Page 22 of The Girl Who Was Taken

Livia listened to the sad life of Barb Delevan. The self-destruction and drawn shades and dark house and reclusive lifestyle made a great deal more sense. And so, too, did Nicole’s attraction to Barb’s son. Their cousin Julie’s disappearance—a turning point in Nicole’s childhood—was something Casey Delevan would have related to. Livia imagined Nicole finding comfort in that connection, something she hadn’t found from her family. Livia had been off at college when Julie disappeared and didn’t see the ramifications until the following summer when Nicole was withdrawn and confused. A nineteen-year-old kid herself, Livia wasn’t equipped with the tools to comfort her younger sister about something so tragic. Her parents tried to shield the horror of it by moving on and hiding the details from her.

“I’m really sorry for your loss,” Livia said. “I won’t take up any more of your time. If you need anything, or have any questions, please call me.”

“Thanks for coming all the way down, Doc. And for setting my mind to rest that my boy didn’t suffer.”

“Of course.”

“And it does get easier,” Barb said, sitting up and pouring more vodka. “Day by day, I miss him less and less.”

Livia stood. She knew Barb Delevan was talking about her missing son whom she hadn’t seen for nearly twenty years, not Casey. That Barb and Casey had lost touch, Livia was sure, had to do with the nine-year-old boy trapped in Mrs. Delevan’s mind.

“Thank you,” Livia said as she headed for the door and the fresh air outside.

CHAPTER 11

Megan McDonald pulled up to the house in West Bay. It was dark and dreadful, but she’d never had the heart to tell Mr. Steinman how hard it was to come here. He was lonely, and Megan understood that ifshedidn’t visit him, no one would. His wife was a number of years older than he, the love affair originating from two separate marriages and now, on the downhill side of life, culminating with Mr. and Mrs. Steinman in separate rooms much of the time.

It was a sad life that Mr. Steinman had described to Megan over the past year, and she had decided not to let him live out his days alone. She owed him something, and company is what she had to offer. That she needed to drive along Highway 57 and past the spot where Mr. Steinman had found her staggering the night she escaped from the bunker was an added element to the silent sacrifice Megan made to visit the man who had saved her life. But Megan couldn’t claim full martyr status for her visits to Mr. Steinman. With all her friends away at college, she actually looked forward to their cribbage games.

She climbed from her car and knocked on the door.

“Come in, my lovely young lady,” Mr. Steinman called from his couch. He sounded in a jovial mood this evening.

Megan pushed through the front door to the smell of old people, a combination of talcum powder and antiseptic. Some might be turned off by the home. It was less than organized, and with some neglect could be featured on a hoarding reality show. But Megan was always flattered when she visited Mr. Steinman. He was not elderly, just sixty, and his self-awareness had not abandoned him. She knew the stacks of clutter in the corner were his way of tidying up for her presence. The smell of rubbing alcohol and antiseptic, she knew, could not be avoided.

Mr. Steinman sat in his worn green recliner, a deck of cards neatly arranged on the coffee table next to the cribbage board. This was, Megan knew, the highlight of his week.

“Hi,” Megan said.

“Long one or short one?”

“Short. Sorry, I’ve got to get home and then to therapy.”

Mr. Steinman leaned forward and shuffled the cards. “Sit,” he said. “Soda?”

“Sure.”

The cards fluttered together as he shuffled them. “Help yourself.”

Megan grabbed a soda from the kitchen and then she sat at the corner of the couch. Mr. Steinman dealt six cards.

“I’ll let you have the crib to start,” he said.

Megan smiled and analyzed her cards. “Go easy on me.”

“Never. Where’ve you been lately?”

“Book stuff. Interviews and all that.”

Mr. Steinman regarded her over the top of his cards. When their eyes met, he looked back to his hand and discarded two cards into the crib. “You’re not fooling me, you know that?”

“We’ve just started playing, I haven’t tried to fool you yet.”

“I mean with the interviews.”

Megan paused briefly, but then discarded her own cards to the crib.

“It’s the way you smile,” Mr. Steinman said. He looked up, held eye contact this time.

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