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.”
ON 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.
Please find it in your heart to help save Lucas’s life. . . .
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
He saw the name Reba Cordova. He knew her. She had been on the school library committee where Joe had been faculty liaison. She was vice president of the HSA and he remembered her smiling face at the back door when the children were let out.
She was missing?
Then he read the part beneath that, about the possible connection to a corpse recently found in Newark. He read the name of the murder victim and felt the breath squeeze out of him.
Oh dear Lord, what had he done?
Joe Lewiston ran to the bathroom and threw up. Then he grabbed his phone and dialed Nash’s number.
34
FIRST Ron Hill made sure that neither Betsy nor the twins were home. Then he headed up to his dead boy’s bedroom.
He didn’t want anyone to know.
Ron leaned against the doorway. He stared at the bed as though that might conjure up the image of his son—that he could look so hard that a figure would eventually materialize and it would be Spencer and he’d be lying on his back and he’d be staring at the ceiling the way he did, silent and with small tears in his eyes.
Why hadn’t they seen it?
You look back and you know the kid was always a little morose, always a little too sad, too even. You don’t want him labeled with words like manic depression. He’s just a kid after all, and you figure that he will outgrow it. But now, with the wonder of hindsight, how often had he walked past this room and the door was closed and Ron would open it without knocking—this was his house, damnit, he didn’t have to knock—and Spencer would just be lying on that bed with tears in his eyes and he’d look straight up and Ron would ask, “Is everything okay?” and he’d say, “Sure, Dad,” and Ron would close the door and that would be the end?