The Hiding Place

“About that,” Janet said. She scooted to the edge of her seat. She rubbed her hands over the tops of her knees as though trying to generate heat. “Do you think-I mean, why am I doing this? Rogers is out now, and everything is over. Do I really have to do more interviews?”

“You don’t have to do it,” he said. “No one can make you.” She nodded a little, so Stynes went on. “People in Dove Point remember the story. We haven’t had many murders here since I was on the force. Certainly none involving children. I encouraged you to do this when the reporter called because I think it’s important we remind people of what has happened and what can happen, even here. To be honest, this is twenty-five years. It’s probably the last time you’ll have to do this.”

Janet still looked distracted. She nodded, as though she understood everything Stynes said and as though it made sense to her, but something told him it wasn’t all getting through. He watched her and realized how young she really was despite all she’d lived through. She was only in her early thirties, a young woman from where Stynes sat, staring down the barrel of retirement.

“If you want,” Stynes said, “you can beg off. I’ll deal with the reporter.”

“I don’t want to inconvenience anyone.”

“Is something wrong?” Stynes asked. “You really seem to be struggling with this.”

“Do you think-?” She stopped. She stared at a fixed point somewhere in the space between her and Stynes. “I guess that article about Dante Rogers got me thinking.”

“About what?” Stynes waited. Janet didn’t answer. “Are you afraid? Do you think he’s going to hurt you or your family?”

“No, not that,” she said. “He looks so pathetic in the picture.”

“That’s what twenty-two years of being in prison for killing a child will do to you.”

Stynes hoped that he could turn the conversation in a different direction, move the focus to the punishment of Rogers rather than Janet’s doubts or anxieties about the past or the present. But who was he to think he could play psychological mind games with the family member of a crime victim? Stynes was who he was-an aging detective in a midsized Midwestern town, a guy who had investigated three murders in almost thirty years as a cop. He too had seen the pathetic picture of a doughy, paunchy Dante Rogers in the morning paper, and like Janet Manning he even felt the questions rise in his own mind: had this guy really lured a little kid away from a playground and killed him? Unlike Janet Manning, Stynes was supposed to know better. Regular-looking people committed awful crimes every day. Appearances didn’t tell the whole story. They never did. Circumstantial or not, Dante Rogers was guilty. He had served his time.

But Stynes held his own doubts, had held them for the past twenty-five years. Sure, they’d done everything right while they investigated the crime, and the case-circumstantial though it was-held enough water to put Rogers away. Stynes fell back on an old trick, one that had served him well ever since the jury returned with a conviction against Dante Rogers: he told himself to forget about it, to not dwell on things from the past that didn’t need to change. It was over, long over. More important, it was time for everyone to move on.

“Maybe if you think of this as the last time you have to answer these questions, it will make it easier,” Stynes said.

Janet nodded but didn’t seem convinced.

“You know, Janet-” Stynes began. He shifted forward on the couch. He’d always wanted to say something to her but never felt the time or moment was right, even when she was a kid. He decided to take his chance. “No one blames you for what happened. It wasn’t your fault.”

Janet looked surprised by what he said. Her eyes widened a bit, and Stynes worried he’d overstepped his bounds and said the wrong thing.

“Thank you, Detective,” she said.

“I hope you don’t mind me saying so,” he said. “I’ve worried sometimes-”

Janet shook her head and smiled, and Stynes saw the smile contained a hint of bitterness.

“I’m not worried about that at all, Detective,” she said. “In fact, these days, that’s the least of my concerns.”

Chapter Eight

Janet let the reporter in and wondered if some kind of mistake had been made. The girl-woman? — looked too young to be a newspaper reporter unless it was for her high school paper. The only difference between the whip-thin blond girl entering her living room and Ashleigh’s friends from Dove Point High was her clothes, which looked impeccably professional. Knee-length skirt, white top, black pumps, and a leather bag to match. The girl- woman-introduced herself as Kate Grossman of the Dove Point Ledger, and she apologized for being late, even though she wasn’t.

Stynes stood and shook hands with Kate, and they all settled into their seats. Kate sat on the opposite end of the couch from Stynes, and Janet noticed the detective take a quick, admiring peek at the reporter’s backside before she sat down. Janet looked at the reporter and then at Stynes. The contrast was striking. The reporter looked to be fresh out of college. Her hair was long and yellow and shined with such good health that Janet involuntarily raised a hand to her own hair and touched her split ends. Detective Stynes looked older than Janet knew him to be. His hair was thin and wiry, and his small physique and below-average height-Janet guessed he was about five feet seven-made him seem more like a high school math teacher than a police detective. He walked with his shoulders slumped a little, as if some unseen weight rested there, pushing down ever so slightly. But she liked him. He tried to reassure her. He just didn’t understand-or know-everything she knew.

“I’m so glad you took the time to talk to me, Mrs. Manning,” Kate said. Her eyes widened when she spoke, as though every word lifted her to a new level of excitement.

“Miss Manning,” Janet said. “Or Ms. Just not Mrs.-I’ve never been married.”

“Right. Of course.” Kate placed a handheld tape recorder on the table.

“Excuse me,” Stynes said. “It was Richie LaRosa who covered this story the last time there was a parole hearing.”

“Mr. LaRosa?” Kate said. She put on an exaggerated frown. “He’s taking an early retirement, even though he’s only in his forties. A lot of the more experienced reporters at the paper are.”

“Oh,” Stynes said.

Kate shrugged. “I begged my editor to let me cover this for the paper. It’s my first big story. Shall we begin?”

Kate’s sorority-girl good cheer had already irritated Janet. Shall we begin? Let’s sing a song! Let’s talk about your awful personal tragedy!

“Miss Manning-”

“Janet’s fine.”

“Great,” Kate said. They were old friends already. “Okay. Janet, is your dad, Bill Manning, is he going to talk to us today?”

“I don’t think so.”

The young woman frowned a little. “Is it too hard for him to talk about it?” she asked.

“Something like that.”

Not only would Dad not talk, but Michael wouldn’t either. Janet checked her watch. Just after two. He could still show, she told herself, but even as she had the thought she doubted it.

Stynes stepped in. “I’ve found over the years that Janet is an excellent advocate for her family. She was always very eloquent before the parole board.”

“Well, Janet.” Kate leaned forward a little. “Can you talk a little about what it’s been like to live without your brother all these years?”

Janet took a deep breath. What had it been like? She’d managed to control-most of the time-the fantasies she used to indulge in, the ones in which she imagined Justin hadn’t died and had instead spent the last twenty-five years growing up, maturing, becoming the young man-and brother-Janet wanted him to be. A college graduate, a businessman, a husband, a father…