Nice Girls(37)

“And don’t worry about the parking,” said the husband, winking at me. “Today is an important occasion.”

As Dad and I hurried away, I heard a yap from the house. A Chihuahua had dashed out of the garage, followed by a sullen teenage boy, dressed all in black. The plaid couple stopped smiling as their son joined them.

Dad and I signed in at a check-in booth. The volunteer was perky as she checked our IDs.

“Thanks for coming,” she said. “You’re good people.”

A crowd had gathered in front of the pavilion next to the playground, hundreds of people in fall coats. There were a few dogs present, including a snowy-white poodle who sat patiently in the grass. But I lost count of all the children and toddlers at the event—little superheroes, monsters, and witches who stood beside their parents, looking bored.

The police officers stalked around the edge of the crowd, their dogs sniffing the air. They kept the two news crews sequestered near the park entrance, away from the searchers.

Dad and I weaved our way to the front. I tried looking for Dwayne, but the crowd was too dense.

Olivia’s parents, both blond and well dressed, waited in front of the pavilion. Kevin Obermueller was with them, dressed in the same fleece vest as before. He spoke into a walkie-talkie in his hand. And off to the side, there was his father, Ronald Obermueller, the would-be mayor who’d killed two teenagers.

I was in junior high school when it happened. Kevin, Madison, and I were in the same class. That year, Kevin’s father ran for mayor. He was a successful businessman, one of Liberty Lake’s biggest real estate developers. His campaign had invested in numerous radio and television ads that railroaded his opponent, an unknown retired teacher.

Less than a month before the election, Mr. Obermueller drove home late from a campaign event. Reports said that he’d been drinking heavily before he left. As a car waited at a stoplight just off the freeway, Mr. Obermueller’s luxury SUV rammed right into it.

The impact had sent the first car smashing into the traffic pole. The teenage couple inside had died instantly. Neither of them had worn a seat belt.

The traffic cameras later showed Mr. Obermueller’s car backing away from the mess, its front bumper scratched but mostly intact. The SUV plowed away on the freeway.

Mr. Obermueller’s political career had died as instantly as his victims. The local news went ballistic over the story, and he lost his race. He was later charged with two counts of felony hit-and-run. The prosecution had pushed for a fifteen-year jail sentence, but he’d dodged it. Somehow, Mr. Obermueller had gotten his sentence reduced to six hundred hours of community service and undisclosed payments to the families of the teenage victims.

Before the court proceedings were over, his wife quietly filed for divorce. She later moved up north, but Kevin stayed behind in Liberty Lake.

I could remember the whispers circulating around the lunchroom and the girls’ bathroom, the email chains and instant messages that people sent each other. The fact that Kevin’s father had killed two people and gotten away with it.

“Like father, like son?” people asked. Others made bets about how many people Kevin would kill.

But Kevin seemed oblivious at school. He clung to his group of friends, and he acted like the same prick that he’d always been. Some of us even wondered if his parents had hidden the news from him. But of course, he’d known. He just bore it all.

In person, Ronald Obermueller was an older version of his son. He was bald and goateed. He was relaxed as he spoke to another man among them. The other man was short and stocky, and he had dark hair and square, wire-rimmed glasses. He wore a deerskin jacket. It was the same man who’d accompanied Mrs. Willand at Goodhue Groceries.

“Jay!” shouted Mr. Willand, waving to us. The group all turned to look as Dad and I joined them.

“Thank you both for coming here,” said Mr. Willand, his arms outstretched toward Dad. He squeezed him in a half hug while Dad stiffly patted his back. Mr. Willand was wearing a camo hunting jacket, a megaphone in one hand.

“Mary, is that you?” asked Mrs. Willand. Before I could answer, she wrapped me in a hug, the scent of her lilac perfume filling the air. Olivia’s mother felt bony, as if she’d stopped eating entirely since the disappearance.

“I’m sorry about Olivia—”

“I know, honey, thank you,” said Mrs. Willand, patting me on the cheek. She smiled at me tightly, the crow’s-feet stretching around her eyes. “But look at you, our town’s little Ivy League graduate. You’ve blossomed so much, Mary—you look so good!”

“Thank you, Mrs. Willand,” I said. To my relief, she hadn’t asked about school.

“I know that Olivia appreciates you being here,” she said, squeezing my hand. “I’ve missed seeing you around the house.”

I could only nod. I hadn’t set foot in their house for nearly a decade now.

Nearby, Dad was awkwardly in a conversation with the men. They had formed a half circle to talk, but there was a large space between Dad and the man in the deerskin jacket.

Mr. Willand suddenly handed the megaphone to Kevin’s dad, who nodded, rolling back his sleeves. The three of them, including Mrs. Willand, approached the large crowd.

“Hiya, folks!” blared Mr. Obermueller into the megaphone. “Wait, is the volume on?”

The crowd laughed, Mr. Obermueller chuckling along with them. Then he put out a hand to quiet the crowd.