The Match (Wilde, #2)(16)

But then again, even if you don’t believe in the butterfly effect, what if she had insisted that David and Laila buy someplace else? It drives you nuts to think of such things, and intellectually she understood that none of this was her fault, but if she had done that, the world’s timeline would have changed somewhat, right? David wouldn’t have been on that mountain road when it was so slippery. The car wouldn’t have gone off the edge. Ira wouldn’t have died of a heart attack—heartbreak, in her eyes—soon after.

So much for letting go what you can’t control, she thought.

“I guess Laila has a boyfriend,” she said to her driver, Tim.

“Laila is a beautiful woman.”

“I know.”

“And it’s been a long, long time.”

“I know.”

“Also, Matthew’s at college. She’s all alone now. You should want this for her.”

Hester made a face. “I didn’t hire you for your empathetic insights into my family dynamics.”

“I won’t charge you extra,” Tim said. “Where to?”

“You know.”

Tim nodded and circled through the cul-de-sac and back out. It took longer to find than she would have thought. Wilde always kept the hidden lane off Halifax Road camouflaged and hard to locate, but now it was overgrown to the point where Tim couldn’t turn the Escalade onto it. He pulled the car onto the shoulder.

“I don’t think Wilde uses this anymore.”

If that was the case, Hester was out of ideas. She could talk to Oren, her beau, about having the park rangers comb the area for Wilde, but if he didn’t want to be found, he wouldn’t be—and if something bad had happened to him, then, coldly put, it would probably be too late.

“I’ll take the path on foot,” Hester said.

“Not alone you won’t,” Tim replied, rolling out of the driver’s side with a speed that defied his bulk. Tim was a big slab of a man in an ill-fitted suit and military-style crewcut. He buttoned his suit coat—he always insisted on wearing a suit to work—and opened the back door for her.

“Stay here,” Hester said.

Tim squinted and scanned the surroundings. “It could be dangerous.”

“You have your gun, right?”

He patted his side. “Of course.”

“Wonderful, so watch me from here. If someone tries to abduct me, shoot to kill. Wait, unless it’s a hunky man, then bid me adieu.”

“Isn’t Wilde hunky?”

“An age-appropriate hunky man, Tim. Oh, and thanks for being a literalist.”

“Also, do Americans still say ‘hunky’?”

“This one does.”

Hester headed toward an opening in the thicket. Last time she’d been here, there’d been enough room for the car to slide through. Tim had driven in, setting off whatever motion-detector sensors Wilde used. They’d waited and he soon appeared. That was how it worked most of the time with Wilde. He took living off the grid to an art form. Part of it was for reasons of personal safety. During his years of clandestine work in both military and then private security with his foster sister Rola, Wilde had made his share of enemies. Some would like to find him and see him dead. Good luck with that.

But most of it, Hester knew, stemmed from Wilde’s childhood trauma. Somehow, as a small boy, going back as far as he could remember, Wilde had been alone, in these same woods, fending for himself. Think about that. According to the young boy himself, the only person he had spoken directly to in all those years was another about his age, a little boy Wilde had spotted playing alone in his backyard and so little Wilde approached and the two struck up a strange and clandestine friendship. When the little boy’s mom overheard her son talking out loud, the boy would claim it was his imaginary friend, and the mother, na?ve in so many ways, would believe him. It was not until Wilde was found that the truth came out.

The little boy—spoiler alert—was Hester’s youngest son, David.

The perimeter was indeed overgrown and neglected, but the clearing inside of it—where Tim had parked the car last time—was still there. Hester wasn’t sure what to do. She looked for motion detectors or cameras, but of course, Wilde was too good to let any of them be visible. She debated calling out, but that wouldn’t be how Wilde would set it up. Either he was okay and would appear soon, or he was in trouble. She would know one way or another.

After about fifteen minutes, Tim fought his way into the clearing and stood with her. Hester checked for messages on her phone. The Levine jury had finished for the day. No verdict, which was no surprise. Deliberations would resume in the morning. Matthew texted twice asking for updates and to reassure her that it would be good to stop by the house.

Another fifteen minutes passed.

Hester swung between worry (suppose Wilde wasn’t okay?) and anger (if he was okay, why had he abandoned his godson?). On the one hand, she got it. The textbook diagnosis: Wilde had never gotten over his abandonment as a child and so he still couldn’t form true attachments. That made sense, she guessed, except she also knew that Wilde would lay down his life in a moment for Matthew or Laila. Wilde loved those he cared about fiercely and protectively—and yet he couldn’t live with them or be with them on a steady basis. It is a paradox, a contradiction, and yet that is what most of us are, when we think about it. We want to make people consistent and predictable and simple, but they never are.