find them.
“ He? You mean Max?”
“Yeah. He was, you know, all messed up.”
She wondered if he was referring to the man’s mental state or his physical condition at death.
Ren looked at her, imploring. “But Charlie didn’t do it. She couldn’t have, Mom. Not like that.”
Jewell wanted to tell him that he was right, that Charlie would never do anything so brutal. She wished she could say that despite his faults, Max loved his daughter so much that even drunk he’d never do something threatening enough to drive Charlie to such an extreme response. But the truth was that when he was drinking, Max Miller generally turned belligerent and the potential for violence was always there, lurking in that cramped, messy trailer like a vicious pit bull.
“We’ll find Charlie,” she said. “And then we’ll find out the truth.”
It wasn’t exactly comforting, but neither would it give him false hope.
The day had warmed, low fifties, and was holding bright. A strong and steady wind had risen, sweeping out of the northwest over the high ground of the Keweenaw Peninsula, whipping the lake into a frenzy. Whenever Superior came into view, Jewell saw whitecaps leaping across the water.
They entered Marquette and drove south on Presque Isle Avenue past Northern Michigan University’s Superior Dome. She wove her way to Ridge Street and turned left, which took her past the Landmark Inn where scenes from Anatomy of a Murder had been filmed.
Providence House stood on the corner a block past the inn. It was a sturdy three-story built of red stone. Originally, it had been one of the many fine houses on Ridge, constructed around the turn of the century on a hilltop with a million-dollar view of the harbor. Somewhere along the way, it had taken a more utilitarian turn and been converted into apartments. Most recently, a nonprofit organization called Children First had bought the property and turned it into a shelter for runaways and homeless youth. Several programs operated within its walls, providing everything from simple short-term shelter to more extensive, long-term support for teens who were chronically homeless. The wealthy neighbors weren’t fond of the house or its mission, and constantly threatened legal action. Jewell knew these things because once she’d learned that Charlie used the place as shelter, she’d done a thorough investigation. As a result, Providence House had become one of the nonprofit organizations to which she donated.
She parked the Blazer on the street in front and said to Ren, “Wait here.”
“Unh-uh.” Ren shook his head vigorously. “I’m coming, too.” He didn’t wait for Jewell to respond before popping his door open and sliding out.
The rear of the property ran down a long, grassy slope to a line of trees through which the blue of the harbor flashed in luminous patches. An old carriage house stood half hidden behind the big main building. Marigolds still bloomed along the sidewalk that led to the front steps. A fresh coat of white paint brightened the window frames. Jewell knew that because the neighbors weren’t happy to have a program like Providence House so near, those responsible for the shelter worked hard to keep the place looking good.
Jewell opened the front door and stepped in, Ren right behind her. Inside, the place was quiet and felt empty. To the left was a living room furnished with a brown area rug, a couple of end tables, a sofa, and several chairs, none of which matched and all of which faced the television. Through French doors to the right, she could see a long, scratched dining table around which sat ten chairs. Directly ahead was an uncarpeted stairway. Beside the stairs ran a hallway that led toward darkness at the back of the building where the murmur of voices could be heard.
“Hello,” Jewell called.
“Wait right there.” It was a command, not a request.
Jewell had driven past Providence House on several occasions, assessing it from the street, but she’d never been inside before. Charlie, when she stayed, always got there on her own and, when she was ready, found her own way back to Bodine. She’d never asked for Jewell’s help.
Ren said quietly, “It’s not so bad.”
“What did you expect?”
“I don’t know. Like, mattresses on the floor or something.”
Jewell found this interesting. Charlie had never talked to her about Providence House, which she assumed was because she was as an adult. She’d supposed, however, that as her best friend Ren had probably been taken into her confidence. Apparently Charlie hadn’t spoken to him about it, either.
Sunlight flowed through a window beside the door and fell across the floor. The latticework of the leaded- glass panes created a pattern of shadow on the scuffed boards that suggested a spider’s web. A woman emerged from the dark hallway and stopped just short of the web. Midfifties, Jewell speculated. Gray hair cut sensibly short. She wasn’t tall-a few inches over five feet-but she had a solid quality to her. She wore black jeans, a red turtleneck, white canvas slip-ons. She looked at her visitors suspiciously.
“Yes?”
“Hi. I’m Jewell DuBois.” She stepped forward and offered her hand, which was accepted without enthusiasm. “This is my son, Ren.”
The woman blinked at them both and waited.
“We’re looking for a young woman who may be staying here.”
“I can’t give out information about our clients.”
“And you would be?”
“Mary Hilfiker. I’m the director here.”
“She’s disappeared and we’d like to be certain she’s all right, Mary,” Jewell went on. “She’s stayed here before. Her name is Charlene Miller. Charlie.”
The woman’s face didn’t change. “As I told you, I can’t give you information.”
“Not even just to confirm she’s okay?”
“Not even that.”
“Look, I can understand the need for privacy, but her father’s been murdered and we’re going out of our minds with worry.”
“Oh, my.” Mary Hilfiker looked very hard at her face and at Ren’s, as if trying to find a crack in their sincerity. Jewell saw something change in her aspect. She relaxed just a little and kindness softened her eyes.
“If I told you she was okay, it would be a tacit admission that she’s here, and that’s privileged information. Do you see?”
Ren said, “It’s awful quiet. Is anybody here?”
The thread of a smile appeared as she glanced down at him. “Although we operate what is essentially a residential program, our clients are required to leave every morning. They’re gone to jobs or school all day. They return for dinner and a bed.”
“All of them leave?” Jewell asked.
“Yes.”
“But they can’t all have jobs or be going to school.”
“No, not all.”
“And the others?”
“They go where kids without homes go to hang out.”
“Back on the streets.”
“Generally, yes.”
“Do you know where Charlie hangs out?” Ren inquired hopefully.
“No.”
“If she were to come back this evening, what time would she be here?”
The woman seemed to weigh her response, then said, “I’m not going to tell you that.”
“I’m not trying to be difficult,” Jewell said with a prickle of irritation. “I’m just worried.”
“I understand. And I hope you understand my position. People come here all the time looking for children they’ve abused. They’re sorry for what they’ve done, genuinely sorry. More contrite people you can’t imagine. But the fact is that those who’ve abused will generally continue to do so. Or they come insisting they’re concerned relatives or friends, looking for children who, in actuality, they’ve recruited as prostitutes or runners or whatever.” Her hands finally moved from her side and she held them out, empty and entreating. “You seem respectable,
