Clarence said, “Mr. Novak, you ready?”
“I need to tell my daughter.”
“I would rather you didn’t,” Muse said.
“Excuse me?”
“Like I said, we don’t know for sure. I will ask her questions, but I won’t tell her. I will leave that to you, if it is necessary at all.”
Guy Novak nodded through his daze. “Okay.”
Clarence took his arm and said in the gentlest voice, “Let’s go, Mr. Novak. This way.”
Muse did not bother watching Clarence escort him down the path. She entered and headed into the kitchen. The two little girls sat wide-eyed, pretending to eat popcorn.
One of them asked, “Who are you?”
Muse managed a tight smile. “My name is Loren Muse. I work for the county.”
“Where’s my father?”
“Are you Yasmin?”
“Yes.”
“Your dad is helping one of my officers. He’ll be back. But right now I need to ask you a few questions, okay?”
31
BETSY Hill sat on the floor of her son’s room. She had Spencer’s old cell phone in her hand. The battery was long dead. She just held it and stared at it and wasn’t sure what to do.
The day after her son was found dead, she had found Ron starting to pack away this room—the same way he had packed away Spencer’s kitchen chair. Betsy stopped him in no uncertain terms. There was bend, and there was break; even Ron could see the difference.
For days after the suicide, she would lie on this floor in a fetal position and sob. Her stomach hurt so much. She just wanted to die, that’s all, just let the agony conquer and devour her. But it didn’t. She put her hands on his bed, smoothing the sheets. She stuck her face in his pillow, but the scent was gone.
How could it have happened?
She thought about her conversation with Tia Baye, what it meant, what it ultimately could mean. Nothing really. In the end Spencer was dead. Ron was right on that count. Knowing the truth wouldn’t change that or even help her heal. Knowing the truth wouldn’t give her that damn word “closure,” because, in truth, she didn’t want it. What kind of mother—a mother who had already failed her child in so much—would want to move on, to stop hurting, to be given some kind of pass?
“Hey.”
She looked up. Ron stood in the doorway. He tried to smile at her. She slipped the phone into her back pocket.
“You okay?” he asked.
“Ron?”
He waited.
“I need to find out what really happened that night.”
Ron said, “I know you do.”
“It won’t bring him back,” she said. “I know that. It won’t even make us feel better. But I think we need to do it anyway.”
“Why?” he asked.
“I don’t know.”
Ron nodded. He stepped into the room and started to bend toward her. For a moment she thought that he was going to wrap his arms around her, and her body stiffened at the thought. He stopped when he saw it, blinked, stood upright again.
“I better go,” he said.
He turned and left. Betsy took the phone out of her pocket. She plugged in the charger and turned it on. Still clutching the phone, Betsy curled into the fetal position and cried again. She thought about her son in that same fetal position—was that hereditary too?—up on that cold hard roof.
She checked the phone log on Spencer’s phone. There were no surprises. She had done this before, but not in several weeks. Spencer had called Adam Baye three times that night. He had last spoken to him an hour before the suicide text. That call had lasted only a minute. Adam had said that Spencer left him a garbled message. Now she wondered if that was a lie.
The police had found this phone on the roof next to Spencer’s body.
She held it now and closed her eyes. She was half-asleep, lulling in that cusp between consciousness and awake, when she heard the phone ring. For a moment she thought that maybe it was Spencer’s cell, but no, it was the house phone.
Betsy wanted to let it go into voice mail, but it might be Tia Baye. She managed to peel herself from the floor. There was a phone in Spencer’s room. She checked the caller ID and saw an unfamiliar number.
“Hello?”
There was silence.
“Hello?”
Then a boy’s voice choked with tears said, “I saw you and my mom on the roof.”
Betsy sat up. “Adam?”
“I’m so sorry, Mrs. Hill.”
“Where are you calling from?” she asked.
“A pay phone.”
“Where?”
She heard more crying.
“Adam?”
“Spencer and I used to meet in your backyard. In those woods where you used to have the swing set. Do you know it?”
“Yes.”
“I can meet you there.”
“Okay, when?”
“Spencer and I liked it there because you can see anyone coming or going. If you tell someone, I’ll spot them. Promise me you won’t.”
“I promise. When?”
“One hour.”
“Okay.”
“Mrs. Hill?”
“Yes?”
“What happened to Spencer,” Adam said. “It was my fault.”
AS soon as Mike and Tia turned onto their block, they could see the man with the long hair and those dirty fingernails pacing on their front lawn.
Mike said, “Isn’t that Brett from your office?”
Tia nodded. “He was checking that e-mail for me. The one about the Huff party.”
They pulled into the driveway. Susan and Dante Loriman were outside too. Dante waved. Mike waved back. He looked over at Susan. She forced up her hand and then moved toward her front door. Mike waved again and turned away. He had no time for this now.
His phone went off. Mike looked down at the number and frowned.
“Who is it?” Tia asked.
“Ilene,” he said. “The feds questioned her too. I should take this.”
She nodded. “I’ll talk to Brett.”
Tia got out of the car. Brett was still going back and forth, animated, talking to himself. She called out to him and he stopped.
“Someone is messing with your head, Tia,” Brett said.
“How?”
“I need to go in and check Adam’s computer to be sure.”
Tia wanted to ask more, but that would just waste time. She opened the door and let Brett inside. He knew the way.
“Did you tell anyone about what I put on his computer?” he asked.