And they weren’t gonna crucify some guy only based on what he said. He was a kid, after all. Plus, no one could prove what he did or didn’t remember.
First the stabbing, then the photos, then meeting Jane Ryland and all that, then the guy in the alley. And his smashed camera and the pulverized memory card. All he ever wanted was to get his photos on TV. He’d been totally in the right place at the right time, and it should have worked out. Now, through no fault of his own, he was in the cop shop, his camera busted, and trying to decide whether to continue to lie to the police. Plus, he was going to be marked absent from class.
A loud knock on the office door surprised him. Bobby flinched, almost knocking over the teetering soda can as he stood. There was silence for a fraction of a second, then the door swung open.
19
Jane heard phones ring in three places, a trill from the Wilhoites’ red wall-mounted kitchen landline she could barely glimpse from her living room vantage point, a jangle from the portable on the antique desk, and the three-chime alert of the cell phone clutched in Robyn Wilhoite’s unsteady right hand.
“Call from…” The disembodied techno-voice floated over the living room. Robyn stood, her cardigan falling from her shoulders, staring at the screen of her cell.
“Who is it?” Melissa whispered.
“… Lewis Wil-” the voice continued. Jane had never met Lewis or Gracie, but a silver-framed five-by-seven of what must be the two of them was displayed near the desk phone. Gracie mugged for the camera in front of a pink-blossoming tree, her curly almost-blond pigtails held up with Hello Kitty barrettes and her flowered overalls spilling over her sneakers. One hand clutched a stuffed hippo. The other clutched the hand of a smiling middle-aged man. Lewis?
He wore owlish glasses and a Patriots cap. An accountant, Jane remembered. He hardly looked physically equipped to defend an abducted daughter, though Jane knew people summoned surprising strength when necessary. Her reporter brain concocted a vision: Lewis bleeding in some parking lot, Gracie now who knows where with who knew who. Exactly why Jane had pushed to call the police. But before that discussion even got under way, here was Lewis on the phone. Maybe everything was okay. Maybe.
Lucky she hadn’t called Jake about this. She guessed.
Robyn picked up the desk phone and punched a button on her cell. The ringing stopped.
“Lew?” Robyn almost whispered. “Are you there?”
“Is he there?” Melissa, frowning now, looked like she was struggling not to grab the phone from Robyn’s hand. Robyn stared at the thick creamy pile of the carpeted floor, holding the phone so tightly Jane could see the blue-tinged veins on her hand.
“Lewis?” Again, Robyn’s voice came out in a breathy tremble, half inquiry, half plea.
Jane narrowed her eyes. Was Lewis Wilhoite calling for help? Or with an embarrassed explanation? It would be a relief to be angry, she thought. Everyone home, everyone happy, after a marital spat or even a misunderstanding.
“Lewis,” Robyn implored.
Why was Wilhoite apparently not saying anything?
“Is it him?” Melissa asked again. She leaned forward, maybe trying to get as close as possible to the phone. Jane realized she was doing the same thing, straining to hear, but Robyn had the phone so close to her face not a sound escaped.
Another problem. Simply because the phone voice announced it came from Lewis didn’t mean it was Lewis. What if someone else was using Lewis Wilhoite’s phone? A white cat appeared at the archway to the kitchen, blinked at them, waved its tail, and slunk away.
“Robyn, put it on speaker,” Melissa said.
“So they never found out what exactly happened to your sister?”
Another of the questions Tenley hoped Bri wouldn’t ask. But if she was going to live in the world, and have friends, questions about Lanna were inevitable. Now, sitting in this booth at the Purple, she’d have to answer.
“I mean…” Brileen Finnerty’s voice dropped to a dramatic whisper, and she pointed to the sugar container as she talked. Tenley handed it to her across the yellow-speckled laminate of their table, felt the sticky grit hardened on the outside of the faceted glass.
“I mean… That’s kind of strange, isn’t it?”
Where was Bri going with this question? She couldn’t read her new friend’s face and didn’t want to look like she was staring at her. She stirred her own coffee, considering. Maybe “What happened?” was a normal question. Polite, even. “What happened” was what life is about.
Plus, no matter what Tenley did or didn’t tell her, Brileen could pull out her cell phone and Google the whole thing.
She and Bri had dodged elbows and trays of spilly drinks to claim the last empty booth, but the place, fragrant with beer and fried stuff, was so wall-to-wall crowded it was somehow easy to feel alone. The kids from Emerson and Suffolk and Boston City congregated at the Purple for free popcorn and multiscreen sports and eddying swirls of conversation. A couple of times some guys-one, Tenley thought, pretty cute-had stopped by the table. Tenley felt a little flutter of interest from their attention. But one dismissive look from Brileen had sent them packing.
So chitchat, and school stuff, they both went to Boston City College, both on summer vacay, Tenley a sophomore and Bri in grad school, so they both knew the downtown campus and the brownstone dorms over by the Public Garden. And, yes, it was the graphic arts building, Bri agreed, where she’d seen Tenley. That made sense. Tenley told about her City Hall job, describing the cameras and what she could see down on the street from her vantage point above. But then Bri brought up family, and what was Tenley supposed to do? Pretend Lanna had never existed?
She told the short version, short as she could. Omitting the part about keeping Lanna’s secret. She could barely face that herself. And now Bri was asking what happened.
Her new friend picked up her mug, a coffee-colored ring on the white paper napkin beneath it showing as Bri took an experimental sip, then looked at Tenley from under her lashes.
Bri waited. Tenley was supposed to answer. Say what happened.
“No, they never really found out,” Tenley said, trying to sound like a normal person having a normal conversation. “The police investigated, you know? Took her computer, all that. Interviewed us. But there was just no real… evidence, whatever. They decided she tripped on a branch. The case is closed now.”
Bri dumped more sugar into her mug, a tumbling cascade of white grains. “Police lie, you know. They do it all the time.”
Why would Bri say that? Tenley took a little sip of her water, the nubby plastic glass slick with condensation, stalling.
“Lie?” Tenley said. Her voice came out as a little croak, and she cleared her throat to hide it. Try, Lie, Bri, she thought. Silly.
“Sure.” Brileen leaned across the table, closer to Tenley, her elbows on the slick surface, chin on her hands, revealing another little pink star tattooed just under her left wristbone. “Let me ask you this. Are your parents, like, extra careful of you? Always wanting you to be home at a certain time?”
“Well, sure.” Tenley frowned, a little, couldn’t help it, couldn’t figure out where this was going.
“Your mom and dad know where you are now?” Bri looked at Tenley.
A pang of unease prickled Tenley’s neck and behind her eyes. Her mom did and didn’t know, a little of each. She hadn’t told her exactly, why would she? Come to think of it, yes, her mother was maybe overinterested recently with her whereabouts. Her father, too, the times he was home, at least, which was less and less, which made it all worse and even more impossible.
Brileen’s soft laughter floated across to her. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I didn’t mean anything, I was just, you know. Asking.”