My Last Innocent Year(65)

The keys. When had I last seen them? In the glove compartment of Connelly’s car a week after Tom and Igraine had gone missing. I pictured Connelly meeting them by the side of the road, or maybe at the gas station where they’d last been seen, Tom’s strawberry-blond hair tucked under a dirty baseball cap, Igraine in the back seat covered with a blanket. Did Connelly wave to her, ask how she was doing? Or did he just hand the keys to her father and drive away?

I would never betray a confidence.

I flicked on the bedroom light and waited for Connelly to stir. I thought about something my mother used to say when I forgot my lunch money or bled through my pants at school: “For a smart girl, you can sure be dumb sometimes.”

“Isabel?” Connelly said, blinking into the light. “What time is it?”

“Do you know where Tom is?” My voice was quiet, barely a whisper.

“What?” He fumbled for his watch. “What are you talking about?”

“Do you know where Tom is?” I said, louder this time.

“Jesus Christ. What’s gotten into you?”

“Andy.” I was having trouble catching my breath. I still had the picture of Elizabeth in my hand. “He thinks you know where they are. He thinks you’re helping them.”

“Andy? What does he have to do with this? Did you tell him about us?”

I shook my head.

Connelly pushed himself up on one elbow. “Of course I don’t know where they are. Why would he think that? And why would you believe him?”

I thought about all the reasons Andy had given, but none of them felt important. “I don’t know.”

Connelly got out of bed and directed me to a chair by the window. I slid the picture underneath me.

“Oh God, you’re shaking.” He kneeled at my feet and wrapped his arms around my waist. “People always want to find someone to blame when things like this happen. I’m not sure why Andy wants to turn me into the villain.” He sighed. “Look, I don’t know why Tom did this, but trust me—he will come home soon.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes, I’m sure.”

I took a deep breath. When I exhaled, the tears came, streaming down my face. Connelly hugged me tighter, kissed the tops of my thighs. Despite everything, I wanted him.

“Andy shouldn’t have involved you in this,” he said. “He shouldn’t be involved himself.”

“He’s been talking to Joanna.”

“Joanna’s very upset, understandably so. Why she’s talking to an undergraduate about it, I have no idea.” He reached under my shirt, ran his fingers along the knobs of my spine. “What Tom’s done is terrible, but Joanna isn’t blameless. She’s always had trouble with boundaries.”

I pushed his hands away. “What does that mean?”

“I just mean—it’s complicated.”

“What’s complicated about it? He kidnapped his daughter.”

He sat back on his heels. “I think ‘kidnapped’ is a bit of a strong term.”

“Really? What would you call it?”

He stood up and walked back to bed. I looked out the window. There was a hose coiled up on the patio; in the dark, it looked like a snake.

“Andy thinks Tom might hurt her.”

“That’s ridiculous. Tom would never do that.”

“There are MISSING posters all over town with their faces on them, Connelly. I think we’re past the point of knowing what Tom would or wouldn’t do.”

“He would never hurt her.”

“He’s already hurt her.”

“You know what I mean.”

“Maybe they’re dead,” I said, feeling underneath me for the picture.

“Come on,” he whispered. “They’re not dead.”

“How do you know?”

“Because I know.”

“But how?” I pulled out the photo and held it toward him.

“What’s that?”

“Is this your cabin?”

“Where did you get that?”

I walked over and handed the photo to him. He studied it for minute.

“Yes, that’s my cabin.”

“And is that Elizabeth McIntosh?”

“Who?”

“Fuck, Connelly. You know who.”

He looked back down at the photo. His eyebrows drew together slightly. “Did you know Elizabeth?”

“Don’t change the subject. I know it’s her.”

He handed the photo back to me. “Isabel, I don’t know what you’re talking about, and I don’t appreciate your tone.”

“Are they there? Are they at your cabin? Is that where they’re hiding?”

He looked at me, then down at the floor. I could feel something fracturing, like the first time you ask your parents a question they can’t answer or the first time they don’t catch you in a lie. The moment you recognize your separateness.

“Tell me.” I saw him look at the photo, measuring what a lie would cost him and what he might still get away with. Maybe he thought I would use the photo against him, show it to someone—who? Joanna? Roxanne? The police? I had no such intentions, but I believe the threat is what caused him to say what he said next.