Betsy Hill shook her head.
“He was a good kid, Mrs. Hill.”
“He was the one who took the drugs from our house, from our medicine cabinet…” she said, more to herself than to him.
“I know. We all did.”
His words rattled her, made it impossible to think. “A girl? You fought over a girl?”
“It was my fault,” Adam said. “I lost control. I didn’t look out for him. I listened to the messages too late. I got to the roof as soon as I could. But he was dead.”
“You found him?”
He nodded.
“And you never said anything?”
“I was gutless. But not anymore. It ends now.”
“What ends?”
“I’m so sorry, Mrs. Hill. I couldn’t save him.”
Then Betsy said, “Neither could I, Adam.”
She took a step toward him, but Adam shook his head.
“It ends now,” he said again.
Then he took two steps backward, turned, and ran away.
33
PAUL Copeland stood in front of a plethora of network microphones and said, “We need your help in finding a missing woman named Reba Cordova.”
Muse watched from the side of the stage. The monitors flashed an achingly sweet photograph of Reba on the screen. Her smile was the kind that made you smile too, or conversely, in a situation like this, ripped your heart right down the middle. There was a phone number on the bottom of the screen.
“We also need help in locating this woman.”
Now they flashed the photograph from the Target store surveillance video.
“This woman is a person of interest. If you have any information, please call the number below.”
The nut jobs would start in now, but in this situation, the potential pros outweighed, in Muse’s view, the cons. She doubted anyone would have seen Reba Cordova, but there was a real chance that someone might recognize the woman in the surveillance photo. That was what Muse was hoping anyway.
Neil Cordova stood next to Cope. In front of him were his and Reba’s two little girls. Cordova kept his chin high, but you could still see the tremble. The Cordova girls were beautiful and haunting and all eyes, like something you’d see staggering away from a burned-out building in a war newsreel. The networks, of course, loved this-the photogenic grieving family. Cope had told Cordova that he didn’t have to attend or he could attend by himself without the kids. Neil Cordova had shaken that off.
“We need to do all we can to save her,” Cordova had told Cope, “or those girls will look back and wonder.”
“It’s going to be traumatic,” Cope replied.
“If their mother is dead, they’ll go through hell no matter. At least I want them to know that we did all we could.”
Muse felt her phone vibrate. She checked and saw it was Clarence Morrow calling from the morgue. About damn time.
“The body belongs to Marianne Gillespie,” Clarence said. “The ex-husband is positive.”
Muse stepped up a little, just so that Cope could see her. When he glanced toward her, she gave a small nod. Cope turned back to the microphone and said, “We have also identified a body that may be connected to Ms. Cordova’s disappearance. A woman named Marianne Gillespie…”
Muse turned back to her call. “You questioned Novak?”
“We did. I don’t think he’s involved, do you?”
“No.”
“He had no motive. His girlfriend isn’t the woman in the surveillance tape, and he doesn’t match the description of the guy in the van.”
“Take him home. Let him tell his daughter in peace.”
“On our way. Novak already called the girlfriend to make sure she kept the girls away from the news until he gets back.”
Back on the monitor a photograph of Marianne Gillespie appeared. Weirdly enough, Novak did not have any old photos of his ex, but Reba Cordova had visited Marianne in Florida last spring and taken some snapshots. The picture was taken by the pool, Marianne working a bikini, but they’d cropped it into a headshot for the cameras. Marianne had been something of a bombshell, Muse noted, albeit one who had probably seen better days before the hard living. Things weren’t as tight as they might have once been, but you could still see she had it.
Neil Cordova finally stepped up to speak. The camera flashes created the strobe that always shocked the uninitiated. Cordova blinked through it. He seemed calmer now, putting on a game face. He told everyone that he loved his wife and that she was a wonderful mother and if anyone had information, could they please call the number on the screen?
“Psst.”
Muse turned. It was Frank Tremont. He waved her to come toward him.
“We got something,” he said.
“Already?”
“A widow who used to be married to a Hawthorne cop called. She says the woman in the surveillance photo lives alone downstairs. Says the woman is from someplace overseas and that her name is Pietra.”
O N his way out of the school, Joe Lewiston checked his mailbox at the main office.
There was yet another flyer and personal note from the Loriman family to help find a donor for their son, Lucas. Joe had never had any of the Loriman kids, but he’d seen the mother around. Male teachers might pretend that they are above it, but they noticed the hot moms. Susan Loriman was one of them.
The flyer-the third he’d seen-said that next Friday they would have a “medical professional” coming through the school to take blood tests.
Joe felt terrible. The Lorimans were working feverishly to save their child’s life. Mrs. Loriman had e-mailed and called him, urging him to help: “I know you’ve never taught any of my kids, but everyone in the school looks up to you as a leader,” and Joe had thought, selfishly because all humans are selfish, that maybe it would help his standing since the XY-Yasmin controversy or at the very least assuage his own guilt. He thought about his own child, imagined little Allie in a hospital with tubes running out of her, sick and in pain. That thought should have put his problems into perspective, but it didn’t. Someone is always worse off than you. That never seemed like much comfort.
He drove and thought about Nash. Joe still had three older brothers alive, but he relied on Nash more than any of them. Nash and Cassie had seemed like an unlikely mix, but when they were together, it was as though they were one entity. He heard that was how it sometimes worked, but he had never really seen it before or since. Lord knows he and Dolly didn’t have it.
Corny as it sounded, Cassie and Nash had truly been two becoming one.
When Cassie died, it was beyond devastating. You just never thought it would happen. Even after the diagnosis. Even after watching the early horrifying effects of the illness. You somehow thought that Cassie would pull through. It shouldn’t have been a shock by the time she succumbed. But it was.
Joe saw Nash change more than any of them-or maybe, when two are forced to become one again, something has to give. There was a coldness to Nash that Joe now found oddly comforting because there were so few Nash cared about. Outwardly warm people pretend that they are there for everyone, but when it really counted, like now, a man wants to call on a strong friend who only has his interest at heart, who could give a damn about right or wrong, who just wanted to make sure the one he cared about was safe.
That was Nash.
“I promised Cassandra,” Nash had explained to him after the funeral. “I will protect you.”
With anyone else that would have sounded bizarre or discomforting, but with Nash, you knew that he meant it and that he would do whatever was in his almost supernatural power to keep his word. It was scary and exhilarating and for someone like Joe, the unathletic son ignored by his demanding father, it meant a lot.
When Joe walked in the door, he saw that Dolly was on the computer. She had a funny expression on her face and Joe felt his stomach drop.
“Where were you?” Dolly asked.
“At school.”
“Why?”
“Just some work I wanted to catch up on.”
“My e-mail still isn’t working.”
“I’ll take another look at it.”
Dolly stood up. “Do you want some tea?”
“That would be nice, thanks.”
She kissed his cheek. Joe sat at the computer. He waited until she was out of the room, then he signed into his account. He was about to check his e-mails when something on his home page caught his eye.
“Lead photos” from the news circulated on his front page. There was international news, followed by local news, sports and then entertainment. It was the local news picture that had caught his eye. The picture was gone now, replaced with something about the New York Knicks.
Joe hit the back arrow and found the picture again.
It was a photograph of a man with his two little girls. He recognized one of them. She wasn’t one of his students, but she went to his school. Or at least she looked like a girl who did. He clicked on the story. The headline read:
LOCAL WOMAN MISSING
