Don't Look for Me(41)
Kurt fell silent.
“What, then?” she asked. “What did you think it would lead me to?”
The wall of trees opened to the river, then the turn onto Hastings Pass.
“It’s probably nothing,” he said.
They passed the police station, town hall, the auto body shop. They were at the inn when he finally said the name. A different name. The last name she’d been expecting to hear.
“Chief Watkins.”
“Watkins? What does he have to do with Daisy Hollander?”
“The chief has this thing about kids.”
“What kind of thing?”
Kurt turned right, into the parking lot at the inn. He pulled to a stop.
“He used to come to the school. Talk about opportunities—scholarships and sports recruiting. Ways to get out of here, get money for college.”
“That sounds admirable.”
“I guess.”
“So did he help Daisy Hollander get the scholarship to that summer camp?”
“Had to be. But it’s more than that.”
“Okay.”
Kurt looked around now, at the inn and then the diner. He lowered his voice even though the windows were closed.
“There was talk that the chief was the one who drove Daisy to Boston. He denied it, but some of her friends told Booth, so Booth got in his face about it. Took a swing at him. The chief said it was a lie, but he couldn’t prove where he was that day. That’s all I heard. It could all be teenage bullshit. Gossip…”
Nic pictured Booth from earlier that day, giving her the bear spray, showing her where to run. And then his abrupt departure after the question about Daisy Hollander.
She pictured Watkins the day before, stretching his arms out like there wasn’t enough space in the world to accommodate him. His ego eclipsing the universe. It made sense that he would play God helping kids. Changing their lives. Even helping one of them start a new life with a sister who’d made it out. But then …
“Wait a minute,” Nic said, remembering something. “Veronica told us that she moved to New York. That she never went to Boston.”
“I know.”
“So why did people say Chief Watkins drove Daisy to Boston?”
“Maybe that’s what she told people so Booth would have no way to track her down.”
“And Watkins?”
Kurt shrugged. “I don’t know. But people don’t change, right? So if he was willing to help Daisy Hollander disappear…”
Nic interrupted him. “Then why not my mother.”
“Exactly.”
A moment passed, Nic thinking. Kurt watching her.
Then, “If she was out of gas, panicking, then the chief came by, felt sorry for her—promised to drop her somewhere and not tell anyone. It happened on the same day your sister died, right? The same day your mother killed her.”
The last few words hung in the air. Your mother killed her …
And Nic felt the reply leave her mouth without a single thought.
“It was an accident,” she said.
Kurt tried to go back. “Of course—you’re right. I only meant…”
“I know what you meant. And why you said it.”
She didn’t give him time to say more.
“I need to find Chief Watkins,” she said. “You must know where he lives. You seem to know every inch of this place.”
“Yeah, but he won’t be home.”
“How do you know?”
“Because it’s Thursday. And on Thursday nights he goes to the casino.”
Kurt went on explaining, about free drinks with this and double the payoff with that—all on Thursday nights at Laguna, and every time he said it—Thursday night—Nic felt a tightening in her throat.
“Thursday night was the night of the storm. The night my mother disappeared.”
Had Watkins been heading there, in spite of the storm? Maybe because of it? Did he lie then, and was he lying now? Had he given her mother a ride? Kurt was writing this new story one line at a time, letting Nic piece them together as though the story was of her own making. He said he’d mentioned Daisy Hollander before, but Nic didn’t remember. And she would have, the same way she remembered pulling him to the back of the bar.
Nic reached for the door. Kurt grabbed her. Stopped her.
“Hey,” he said. “Wait a second.”
Nic pulled her arm from his grasp.
“It was an accident,” she said again.
“I know. I’m sorry. It just came out wrong.”
That was bullshit.
“She wasn’t like that,” Nic said. “She wasn’t careless, not about anything.” Memories flooded in, then spilled out. The sweet memories that had been too painful to remember. “Our mother would wake us up for school by sitting on the edge of our beds and wiggling our toes … she used to sing to us—when we were babies … I saw her do it with Annie … rocking her and gazing into her eyes … our mother cried at every stupid concert and school play no matter how horrible we were…”
“Okay.”
“No—it’s not okay. A mother like that doesn’t kill her child.”
“I know.”
“It was a fucking accident!” Nic said it one more time, though the words were more for herself now than for this stranger from the bar across the street.