Now that the rumor of him being involved with Valerie is in my mind, him prowling around is an even more uncomfortable situation. There’s definitely such a thing as an unfounded rumor, and I’ve found myself the fodder for them before. But Valerie makes me doubt there isn’t at least some validity to the whispers. Someone who lashes out so aggressively toward people invading her family’s privacy and questioning her husband’s integrity wouldn’t just sit by and let people say things like that about her. But she would also be unlikely to fight too hard, or people might start searching out ways to prove themselves right. In this situation, silence might just be an admission of guilt.
The first house we pull up to is too quiet. I expect there to be cars parked haphazardly around it and people filtering in and out, trying to find their footing, not knowing what to do. Instead, there’s no one. A single car sits close to the front of the driveway next to a pink and white bike that makes my heart fall into my stomach.
I steel myself as I unhook my seatbelt and climb out of the car into the heat. The clouds burned away this morning without bothering to rain. The bright sunlight is intrusive, like glitter on the sidewalk, inappropriate as we walk up to the door and knock.
Chapter Twenty
The door opens quickly, almost as though Sandy Brooks was standing there waiting for the knock. She looks out at us with a look of stone in her eyes and a strong, cold face streaked with unapologetic tears.
“Sheriff,” she says. “Please, come in.”
“Thank you, Sandy.”
I follow Sam into the house and notice a man standing in the arched doorway leading from the front room to the dining room beyond. He nods as we enter and walks around us to get to Ms. Brooks. She reaches for his hand, and he grasps hers in both of his, leaning close to speak to her in a hushed town.
“Who is that?” I ask as Sam leads me to the far side of the room, so we don’t interfere with the interaction.
“Patrick Robins, the pastor at the church,” he whispers back.
The pastor leaves, and Ms. Brooks wipes a tear from under her eye as she crosses the room to us.
“Go ahead and sit down,” she says, gesturing toward a formal-looking floral couch. “Let me get you some water. It’s far too hot out there.”
“You don’t need to do that,” Sam says.
“Yes,” she says with a nod, “I do.”
“Can I help you?” I ask.
She shakes her head. “I might not be able to do much right now, but I can still pour water.”
She walks out of the room, and I look down at the oversized rose print on the cream background of the couch. I can’t help but wonder if there’s another room deeper in the house where the couch is soft and worn and smells like warmth and food, mother and daughter rather than starkly clean. The family couch versus the company couch, a perfect example of what you show to the world and what you keep only to yourself.
The sound of glass shattering breaks me out of my musing, and I’m instantly on my feet. My heart thudding in my chest, and memories of bullets searing a path through the air toward my head brings my hand to my hip.
But my gun isn’t there. I’m not on assignment. I have no weapon.
When I get to the kitchen, I realize I don’t need it. The window isn’t broken, and Sandy Brooks isn’t cowering on the floor, trying to protect herself from an attack. She’s standing at the counter, looking down at pieces of glass scattered across the linoleum.
“Are you alright?” I ask, cautiously stepping into the room.
Her head pops up, and she looks at me almost startled, then nods.
“Yes. I’m sorry. I just… I dropped the glass.”
I reach over the area of the floor covered in the remnants of the glass and take her shoulders. Guiding her around the shards, I hand her off to Sam so he can bring her back into the living room while I clean up the mess. I grab a handful of paper towels and wet them in the sink, so they’ll pick up the tiny pieces of glass. From the living room, I hear Sam talking to her in softened tones. The conversations we have to have today are delicate, but they have to be done. I finish cleaning up the aftermath of her unpredictable emotions and make my way back to them with water in plastic tumblers I found in an upper cabinet.
“I’m willing to answer anything you need me to,” she’s saying as I enter. “I have nothing to hide.”
“Of course you don’t,” Sam says.
I bristle at the response. He’s trying to be reassuring, but I’ve learned far too well that in many cases comfort comes before the fall. Everyone has something to hide.
“Can you tell me everything that happened the day and night leading up to you finding out Alice was missing?” I ask.
She looks at me, and I wonder if she’s even really seeing me or if my voice is coming to her through blackness and painful images of her child.
“I’ve already given that statement,” she says.
“But not to me,” I tell her.
“Who are you?” she asks.
“Emma Griffin. I’m with the FBI. I’m consulting on this case with Sheriff Johnson,” I tell her.
“The investigation has changed now, Sandy,” Sam says. “I’ve built up a task force, and we’re shifting our focus. But that means starting from the beginning in a lot of ways.”
She nods faintly. As sheriff, Sam was elected to be the top of law enforcement in Sherwood. It’s his job to determine how crimes are investigated and manage peace within the population. I know he has a strong team behind him, but I also know him. He was telling the truth when he said asking for help was hard for him. He will run himself into the ground taking on everything himself just so he knows it’s being done right. I won’t take for granted that he reached out to me.
I listen as she recounts the day she learned Alice was missing. She does what many people do in interviews like this, swinging from giving us minute details like everything she bought at the grocery store to generalizing large swaths of time. I try to fill in the gaps as much as I can, but much of that day is lost in the blur of her new reality.
“What about Alice’s father?” I ask.
“That’s not a word I’d use to describe him,” she mutters. “He hasn’t had anything to do with Alice since the day he walked out.”
“Is that his choice?” I ask.
Her eyes narrow. “What do you mean by that?”
“I don’t mean any offense. It’s just that most people believe they would be able to manage co-parenting and being cordial to each other for the sake of children if their relationship ended. When it actually happens, though, it turns out to be much harder than they expected.”
“I didn’t use my daughter as a weapon if that’s what you’re implying.”
“I’m not implying anything. It was a question,” I say.
“We’re just trying to get the full view of everyone in Alice’s life,” Sam explains. “Finding the person responsible for this is going to be like putting together a puzzle, and we need all the pieces.”
Her shoulders lower as she lets out a breath.
“Brad and I didn’t part on good terms. It wasn’t a smooth break, and by the time it was finally over, I felt like I’d been put through a meat grinder. We never got to the point of making formal arrangements for custody or visitation. As soon as the divorce was finalized, he walked out of the courthouse and has barely been heard from since.”
“Why did you keep his name?” I ask.
A slight bitter smile curves up the corner of her mouth.