Have You Seen Me?(45)

I can’t help but wonder if she’s manufactured a reason to be absent.

“No problem.” I sweep my gaze across the pale blue living room with the red patterned sofa and armchairs, impressive antique wooden side tables, and gold-framed landscape paintings. “I love your place and everything you’ve done to it, but do you ever miss Boston—you know, the hustle and bustle?”

“At times I do miss the action a little, but I’m glad I’m closer to Dad. And Boston reminds me too much of those tough years with Kaitlin.”

Perhaps my situation isn’t so unique from the one my brother found himself in back then: a marriage struggling because of issues related to the idea of becoming parents.

“By the way, did I tell you Kaitlin and her new husband adopted a child?”

“No, but I saw that on Facebook,” I tell him. I don’t add that she and I correspond by email sometimes. Though it wouldn’t bother him that we’re in touch, I’m sure he senses I’m not a fan of Marion’s and I don’t want to add any fuel to the fire.

“Well, I’m happy for her. It’s what she longed for.”

“Do you still have that longing sometimes, Rog?”

“A twinge now and then, yes. And I have to admit, I was lonely that first year in this house. But Marion and I have a pretty full life. . . . You ready for lunch?”

As we step into the kitchen, I see that Roger has laid out a veritable picnic on the long wooden table: fresh bread, cheeses, olives, salami, hummus, a glazed bowl piled with clementines.

“Oh my god,” I exclaim. “I thought you said light lunch.”

“Marion was going to make us a salad—you know what a health nut she is. But when she ended up having to head to Princeton, I decided to go a little wild.”

Though I don’t have much appetite, I manage to eat a few olives, half a clementine, and a couple of wedges of cheese on bread. I bring Roger up to speed about hiring Mulroney, and the blood test results, before turning the conversation to our father.

“Do you sense he suspects that anything’s going on with me?” I ask.

“Not from what I can tell. With his heart situation, he doesn’t seem as sharp as he used to be—though I’m hoping that will change when his strength is back in full force.”

“I’m relieved that he hasn’t noticed anything, because it’d be so stressful for him, and he might even try to come back early. . . . I wanted to ask you something else: How do you think he would feel if he knew about me lying to everyone years ago?”

“He’d understand, of course.”

“And do you, Roger?” I can’t forget how subdued he sounded when I broke the news to him on Sunday.

“Of course. It caught me by surprise when you told me, but there’s nothing for you to apologize about. You were only a kid.”

I look off into the middle distance.

“I hope you’re not ruminating too much about this, Ally,” he says.

“It’s hard not to. But I’ll feel better once this interview is in the rearview mirror.”

I notice that a slice of bread smeared with goat cheese is lying untouched on his plate. Maybe he’s more concerned than he’s letting on.

“Do you think I should have brought a lawyer?” I ask. “I was afraid it might imply I had reason to worry.”

“The same thing crossed my mind. But I came to the conclusion you did. Let’s see how they respond today and then we can reevaluate if necessary.”

“They? Do you think there’ll be other people besides Nowak there?”

“Oh god, did I forgot to tell you? Yes, one more person. A detective from the Hunterdon County prosecutor’s office.”

He did forget to tell me. I’d been steeling myself for a one-on-one meeting.

“Whoa, I wish I’d known.”

“I’m really sorry, Button, it slipped my mind. But it’s nothing to be alarmed about. I believe it’s the detective who’s been looking into the case again.”

He rises, hoisting a platter with each hand. “Coffee?”

“Better not. Here, let me help.”

“Let’s leave most of this here. I’ll just stick the cheese and meat in the fridge.”

Five minutes later, we’re on our way to the police station in Millerstown. During the short drive, I suck on yet another cinnamon Altoid and take so many deep breaths, Roger must think I’m hyperventilating.

My hometown is a small, fairly charming place along the banks of the Delaware River, founded in the mid-1880s. Thanks to preservation efforts, the town center is pretty much unspoiled by chain stores and fast-food stands and instead boasts shops selling antiques, scented candles, and tchotchkes. Roger makes the turn off River Street and pulls up in front of the police station, an old four-story brick building. Though I often come back to visit my father, I can’t recall the last time I was in this particular location.

After Roger parks against the curb, I step out of the car. The woods where I found Jaycee are about two miles away, along the outskirts of town, and yet I feel their psychic drag even from here.

We enter into a large foyer to find a young woman sitting at a gray metal desk, circa 1950s. She’s pretty, with long brown hair styled in waves.

“Can I help you?” she asks, swiveling away from her computer screen. She manages to be polite without being friendly. Perhaps an acquired skill for the job.