Page 32 of Dead Man's Hollow
“I don’t know.” Amy’s on the verge of tears. “I’m just telling you want I heard. I don’t even know how much truth there is to any of it. Kristy might know more.”
“Why do you say that?”
“Well, she was just a kid and nobody paid that much attention to her. Kids pick things up. For instance, the rest of us didn’t know Heather had a pager, but Kristy did.” She shrugs.
Maisy nods. “Thanks for telling me. And don’t beat yourself up for withholding the information. Just don’t do it again.”
“I won’t,” Amy promises. “And I’ll talk to Rich tonight.”
ChapterEighteen
Amy sitsat the patio table while the ice melts in her glass and the shadows lengthen in the yard. Although her body is still, her mind races. Snippets of memories, long-buried questions, and half-forgotten conversations ping-pong around her brain. Maisy’s news—that nobody told the police about the guy with Heather—has her heart racing. She must be wrong. Rich would have told them. If not in his official statement, he at least would have let his brother know.
She couldn’t have told the police about the guy. Not with her parents sitting right across the kitchen table from her, desperate for someone to blame and, if she was being honest, more than a bit prejudiced. It’s not speaking ill of the dead if it’s true, right? And, to be fair, their views did evolve as time went on. But in 1994, there was simply no way she was going to tell them their missing daughter has last been seen talking to a Black guy.
Literally anyone else at the party could have let the police know about him, though. Andshouldhave. Didn’t theywantHeather to be found? Although she’s never believed he had anything to do with Heather’s disappearance, maybe he knew something. He could still know something. If Maisy can find him, maybe he’ll have new information.
She fists her hands and stands up, suddenly desperate to move. She grabs her gardening gloves and a spade from her potting bench and stomps across the yard to take out her frustration on the weeds in her flower beds. As she loosens the weeds with the spade’s sharp tip and yanks them out by their roots, she considers the possibility that the people she believed to be her friends got together and agreed on what to tell the police, her parents, everyone.
She wishes she could reject the idea out of hand. Wishes she could convince herself that they wouldn’t do that. But she can see it happening. Not only can she see it, but now that Maisy’s raised the issue, she knows in her heart itdidhappen. Of course it did. And what’s worse is she knows exactly who would have had the social capital, the persuasion, and the popularity to make sure everyone adhered to the agreed-upon version of events. The father of her children, the man she shares a bed and a life with. Her own husband.
She scoops up the weeds and carries them over to the bin to dump them, then wipes the sweat from her brow with the back of her hand, smearing a streak of dirt across her face. Then she dusts off her palms and checks her watch. She has just enough time to shower before Rich gets home from the hardware store. The kids are all staying after school with their friends to watch a big track meet, and she’d given them money to grab pizza for dinner afterwards. If she’s going to confront him, tonight’s the night to do it, she thinks as she hurries upstairs to their bathroom.
Amy is showered, dressed, and sitting at the kitchen island when Rich walks through the door and flings his briefcase on the counter with a weary sigh. She digs a piece of soil out from under her fingernail and wonders how she missed it with the nail brush before looking over at him.
“Hi.”
He glances in her direction and his gaze falls on the charcuterie board of meat, cheese, and fruit and the bottle of sparkling wine chilling in the wine bucket beside it. He jerks his chin toward the pair of cut-glass flutes. “Are we celebrating something?”
She smiles and hopes it reaches her eyes. “The kids aren’t here tonight. That big track meet, remember? They’re going to grab something to eat with their friends, so I thought we could have an impromptu indoor picnic.”
“But, the bubbly,” he begins, giving her a worried look. “I didn’t forget an anniversary, did I?”
“We got married in November,” she tells him dryly.
He bristles. “Iknowthat. But it could be the anniversary of one of the times we found out you were pregnant. Or when we moved into this house or some bullcrap. I don’t know.”
“No, Rich, you haven’t missed a bullcrap anniversary. I thought this would be a good chance for us to reconnect.”
It’s a true statement as far as it goes. But it’s not the whole reason. As she was drying her hair, she considered her options. A soft approach is likely the most effective way to get information from her husband, and right now, that’s all she wants. She’ll deal with her outraged sense of betrayal later.
“Oh,” he smiles uncertainly and gives her a peck on the cheek. “Great idea. I’m going to change.”
“Sure. I’ll pour the drinks in the meantime.”
He returns, having traded his polo shirt and khakis for an old Pitt T-shirt and a pair of running shorts. She hands him one flute and raises the other.
“To moving forward.”
He pauses and furrows his brow for a beat before echoing the statement, “To moving forward.”
After they clink glasses, she takes a long sip and savors the burning bubbles as they go down her throat.
He settles on the stool across from her and starts slathering brie on a small round of bread.
“How was your day?”
He asks the rote question automatically, but it’s the opening she needs.
