Page 35 of Middle of the Night

“I prefer to keep our relationship formal, if you don’t mind.”

I suppress a chuckle. Whoisthis kid?

“So, um, do you want me to call you Mr. Wallace?”

Only as I’m saying it do I realize that Henry might not have the same last name as his mother. I’m assuming there’s a father in the picture somehow, even though it’s clear he and Ashley are no longer together. Henry provides no clues, for his answer is a calm “You may continue to call me Henry.”

“Right. Henry.” I stall, trying to think of anything else I can say to this kid I barely know. “I can turn on the radio, if you want. What kind of music do you like?”

“My mom picks what we listen to,” Henry says, which makes me pleased that some things about Ashley haven’t changed. She always was fanatical about her music. Back when she was my babysitter, we spent a few afternoons by the pool at her house. I’d swim while she ate Fla-Vor-Ices and listened to the radio. Whenever a song came on she didn’t like—anything by Ace of Base, for example—she’d switch to a different station with a prickly “That’s enough of that shit.”

I turn on the radio and find a nineties station playing “Creep”by Radiohead. Ashley would approve. After that comes “What’s theFrequency, Kenneth?”by R.E.M., another keeper. By song’s end, we’re at the store.

“Can I look around?” Henry says, still clutching his book as we enter.

I scan the inside of the store, overly cautious. “Sure, I guess. Just don’t touch anything.”

Henry looks at me, affronted by the suggestion. “Please,” he says indignantly. “I’m not a nine-year-old.”

Then he’s off, disappearing around a table stacked with baseballs as I go look for Russ. Instead, I find a salesclerk, whose eagerness tells me I’m the first customer of the day.

“Need help finding anything?” she asks.

Like Russ, she’s good-looking and fit, making me wonder if it’s a requirement. That, in order to work here, you must be hale and hearty, like someone who not only owns a canoe but actually uses it on a regular basis.

“Is Russ here?”

The clerk’s shoulders droop. I’ve literally just asked to speak to the manager. “I’ll get him,” she says.

I survey the store as I wait, ashamed to realize I’ve never been here before despite Russ owning it for almost a decade. I’m impressed. It’s bigger than I expected, and stuffed to the rafters with things I didn’t know people actually needed or used. Kayaks and canteens. Life vests and paddles. Backpacks the size of a toddler. Hanging from one wall is a row of mountain bikes.

The other side of the store is a riot of camouflage. A surprise. There can’t really be a need for so much camo in a town as yuppified as Princeton. Yet here it is, covering everything from boots to hoodies to full-body suits that I assume come in handy only for hunting or jungle warfare.

Seeing all those splotches of forest green and dirt brown makes me think of the stranger allegedly seen roaming the neighborhood incamo the day before Billy was taken. The stranger no one found. Why did he feel the need to camouflage himself? Was he hunting in the woods? If so,whatwas he hunting?

“Ethan?”

I spin around to see Russ, whose bloodshot eyes and rough red skin signify a hangover. However many bourbons he had last night, they certainly did a number on him.

“What are you doing here?” he says.

“Shopping,” I say. “I’m thinking about buying a camera for the backyard. One of those night-vision things.”

“A trail cam?”

“Is that what they’re called?”

Russ nods. “You strap it to a tree and it’ll take pictures of the wildlife that passes by. Is there something in your yard?”

“Yeah,” I say, not daring to admit the truth.

That it’s not somethingcoming into the yard.

It’s someone.

Which I can’t mention to Russ. He made it clear last night that I shouldn’t let Billy’s murder consume me—and that if it does, he’s not going to join me.

“Well, I have plenty in stock,” Russ says. “Everything from cheap basics to state-of-the-art. Follow me.”

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