"When I said it, I was really tired of being treated like a young girl instead of an eighteen-year-old young woman."
"You wanted me to believe a lie, knowing full well how I'd react?"
"I'm sorry."
"You wanted me to be angry?" he asked. "You wanted to hurt me, is that it?"
"No, I just—"
"Because lying to me isn't the best way to prove how grown-up you are."
"Dad, you're undermining my motivation."
He folded the paper and set it aside as though it was a delicate artifact. Leaning forward, he rested his forearms on his knees.
"I wanted you to take me seriously."
He asked, "What is it that I don't understand?"
"I'm not a little girl anymore. I make my own choices. I have the right to make mistakes without it clouding your judgement of me. I am entitled to an adult conversation. I deserve to be trusted."
"Oh. Now I see." The tightness of his expression weakened. "This isn't only about you. Or Conner. This is also about Jared Smith."
"Yes. I should be able to come to you for anything. When I wanted to talk about Jared, you put up a wall. You and Mom both, actually. And that's not fair."
"What happened to Jared Smith was a terrible, evil thing. It's best to let something like that remain unspoken. Why would you want to give power to it by talking about it?"
Sighing with mild frustration, she stared at a framed family portrait on the wall. "You can try to shelter me from evil in the world, but that doesn't mean it doesn't exist."
Her father's pause lingered longer than she'd expected. Finally, he said, "You're right. I apologize."
Focused on him again, she smiled. "Thank you."
"Is that it? Is there more you'd like to discuss?"
"That's it," she said, rising to her feet. "But . . . if Conner, Trevor, and Adam need my help getting through this, I'm going to help. So, don't think the worst of Conner. Or me. Trust me."
"I will trust you."
When Hailey left the sitting room, a genuine sense of satisfaction flowered within her. It was as if she'd planted a seed that suddenly sprouted and blossomed into gloriously colored, silky petals. But she was no fool. Her father's more mature treatment of her would not magically occur overnight. Still, the personal gratification she felt as she walked out of the sitting room was empowering nonetheless.
* * *
As Lou drove back to his hotel, thinking of the next day's interview with Father O'Leary, it occurred to him that he no longer despised Stella. He actually admired her, which in turn persuaded him to consider her a friend. She was ruthless when she needed to be—mostly when it concerned her investigative work—and he couldn't fault her for that. But she had a soft spot, a kind-hearted nature that she'd exposed when dealing with the boys earlier in the evening. He imagined that she'd extend the same kindness when working on the pilot episode with him and Dave.
He was eager to hear Father O'Leary's story. Yet an anxious energy pulsated within him. And he wasn't sure why. On several occasions, he'd conducted important interviews with forthcoming witnesses. Father O'Leary wouldn't be the last. But the anticipation of what Lou might hear was almost too much to bear. The significance of the Father's words could make or break the production deal.
Underneath the underlying anxiety, Lou realized that it wasn't the interview itself he feared, but that Father O'Leary might not divulge anything exciting at all.
TWENTY-THREE
Conner awakened with a trace of a smile. Then his stirring happiness recoiled at the thought of the priest's interview. How could he possibly look forward to something with such a macabre undertone? While he hoped the priest would share vital information on what had happened to Jared, the details he could share—whether minor or revelatory—would still add to the collateral damage of their deteriorated friendship with Jared. Any conclusion that could be drawn wouldn't change the events of the last six months.
A light rain pelted the narrow overhang of roof above Conner's bedroom window. The morning sunlight did little to illuminate his room, only revealing the silvery, gray haze of light that matched his dull mood. Outside, a thick fog hung in the air like swollen, frayed cotton seeping through the tree branches. Across the street, Adam's house appeared as blurred outlines of window frames, angular roof edges, and door trim, the white of the house swallowed by the murky weather.
He envisioned the Smiths' house enveloped by the fog, concealing the façade of a home that had recently acquired a sinister character of its own. Its empty rooms now gutted of life. The cold, bare hardwood floors slick with the polish of exposed family secrets. And the abandoned bed in Jared's room, the only remaining fossil of Jared's existence on Cottage Drive.
Yet there was one final secret left to be revealed. The etching on the floor of Jared's bedroom. What message, if any, awaited to be found?
He glanced at his phone. It was twenty after eight. Lou and Stella were interviewing the priest at nine o'clock.
* * *
Adam arrived soon after Conner had finished eating breakfast. The two sat in the kitchen, each with a cup of coffee. Conner could sense it in himself, the low voltage undercurrent between them, and Adam's slackened posture. Conner didn't want to breathe life into the thoughts that dominated his mind, and it seemed Adam didn't either. A knowing glance between the two was all that was needed.
At nearly nine thirty, Trevor walked through the front door. His coat draped over one arm, he shuddered. "Chilly and foggy. The drive over was a bitch. I bet it snows."
Seating himself at the kitchen table, he asked, "You haven't heard anything?"
Conner shook his head.
"How long do you think the interview will take?"
"No idea. Two hours, maybe. Three?"
"And the guy with the key is meeting us at Jared's house at two?"
Jared's house. The words weighed heavily like waterlogged towels hung to drip-dry. "Yeah. Two o'clock."
With a healthy inhale,
