Bitter Falls (Stillhouse Lake #4)(21)

“Yes,” I say. “I can just take photos of them, that way you can keep them. And anything about this Carol he was helping.”

She nods, but I can tell that she’s still thinking about me instead of her son. Maybe that’s better. I don’t know. “I know I’ve seen you somewhere,” she says, and shakes her head. “Well. Let me get those things for you.” She stands up. I stand up too.

“Would you mind if I took a look around?” I ask her. “Just to get a sense of things.”

“Oh. Of course, you go right ahead.”

I take the coffee with me—it’s good and fresh, and I long ago learned that life is better with it than not. I sip it and stare at what’s in the living room first. He’s not much of a reader, Remy, but he does love his sports. Most of the books in the one bookshelf are either textbooks, what look to be old favorites from high school, or sports-related biographies. I flip through idly, and find a couple of notes used as bookmarks, but they don’t seem important. I photograph them anyway.

By that time Ruth is back with correspondence. I take photos of them and the envelopes, but don’t read them; doing that in front of her will feel too intrusive. I can study them later.

I head for the bedroom. I’m unsurprised to find he has a futon for a bed.

Mom’s influence is stronger here, as I suppose it would be; her book on the nightstand, her hand cream, her clothes hanging in the closet next to his. I push her hangers aside and look at what he left behind. Jeans, T-shirts, a couple of sport jackets, one good suit, probably only for formal occasions. A pair of flip-flops on the closet floor, a pair of nicer lace-up shoes he probably wears with the suit. With the sneakers abandoned by the couch, I wonder what shoes he was wearing when he disappeared.

I discover sex toys in a box up on the shelf. It’s a relatively small collection, nothing too radical. Fluffy handcuffs, yawn. A couple of vibrators his ladies might like.

I put it back where I found it, and continue on.

I’m looking in his medicine cabinet when Ruth’s voice from the doorway says, “I do know you.”

There’s a brand-new tone in her voice. I recognize it. I take a photo of the contents of the medicine cabinet before I say, “Oh?”

“You’re that killer’s wife.”

“Not anymore,” I say. “I divorced him. And then I killed him in self-defense.” I close the door and turn to face her. “I’m also trying to help you.”

“I don’t need your help,” she says. There are stiff lines bracketing her lips now, and a dull fury driving out her grief. I’m toxic by association. A reminder that not everything works out for the best.

I try not to sigh as I reply, “Mrs. Landry, you’re more than welcome to ask J. B. for another investigator, but I’m the closest, and frankly speaking, I have a better idea of what you’re going through than you realize.”

“Just because your husband stole those girls away from their families, you think you understand what this is like?”

“No,” I tell her quietly. “I understand because my own children are constantly under threat. Ruth . . . my children have gone missing before, and I thought I would die. I got them back, thank God, but those hours they were gone felt like eternity. I’m on your side. Please let me help.”

She doesn’t like it. She’s afraid of the violence that surrounded me and still does. And maybe she’s right to be afraid, but she should also be reassured.

Nobody else is going to take this as seriously as I do.

She takes her time before she finally, stiffly nods. “You got what you need?” The subtext is that I’d better.

“Yes,” I tell her. “I’d like to also talk to your husband—”

“If you can get him to do that, I’ll be amazed,” she says. “Joe doesn’t like talking about Remy. He can’t face the fact our son’s gone.”

Hearing the word gone, I instinctively know that some part of her has accepted the likely truth: her son is dead, beyond even a mother’s desperate reach. But as if she realizes what she’s said, she quickly rejects it again. “I know he’ll be back,” she says, and lifts her chin as if daring me to correct her.

I don’t. This woman is fragile, frightened, clinging to a lie she’s telling herself, but I won’t break her heart. Not until I know for sure I have to.

I say, “Thank you for your help, Mrs. Landry. I’ll be in touch as soon as I know anything.”

She’s reluctant to say it. My history and infamy are weighing on us now, but she finally says, “Please find him for me. Please.”

I don’t promise. I can’t.

But it’s hard for me not to recognize the despair and horror in her eyes. She’s living a nightmare but pretending everything is just . . . normal. For so many years I lived with Melvin, struggled to please him, to pretend that everything was fine. I pretended so hard that I thought it really was okay. All that changed the day a drunk driver opened up a wall of our house and revealed all of Melvin’s evil, horrible secrets. The sight of that poor dead woman—Sam’s sister—will haunt me forever.

The knowledge that if I’d only been more curious, maybe I could have done something . . . that’s even worse. I’ll do anything I can to finally end Ruth Landry’s nightmare . . . one way or another. Maybe I’m doing it for her. Maybe for myself.