These Silent Woods: A Novel(60)

“I’m sorry things turned out like this. Sorry you got dragged into it.”

She rests her hand on mine, then rises from the couch, pulling a pen and a notebook from her purse. “This is my phone number,” she says, handing me a piece of paper. “In case you ever need something. In case Finch does.” She presses the piece of paper into my palm.



* * *



In the morning, Marie makes pancakes and coffee and the house is, for the last time, filled with smells that I suspect will now forever remind me of her. She leaves Finch a box of cookies and hands me the French press and what remains of the coffee. We load the final items in her Prius and Finch gives her a long hug goodbye.

Then Marie steps toward me. She leans in close, resting her head against my chest. “You’re a good man, Cooper,” she whispers.

Well. I feel bad about that, her saying that and thinking it about me, because it’s not true.

I feel bad, too, because there’s a girl missing. A girl nine years older than Finch, with parents who care about her but have no way of reaching her. I know what it’s like to have a child slip through your fingers. I do. Pains me to think about what they must be going through.

And the girl was here, just over a week ago. Did she get turned around after we saw her? Did something happen to her? The river with its deceitful ice, the sand that pulls and holds. One fall, one broken bone, one wrong step. So much could go wrong. But I have to remind myself that even if I wanted to step in, I’ve got my own daughter to think about. I don’t have the liberty of being a good citizen or doing the right thing. That’s the scrape my own choices have left me in, I see that. The bottom line is this: any inch toward that girl jeopardizes everything for us. And if there’s one thing I’m absolutely sure of, it’s that under no circumstances will I do anything that puts my own child at risk.





TWENTY-NINE




“Saw you had more visitors,” Scotland says, sauntering toward the cabin, right there in the yard, a breeze, a ghost. He takes off his backpack, pulls a stack of newspapers out, and sets them on the porch, where Finch is set up with her slingshot. “Sheriff Simmons and his esteemed deputy, the illustrious Manny Porter.”

“You know them?”

“Simmons, yes. Porter, no. I saw them driving up the road. Couldn’t get here in time to warn you but I was keeping an eye out.”

“I’m sure you were.” The possibility that Scotland knows about the girl—that maybe he knew about her before even Finch and me did—flickers through my mind. The spotting scope, the meticulous tracking of our whereabouts. Did he know where Casey Winters was? And if so, what was his game plan? And what if he were to end up trying to be a hero and leading the police right to me, after all this time?

I sit next to Finch and pull her closer.

“Marie talked to them, and then she went home,” she says. “We hid in the root cellar. The man was standing right over us. Snow dripped on us from his boot. They’re looking for that girl we saw in the woods. Remember? I told you. Down by the river.”

“I figured that’s what they were after.” Scotland wipes his brow with his shirt. “There’s an article in the paper. Front page. Her boyfriend says she was planning to run off to California. Wanting to get out from under her parents, apparently.” He shakes his head. “Kids.”

Finch frowns at this, then grabs the stack of newspapers and slides them closer. She stretches out on her stomach, leafing through. Walt Whitman climbs onto her back and settles there.

“Looks like Walt’s feeling at home here,” Scotland says.

Finch, absorbed in her reading, doesn’t even look up.

“Listen,” Scotland says. “They still haven’t found the girl. So you’re not in the clear yet. California or not, they’ll be looking for her, I bet. Place could get busy. I’d stick close to the cabin if I were you.”



* * *



Finch spends the next few hours poring through the papers, circling lines and photographs, jotting notes in her journal. Agitated, quiet. Later, I’m getting ready to sew the final square onto her quilt, a piece from a shirt with a rainbow and a unicorn that, for a long period of time, she insisted on wearing every single day. I had to wash it each night, hang it next to the woodstove to dry. Scotland’s warning on my mind, I step onto the porch, scanning the woods for movement, listening. It’s not quite dark, the sky flourishing pink and orange, the silhouettes of the trees leaning into the light. Everything quiet and still. I head back inside and settle on the couch. Cut the fabric and thread the needle. Finch sits at the table, the papers and journal spread out in front of her.

“Coop, that sheriff who came here?” she says, setting down her pencil. “We need to call him.”

“Sugar, we aren’t calling anyone.”

“But…” She rises. “They’re looking for her.”

“I know that.” My voice has an edge now, sharp and hot.

“And we saw her.”

“Once.”

“You saw her once.” She stares at her feet, voice quiet.

I wait.

“She was back, after that,” she says. “I went down there. On my own, after we saw her.”

I point to her, my hands shaking, and my voice, too. “Why would you do that?”