Page 50 of In the Bones
“We’re good, honey,” said Nicole. “You go ahead. Thanks for picking these up.”
“OK. Enjoy.” She set two boxes on the outdoor table, casting a dubious glance over her shoulder as she went back inside.
Nicole’s hands were shaking again. This thing, this horrible, inconceivable crime, had latched on and was sucking all hope from her body. The murder was a parasite, and all of them—Nicole, Mac, the girls—would be drained dry. It wasn’t the woman’s fault. Nicole didn’t know Angelica Patten, and never would, but she believed that at her core. Whatever this was, however it had happened, the tourist wasn’t to blame.
She looked at her husband. Blair had flicked on the wall switch by the sink, casting the deck in harsh yellow light. At the base of Woody’s throat, Nicole thought she could see his skin pulsing. His large hands were clasped on the arms of the cheap outdoor chair, and for some inscrutable reason, the skinunder his fingernails was pale green. Nicole hadn’t noticed that before.
In that moment, she realized that she hadn’t really seen her husband in a long, long time.
FORTY-THREE
Tim
The building was dark, of course. It hadn’t had power in decades, and as Tim studied the boxy structure in the early morning light, he felt a pang of sadness about that. A longing for what once was.
When he was a kid, the Rivermouth Arena wastheplace to be, a humming neon den of fun. All week long, he and his friends would make plans, the entire grade abuzz about who was going to be there and when. The skating rink was the big draw, but folks came for the arcade and cheap pizza, too. The fact that parents gave the place a wide berth only added to its mystique. The Rivermouth was where Tim first held a girl’s hand as they spun around the ice, and where he made out with his first real girlfriend. The game machine—it had been Mortal Kombat, which in retrospect was fitting—had been warm against his back when he circled the girl’s tongue with his.
Tim took out his flashlight, turned it on, and angled the beam inside.
In zombie apocalypse movies, malls and movie theaters often made an appearance. There was impact in showing once-active places in a state of abandonment and disrepair. It disarmed you. Left you spooked. That was what this felt like: an end-of-days flick, with Tim about to battle for his life. As he took in the scene before him, his breath whistled through his teeth, the sharp intake of air catching like a barb in his throat.
There were places where actual plant life grew on what remained of the floor, nature creeping in where it didn’t belong. The ceiling was ravaged, slabs of insulation dangling from rusted nails. Drywall peeled like an overripe banana, spotted and brown. Graffiti tags disfigured the wall behind the concession stand, and Tim wondered who the hell had the balls tocross the threshold. If the tetanus didn’t get you, the walking dead would.
Inside the abandoned lobby, the dense low-pile carpeting that used to scuff against his shoes was covered in broken glass and paper Pepsi cups that numbered in the hundreds. Plastic water bottles had been left behind too, all customized withRivermouth Arenain red and yellow font.
Turned over to the seasons, snow and rain and humid summers and waterlogged springs, the structure was saturated with moisture. Decomposing like a corpse. The Rivermouth was special once, but the building before him had been slain, guts spilling out like an animal left for dead.
Not yet eight a.m., and the temperature was climbing. Back in his car, Tim felt clammy and was fairly certain the putrid funk of decay had seeped into his clothes. He wrestled off his jacket and tented the front of his shirt to let in some air. It didn’t help.
As he made his way to the barracks to interview Woody Durham, the Rivermouth clung to him like a hot, wet coat. The old ice rink was significant, a girder on which the crime had been built.
He just had to figure out why.
FORTY-FOUR
Blair
There were lurkers on the sidewalk outside the hotel in Clayton, and Blair suspected that they’d come for Mikko. With his tattoos and bleached hair, the man wasn’t exactly inconspicuous, so anyone could have followed him or learned where he was staying through word of mouth. For her part, Blair had discovered his plans by eavesdropping.
She’d learned a lot at the golf course last night, but she couldn’t begin to process what she and Nash had overheard. Her attempts to sleep only wound her sheets into knots, and sometime around four she’d logged onto Twitter and found several different threads about the secret bones. Some people were saying that Mikko had found them. Others insisted it was his cleaning lady, who Blair now knew was her own mother. The tweets felt dreamlike and isolating and uncanny, and Blair knocked each one back like a shot of bitter medicine she had to take. There was no mention of her dad, not yet, but the fact that people were talking at all made her nervous. What if some of the gawkers at the hotel were reporters?
What if they asked Mikko who he thought killed that woman, and he pointed the finger at Woody?
Over the last twelve hours, two things had become crystal clear. The first was that, somehow, Mikko thought Blair’s dad had something to do with the dead body in his basement. The second, which was even more alarming, was that her family was in panic mode. After Nash had dropped her off, and she and Alana had gotten the pizzas, Blair had caught a snatch of conversation between her parents and Aunt Maureen on the deck. As it turned out, Dad was in trouble on multiple levels. There was something going on with his resale business, too.
This was it: the source of the tension she’d been sensing athome. No wonder her mom had been so upset. What was happening now had nothing to do with Blair getting ready to leave for college. Her dad was suspected of doing something terrible, and the adults were closing ranks.
Years ago, when Blair was still a sophomore, Nicole had made three hot chocolates using real milk and sat the girls down at the kitchen table. They’d known it was serious because of the forced cheer; when things were bad, Nicole became Sitcom Mom, ratcheting up her devotion in order to cushion whatever setback she was about to send their way. That day, she had wanted to talk about fathers. Nicole’s, and Aunt Maureen’s.
Blair had always wondered about Nicole’s dad. All she knew was that he’d moved out when Nicole was seven and Aunt Maureen was fifteen, and that he’d died when she was done high school and left Nicole some money. Nobody ever talked about Aunt Maureen’s father at all. It was like he’d been scrubbed from their lives.
Blair figured they’d both been deadbeats, but there was more to it than that.You’re old enough to know the truth now, Mom had said.Some men can’t be trusted.They’ll hide their weakness from you, wear a mask to disguise it, but it’s always there. The only way to make sure you don’t get fooled, she told Blair and Alana, meeting their wide eyes in turn,is to pick a man who’s honest. If they lie about the little things, they’ll lie about it all.
What Blair had witnessed last night was a strategy session. One hand over the other, her mother and aunt were trying to heave Woody out of whatever hole he’d stumbled into. There was no way they were going to tell Blair what was going on. But maybe she could find a way to help.
“This is messed up,” Nash said, not for the first time, as they lingered by their parked cars. He’d jammed both hands in the pockets of his khakis and stood with his right hip kissing the driver’s side door. Nash rarely wore anything other than T-shirts and track pants, but they both looked like guest stars onThe Officetoday on account of their internships. It was a requirement for high school seniors, a week trying out a jobof their choosing, and everyone loved it. The internships Blair and Nash had arranged didn’t start until nine, which gave them plenty of time to ambush Mikko.
“What are you even going to say to him?” asked Nash, his fear plain on his face.
