise and playfulness of the dog filling the house. Originally, Emily had bought the dog with Rachel in mind, but Rachel ignored him, and Emily was the one to take him into the backyard at night to chase down the blue chew-toy she threw for him again and again.
That was when she made a surprising discovery. The little white dog, with its cropped legs and scruffy fur, had cracked her own facade. She realized she looked forward to coming home again. The dog welcomed her maniacally, as if she were the best, most important person on the planet. He slept in her lap and in bed with her. On the weekends, they walked together, the dog leading the way, tugging at the leash, pulling her up and down the streets.
Rachel didn't offer any names. So Emily called him Snowball. He was small, white, and fast, and his cold nose on her face in the morning felt like winter.
Driving home, even half asleep, she began to smile. Thinking of Snowball did that to her. Only when she thought of Rachel did the lines of worry creep back into her face and the smile fade into a weary frown. In the early days, after Tommy's death, she had taken Rachel to a psychologist, but the girl refused to return after a few sessions. Emily talked to her teachers. She talked to Dayton Tenby at church. They were all sympathetic, but no one had been able to reach her. As far as Rachel was concerned, the hurt of Tommy's death would never go away, and the only solace seemed to be to punish her mother over and over again.
Emily pulled the car into the narrow driveway of their tiny house, two stories with two bedrooms upstairs, with a yard that had long been neglected. The driveway had deep cracks with grass sprouting in tufts through the cement.
Inside, she expected to hear the thunder of paws as Snowball pounded to greet her.
"Snowball," she called. Emily listened for a distant bark, assuming that Rachel had banished the terrier to the backyard.