These Silent Woods: A Novel(59)

Marie begins to quiver, her shoulders bobbing up and down.

“I’m sorry. Should I have skipped the part about Jake?”

She shakes her head. “No. No, I want to hear it.”

“Finch loved him, you know. Broke her heart when I had to tell her he wasn’t coming. Kids, they used to flock to him, over there, too. No matter where we were, they’d find him. Follow him around. Gathered around him like you see pictures of kids with Jesus. There was something about him.”

“At the end, he had round-the-clock care,” she whispers. “He couldn’t even get to the bathroom on his own. Couldn’t even feed himself.” She tucks her chin into her shoulder and begins to shake hard.

I reach out and press my hand to hers. “It should’ve been me,” I whisper. “I offered to go first because it was more dangerous. I went right through and missed it. I don’t know how. I’ve replayed it over and over, and I don’t know how or why it was him and not me.”

“You saved his life. That’s the way he saw it.” A tear skims her cheek, skating back and forth. “I want you to know, Cooper: I understand why you came here.”

“I couldn’t lose her. Not after—I couldn’t.”

“I know.” She sighs. “I understand what you’re trying to protect. But Cooper, that girl. If you and Finch saw her in the woods, one way or another, you need to tell the authorities.”

I shake my head, pull away from her. “I can’t do that.”

“I understand there’s some risk for you, but you can’t just keep that type of information to yourself. It’s not right. Think of the girl’s parents. Think about Finch. If she went missing and someone had seen her, you would want to know.”

I stand up, walk to the sink. Her words strike a nerve and I don’t like it. “I only saw her the one time.” I don’t mention the footprints, or the lens cap, like maybe the girl had been there before, because the bottom line is: we didn’t do anything wrong. We didn’t go looking for trouble—it came to us.

“But Finch said she lives here, in your woods.”

“Finch also said she’s a princess and a wood nymph. You know how she gets; you can see it. She attaches easily, she obsesses. She has a vivid imagination. You’ve heard her.”

“Still,” Marie says, “you’re holding what may be a vital piece of the puzzle, and you’re refusing to share it. She’s a minor, Cooper. A kid. You have an obligation to share that information. A moral obligation.” She follows me to the sink and wraps her fingers around my hand. “You see that, don’t you?”

I stare out the kitchen window, the moonlight illuminating the ground, still speckled with snow. I see her point—I really do—but there are odds to be weighed here, losses to be calculated, and there’s too much at stake. “I can’t draw attention to us. I go to the police, Cindy’s parents find out about us, it’s over.”

“It wouldn’t be over, Cooper. You’re her father.”

I shake my head. “It’s not that simple.”

“You have ample evidence to prove that you’re a loving, competent parent. Finch is obviously thriving. Yes, you’d have some court hearings. You’d likely be separated for a few months. But when it was all over, you could live out there in the world. You wouldn’t have to hide.”

I take a deep breath, lean against the sink. Aggravated assault, up to twenty years. Kidnapping, up to twenty years per person, and Judge and Mrs. Judge—they said I kidnapped them, too. Which I guess I did, technically. So eighty years. Maybe sixty if I got a good attorney and lucked out with a sympathetic jury. Either way, once I set foot in a prison, I’d never get out. I knew this from Scotland’s stack of newspapers, the first day he rolled into the yard.

I screwed up. I accept that. The way I got her back. At the time I was so desperate, so scared: it felt like the only way. But now we’re boxed in. There’s no stepping out of this life, no going back. “Like I said, it’s not that simple.”

“I could do it,” Marie says. “I could say I saw her in the woods. Just tell me where. Show me. I can call. I can take them there myself. But I cannot leave here in good conscience knowing that you intend to hold on to a vital piece of information about a young girl who’s missing.” She turns to look at me, and I can see Jake. Their striking similarity.

It could work, almost. But her calling the authorities would also mean more lying. More involvement. Not to mention things could get sticky, her getting her story mixed up on account of none of it being true. Meanwhile we’d be back to square one, people prowling around out here, trying to piece things together, only we’d be giving them a big lead to come closer. “You already told them you hadn’t seen her. Which means you’ll have to say you were lying, and then they’ll try and figure out why you’d do that.” I shake my head. “You’re not getting tangled up in this any more than you already are. Jake wouldn’t have that, and I won’t allow it. I’ll take care of it myself. I’ll go out to the pay phone at the gas station, tomorrow. Leave that sheriff’s number and I’ll call.”

She looks relieved, tears welling. “Promise?”

“Promise.”

“I still need to go home. I have things I need to tend to. Jake’s house, my job.”