walking. It wasn’t far before she veered off the path and into the part of the woods they had run through on Tuesday with Dennis and Cody chasing them. She remembered calling Dennis
Here she remembered looking back over her shoulder and Tommy yelling, “Jump!” And down the bank they went, skidding and sliding and tumbling. Wendy took the long way down this time then looked back up the bank. It was like they had fallen into a bowl, she thought, and she opened her notebook and scribbled that down, sticking her tongue out the side of her mouth as she tried to write and walk and look around all at the same time.
Tommy had rolled the farthest, stopping right—
The scream that split the air came so fast and so instinctively that Wendy didn’t even realize it had torn up from her own lungs. There in the grave, half-covered with dead leaves and branches, Cody Roache sat crying, with blood all over his hands and his stomach and his face.
He looked right at Wendy and sobbed, “Dennis killed me!”
Dennis bolted out from behind a tree. He grabbed at Wendy, catching hold of one braid and yanking her off her feet as she tried to run. Her notebook went flying. She landed on all fours and barely managed to dodge sideways enough that Dennis missed her back as he plunged down with the knife.
Scrambling to get up, looking over her shoulder at Dennis, she ran smack into Cody, and they both fell flat. Wendy was covered in blood as she rolled off him and started running, Dennis Farman right on her heels.
Dennis was bigger and stronger, but Wendy was quick. Every time he lunged for her, she managed to arch her back and evade his grasp—until the toe of her sneaker hit squarely on the exposed root of a tree.
She fell hard, the wind going out of her in one big, painful
“I hate you! I hate you! I hate you!” Dennis screamed over and over.
He fell to his knees on top of her, the knife flying out of his bloody hand as he drew his arm back to stab her. He didn’t seem to notice it was gone and kept bringing his arm down again and again, as if he was driving the knife into her, his fist thumping so hard against her chest she saw stars with each contact.
Wendy’s vision filled with black lace. She couldn’t get a breath. Dennis was on top of her. She was going to die.
65
Tommy spent the day walking on eggshells. It was something he was very good at because he had a lot of practice doing it. He had always known how to read his mother’s moods—or anyone’s for that matter. He never understood people who couldn’t.
His father had left the house very early to help with the search for the missing lady. Tommy had asked to go along, but his dad had explained they didn’t allow kids to be there.
That didn’t make sense to Tommy, since kids could look for things just as well as adults—and probably better. They were closer to the ground and they paid more attention to what was around them. And besides that, he had already seen a dead body before, so it wasn’t like he would be afraid if he saw one again.
But it didn’t matter, because his dad left him once again to deal with his mother, who got out of bed mad, slamming doors and drawers, muttering to herself. That was the worst thing: when she talked to herself under her breath, so angry, her eyes hard and cold.
She went through the house “cleaning,” as she called it. Throwing things left and right, out of drawers, onto the floor—magazines, newspapers, mail. She went through the kitchen throwing out food, throwing things out of the refrigerator into the sink.
Later, when she had calmed down, she would go through the house again, following the trail of destruction, making sure there would be no signs left of what she had done. By the time his father got home, the house would be perfectly neat and clean, like nothing had ever happened.
Tommy stayed in his room for most of her tirade, but knew that eventually she would come in there as well, and if he hadn’t done a perfect job of keeping his room neat, he would have a BIG problem. His mother would tear the sheets from his bed, throw his toys in the garbage, tear up papers he had brought home from school to save because he had gotten stars on them from Miss Navarre, or she had written a note on them saying how well he had done.
He knew how his mother would particularly be after those because she was still angry at Miss Navarre. More than ever after Detective Mendez and the FBI man had been there.
Tommy made a special effort to hide the things he valued most, pressing papers between the mattress and box spring of his bed.
He wished he dared to just leave, but he didn’t. Instead he slipped from his room and followed two rooms behind his mother, going through the mess to make certain she hadn’t thrown out anything of value. He sometimes found things like watches and jewelry, money, checks, all kinds of things that his mother would never throw away if she hadn’t been in one of her moods.
Today was no exception. Tommy sorted out the good things and put them back where they belonged. Books, magazines, and drink coasters in the family room. Figurines and photographs in the living room. In his parents’ room—where he had to be extra careful not to be caught—he saved his father’s ring from college and a tangle of jewelry his mother had thrown in the wastebasket.
When she finished her tirade, she was in the study, sitting on her knees sobbing amid a pile of papers, letters, newspaper clippings. And like always when she started crying, Tommy went in and sat with her, and held her hand. He told her that he felt bad for her, and he was sorry for her, and he hoped she would feel better soon.
It wasn’t a job a kid should have, but that was just his life.
He wished he could have just gone to the park on a Saturday like everyone else.
66
“Steve wouldn’t kill Lisa,” Crane said. “He cared for her.”
“So much that he would only see her in the dead of night?” Mendez asked. “Wouldn’t admit it to anyone, wouldn’t let her tell anyone?”
“He’s a married man.”
“He should have thought of that before he unzipped his pants,” Mendez said.
Crane got up and started pacing, his hands on his hips. “I’m really not comfortable talking about this.”
“You said Steve is a complicated guy. In what way?” Mendez asked.
“He’s your friend, man. Tell me about him.”
“I just meant that Steve is very driven. He’s passionate about the work he does for the center. Steve comes from a tough background—single mom, not much money, desperate times. He had to fight his way to get where he is—including being married to Sara. She’s from a good family, educated, beautiful.”
“She’s a trophy for him?”
“No! I don’t know.” He shook his head and closed his eyes. “I should have kept my mouth shut. Why don’t you talk to Steve? I’m sure he’ll tell you anything you want to know. He doesn’t have anything to hide.”
“Except a mistress,” Mendez said. “What time did you leave O’Brien’s?”
“One thirty, quarter to two.”
“Where did you go from there?”
“I went home. Steve was going to check into the Holiday Inn.”
“All right,” Mendez said, getting up from his chair.
Crane looked at him, a little suspicious. “I can go?”
Mendez spread his hands. “Sure.”
Peter Crane breathed a sigh of relief and started for the door. Pausing with his hand on the knob.
