Page 10 of Dead Man's Hollow
Despite the anguish in his voice, she’s thrilled to hear this.
“That’s good. Because the more people who listen to it, the greater the chance that someone who knows something about Aunt Heather will come forward.”
“I know, but ….” He trails off, his face crumpling, and she thinks he might cry.
Just then, they hear the creak of the garage door rising. A moment later, Rich and Ava walk into the kitchen.
“You’re home early. Short rehearsal?” Amy smiles at her daughter as Rich comes around the counter to give her a kiss on the cheek.
“Yep. Next week is tech week, so it’ll be long nights all week. Ms. Donaldson cut us loose early today and told us to do something fun.”
Rich takes one look at Owen and accurately sums up the situation. He says in a cheery voice, “Something fun, huh? We have time before dinner. What do you two say we shoot some baskets?”
Owen brightens instantly. “Yeah?”
“Yeah.”
Amy mouths “Thank you,” to Rich.
“You want to shoot around too, Mom?” Ava asks.
Why not? “Let me get this casserole in the oven so we can eat when your brother gets home and then I’ll lace up my shoes. You fools better look out when I bring my A game to the court.”
Ava giggles at her attempt at trash talk and even Owen flashes her a grin. She ruffles his hair and then turns to her daughter. “How was rehearsal? Are you kids ready for opening night?”
“Uh, noooo. But it’ll come together next week and during dress rehearsal.”
Ava’s excitement when she talks about her drama class is palpable, and Amy’s heart squeezes with joy. Watching her teens develop their passions as they move from childhood into the wider world is so satisfying, more than she ever imagined it could be when they were tottering around with sippy cups. She’s looking forward to hanging out with them when they’re adults. Then her heart squeezes again, in a sadder, tighter way, as she thinks of Heather, who’s forever sixteen.
As if Ava senses the shift, her voice softens, and she leans against her mom. “Dad and I heard the podcast trailer in the car.”
Amy blinks at Rich.
“I was listening to satellite radio,” he explains.
“I thought the Farley Files is an internet podcast.”
“It is, but the true crime channel rebroadcasts it. A lot of people are going to hear it, Amy.”
She tells him what she just told Owen. “That’s good. That’s the point.” She says the words with more conviction than she feels.
Rich gives her a long, steady look. “Yeah, that’s the point.” Then he claps his hands together. “Come on losers. Let’s hoop it up. We’ll warm up while Mom finishes up in here.”
Thatisthe point Amy reminds herself as her husband and children head out to the basketball hoop nailed over the garage door. She slides the casserole dish into the preheated oven and gives herself a pep talk:Stay strong. Don’t let anything that comes to light knock you off course, and you’ll be fine.
She picks up her phone to text her sisters to ask what they thought of the trailer. But then she returns the phone to the counter facedown and grabs her sneakers from the bin in the mudroom instead. From the beginning, when Diana first voiced the idea, Amy promised herself that this effort to make peace with her past, with Heather’s disappearance, wouldn’t impinge on her present with her own family. She’s committed to keeping her focus on Rich and the kids. So she leaves the phone inside and runs out to the driveway to join in the basketball game. No matter what she learns, her priority has to be the life she built with Rich, not the one that was destroyed the night Heather vanished.
ChapterSeven
Michelle Boland chopsvegetables for dinner while she half-listens to internet radio streaming through her smart speaker. A name catches her attention, and she tunes in, listening more closely:
“… sixteen-year-old Heather Ryan.
Heather disappeared that night and has never been seen or heard from again. No body was ever found. No suspects were ever identified, at least not publicly. The girl seemingly vanished without a trace. For three decades, her case has remained an open missing person’s case. Ice cold, and without a single apparent lead.”
The knife slips and slices the tip of Michelle’s finger before she can pull it back. A bright red line of blood wells up instantly.
“Shit.”
