The Match (Wilde, #2)(20)

David’s older brothers were supposed to watch their young sibling, but they were busy playing some kind of game involving capturing the clubhouse. Wilde watched them. This wasn’t the first time he’d ventured near the tree line and watched his fellow man interact. He’d even been spotted a few times by various hikers, campers, and even homeowners, but Wilde just ran off. Some people probably reported him to the authorities, but really, what would they say? “I saw a boy in the woods.” So what? It wasn’t as though he ran around in a loincloth—he’d stolen clothes from the homes he’d broken into—so for all anyone knew, he was just a kid wandering on his own.

Stories had surfaced about the “feral boy,” but most people dismissed them as the product of sun, exhaustion, drugs, dehydration, alcohol, whatever. The older Crimstein boys were now roughhousing on the lawn, laughing and wrestling and rolling around. Wilde watched, transfixed. The back door opened and their mother shouted, “Dinner in fifteen minutes, and I’m not giving a second warning.”

That had been the first time Wilde heard Hester Crimstein’s voice.

Wilde was still watching the brothers roll on the ground when he heard a voice near to him say, “Hello.”

It was a boy around his own age.

Wilde was about to run. There was no way this kid, even if he tried, could keep up with him through the labyrinth of the forest. But the same instinct that normally commanded him to flee told him to stay. It was that simple.

“Hello,” he said back.

“I’m David. What’s your name?”

“I don’t have one,” Wilde said.

And so their friendship began.

Now David was dead. His widow and his son lived in this house.

The back door opened. Matthew stepped into the yard and said, “Hey, Wilde.”

The two men—yes, Wilde reluctantly admitted to himself, Matthew was more man than boy now—headed toward one another, meeting in the middle of the yard. When Matthew threw his arms around him, Wilde wondered how long it had been since he’d had physical contact with another person. Had he touched anyone since Vegas?

“I’m sorry,” Wilde said.

“It’s okay.”

“No, it’s not.”

“You’re right, it’s not. I worry about you, Wilde.”

Matthew was so much like his father that it hurt. Wilde decided to veer the conversation off this particular track. “How’s college?”

Matthew’s face lit up. “Beyond awesome.”

The back door opened again. It was Laila. When her eyes met his, Wilde felt his heart somersault. Laila wore a white blouse open at the throat and a black pencil skirt. She had, he imagined, just come home from her law office, shed the suit coat, slipped out of the work heels and into the white sneakers. For a second or two, he stared, just stared, and didn’t really care if anyone noticed.

Laila seemed to float down the steps and into the yard. She kissed Wilde’s cheek.

“It’s so good to see you,” she said.

“Same,” Wilde said.

She took his hand. Wilde felt his face flush. He had just left her. No call, no email, no text.

A few seconds later, Hester leaned out the door and shouted, “Pizza! Matthew, help me set up.”

Matthew slapped Wilde on the back and trotted back to the house. When he was gone, Laila turned back to Wilde.

“You don’t owe me any explanations,” Laila said. “You can ignore me all you want.”

“I wasn’t—”

“Let me finish. You don’t owe me—but you owe your godson.”

Wilde nodded. “I know. I’m sorry.”

She blinked and turned away. “How long have you been back?”

“A few months.”

“So my guess is, you know about Darryl.”

“You don’t owe me any explanations,” Wilde said.

“Damn right.”

They headed back inside. The four of them—Wilde, Laila, Matthew, and Hester—sat around the kitchen table. There were two pizzas from Calabria’s. One was split amongst the three older adults—the other was pretty much for Matthew. Between bites, Hester peppered Wilde with questions about his stay in Costa Rica. Wilde mostly deflected. Laila stayed quiet.

Matthew nudged Wilde. “The Nets are playing the Knicks.”

“Are either of them any good this year?”

“Man, you really have been out of it.”

They all grabbed a slice and moved into the family room with the big-screen television. Wilde and Matthew watched the game in comfortable silence. Wilde had never been a big fan of spectator sports. He liked to play sports. He didn’t really get the joy of watching them. Matthew’s father had been into all that stuff, into collecting cards and memorabilia, into going to the games with his older brothers, into keeping stats and watching games like this deep into the night.

Laila and Hester joined them, though both spent more time staring at their phones than the game. At halftime, Hester rose and said, “I better head back to the city.”

“You’re not staying out here with Oren?” Laila asked.

Oren Carmichael was the retiring police chief of Westville. He too had raised his family out here, been friends with Hester and Ira, even coached two of Hester’s kids, including David. Now Hester was a widow and Oren was divorced and so they’d started dating.