Darkness My Old Friend

“Just be careful. Okay?”

She used to say that to him every time he left for work. Even though he was only a small-town cop in a place where things were quiet most of the time, she’d always worried about him. She’d get mad at him back then if he didn’t call when he was supposed to or if he got hung up with overtime and came home late. Don’t worry, he’d tell her. They’ll come to the door if there’s really something wrong… Is that supposed to make me feel better? He’d liked it that she worried. He liked it now that she wanted him to come home.

“You mean you still love me?” he said.

“Don’t be silly.” She had that warm, flirty tone in her voice.

“You were pretty mad at me the other night.”

“Not mad,” she said. “Concerned.”

“No. Mad.”

“Okay,” she said. “Angry. Upset.” He remembered that she didn’t like the word mad. That it implied insensibility, something out of control. “But I do love you. You know that, don’t you?”

He did. He did know that. He told her so.

“This is the part where you tell me you love me, too.”

He had a hard time with those words. They felt so awkward, so inadequate on his tongue. Abigail had demanded that he say it over and over to her, day after day. I love you, Mommy. It was like she’d used the words up. He’d said them so many times, not meaning them, saying them only to appease and escape, that the words seemed fake. And they were never enough for her. Nothing was ever enough for Abigail.

“I do,” he said. “You know I do.”

Maggie understood. She never hassled him about it. She didn’t need him to say it. What Maggie needed was a lot of touching, a lot of holding. He hadn’t always been good at that over the years, either.

“Seriously,” she said. “What are you going to do?”

“I guess I’m going to ring the bell and see if anyone’s home. Go from there.” He’d been sitting and watching for the better part of fifteen minutes now. He’d come to believe over the years that an empty house had an aura; you could tell somehow when no one was home. It was more than just a lack of the lights and movement. It was like a lack of breath.

“Hmm.”

“I know. Brilliant, right?”

“Just be careful,” she said again.

There was no answer at the door. Jones went around back through the heavy rain and was bold enough to walk up onto the deck, peer into the living room. The light was on over the stove in the kitchen. Nothing out of place, no furniture overturned, no blood on the walls. Good. Another light shone in an upstairs window. He tried the sliding glass door, but it was locked. Not that he’d have entered, maybe just called inside. He reminded himself that he had no right to be there. He was not a cop; he was a trespasser.

He walked around the side yard. It was thick with trees, sparing him a little bit of the rain that fell. There were no cars in the driveway; he’d seen that on arrival. He cupped his hands and peered into the narrow window on the side of the house that looked in on the garage. There were no vehicles there, either-not the Mercedes SUV he knew that Paula Carr drove, not the old BMW the kid had with him, either. He didn’t know what Kevin Carr drove.

He tried the knob on the side door, and when he found it unlocked, he pushed his way inside. He wouldn’t have done that as a cop, unless he had line-of-sight, meaning he saw something that looked incriminating or dangerous or had reason to believe that someone was in danger inside. Though he supposed he could make that argument if it came down to it. As a cop he’d always stuck to the letter of the law. Otherwise what was the point? As a private investigator, he wouldn’t have that obligation-he wouldn’t have to think about warrants and inadmissible evidence, cases thrown out of court because of evidence gained illegally. Of course, now he could also be arrested for illegally entering a home.

The garage was organized and tidy. Bicycles hung on a wall rack, sports equipment-tennis rackets, boxing gloves, roller skates in various sizes and colors-all sat orderly on shelves. The floor was painted a slate gray, free from the dirt and dust that would have been normal. Jones felt his heart thump, bent down to see if the paint on the floor was wet. But it wasn’t. It was dusty, in fact, and dirtier than it had looked. He noticed that he’d left a trail of water from the door as the rain had sluiced off his jacket.

When his phone rang, he practically had a heart attack, adrenaline rocketing through him. Note to self: When illegally entering a home, turn off the cell phone. He didn’t recognize the number.

He walked outside to answer, started making his way quickly back to the car. The rain had let up for a minute, slowed to a fine drizzle.

“Jones Cooper,” he answered.

“Jones, it’s Henry Ivy.” He sounded upset. “Sorry to bother you, but we have a problem.”

Henry told him about Willow Graves running off.

“I’m kind of in the middle of something here,” Jones said. It wasn’t exactly true. There was no one home at the Carr house. He had no other leads on Paula Carr. He was at another dead end. At this point he’d go check on Elizabeth and then go home.

“This is my fault,” said Henry. He’d lowered his voice, told Jones about his night with Bethany Graves and Willow’s unhappy response. As soon as Jones got back into his car, the rain started coming down hard again.

“You think she ran off on foot in a storm like this?” he asked.

“Maybe not.”

“She has friends with cars?”

Then Jones remembered that Willow Graves knew Cole. Cole had a vehicle, and he wasn’t at home. Jones wasn’t a big fan of coincidence, but here he was again. He was looking for the kid. It would be a good thing to find him away from the father, have a word with him in private about his mother.

“Beth called Jolie’s mother, who said that Jolie was out with Cole Carr. We think they all might be together.” Jones heard Bethany say something in the background. But he couldn’t make it out. “We checked around at some of the local spots like Pop’s Pizza and the Hollows Brew. No one’s seen them.”

“Okay,” said Jones. “You don’t think they’d have gone back there? To the Hollows Wood?”

“Maybe, if they heard about the bones,” said Henry. “Bethany seems to think it’s possible. We’re headed there now.”

“All right,” said Jones. He looked at his watch. It was still early, just after eight thirty. “I’ll meet you at the graveyard.”

“Thanks, Jones.”

“When did I become the guy to call?” Jones muttered to himself. Of course, if he was honest, he had to admit he liked it. Anyway, it was at least a detour from dropping in on the old crank. As he pulled out, he thought briefly about Eloise, her predictions for him. But he pushed them quickly and totally away. By the time he reached the main road, he’d forgotten about them completely.

***

She was swimming, and the water felt good. When was the last time she’d been submerged in water? Dipped her body into crystal-blue pool water or tasted the salt of the ocean? She and Alfie used to take trips to the beach, lie on the sand beneath a big blue-and-green striped umbrella. They’d drink beer from the cooler and listen to the gulls and catch up on their reading. Then they’d jump into the cool, gray Atlantic waves. That was before the kids, when it was just them. When they could just sit and be quietly together.

The water was cold, murky. She found that she didn’t need to surface for air, that she could just drift beneath, her fingers grazing against stones and drifting ribbons of weeds, branches. River water, that’s what it was. If clean had a feeling, light and cold against her skin… It had been so long since she’d done anything that gave her pleasure. Why had she been punishing herself all these years?

The other psychic she’d known, the one who’d taught her everything, had warned her. You must not forget to live. Spending all our time with the dead, something about it drains the life from us if we let it. Be out