The Last Thing She Ever Did(92)

Liz sat there looking around the room, remembering all that had happened. All that she’d done. She could hear some dogs barking by the river. A car backfired as it passed by. The low light from the autumn sun cut through the slats of the blinds and made a pattern of narrow bars over the bedspread.

Prison bars.

Everything outside of the bedroom went on as it always had. The river ran past the house, and the day was as beautiful as any day could be.

Inside Liz’s belly, the pain raged. She could feel another wave of nausea as her stomach threatened to purge itself once more. She had stopped eating because nothing stayed down. Her throat was raw.

“I’m going to run an errand,” she said finally. “I just wanted to tell you that I’m sorry and that I wish I could trade places with Charlie.”

Carole squeezed Liz’s hand. “I know,” she said. “Me too.”

Liz didn’t say anything more. She’d save her true confessions for the police station and the detective who had been handling the case. She’d go back there and this time she’d tell the truth, because it was the right thing to do. She’d take it all on herself and see to it that Owen would survive this. She gave Carole’s hand one last squeeze, leaned over, and kissed the top of her head.

“I love you,” Carole went on. “I couldn’t get through this without you. I’m hanging by a thread and you are the only one that is here for me.”

The bile started moving up Liz’s throat.

“I love you too,” she said, her voice a constricted whisper.





CHAPTER FIFTY-EIGHT

MISSING: TWENTY-NINE DAYS

Liz knew something wasn’t right with her old neighbor across the river. She crossed over the footbridge. A light, lacy layer of snow had fallen and begun to melt. Bend could be unpredictable like that. Indian summers that can extend to October, or a snowfall that sends a flurry of skiers to the rentals that crowd much of the riverfront.

She stood at the Millers’ Wedgwood blue door and knocked. When there was no answer, she reached up to the top of the doorjamb. Old habits like that seldom change. Seth had shown her the hiding place one time when his parents were gone for the afternoon. But there was no key. A living room window was unlocked, and she lifted it open. She stuck her head inside the silent space. A trio of suitcases sat by the door, arranged from largest to smallest. Liz wondered if Dr. Miller had been preparing for a trip somewhere but never made it out the door. He’d vanished from his perch on the deck or the yard that he tended so carefully. So obsessively.

Something’s happened to him.

She called out for him.

No answer.

Something felt wrong.

Liz worked her frame inside, landing on the hardwood floor. She was concerned, and the concern for something other than herself, other than her dire situation, made her feel better. Stronger.

Something sweet permeated the air, and she followed the scent to the main bathroom of the master bedroom. What was that? It was pulling her into a dark, paneled space with a big tub and pedestal sink. A toilet commanded the far corner. Dr. Miller’s shaving kit was placed on the corner of the sink. A white bottle of cologne with a sailing ship beckoned to her. Liz removed the red top and breathed it in.

Old Spice.

Before she could exhale, Liz was a terrified girl back in the station wagon on the day Dr. Miller drove them to Diamond Lake. The horse coming at her; its hooves shattering the windshield. The terrifying sound of the debris swiping at the car. All of it came at her. She was in the hospital. The angry and concerned faces of her parents. The lady police officer pressing her for a reason to blame Dr. Miller for what happened to Seth.

Liz put her hands on the sink to keep from falling.

She hadn’t smelled alcohol like her mother’s spiced wine.

Liz had smelled Old Spice.

Reeling, she left the bathroom and went to the kitchen. Everything was put away. The counters were pristine. It was as if the house were ready for a real estate agent to come in with a prospective buyer. Immaculate. Homey. There was even a full glass coffeepot. From the window over the sink, she could see her house and the Franklins’.

Old Spice.

Not booze.

He hadn’t been drinking at all.

Tears came, but they were silent ones. The kind that fall without a person really noticing.

She breathed in and tried to pull herself together.

Where was Dr. Miller?

A million-dollar home that held traces of the family that had lived there, but nothing really personal. No pictures. A pair of mallard decoys sat on a small table under the old, yellow wall phone. She touched the coffeepot. It was cold.

As she moved from the kitchen, she could hear the sound of the TV playing in the basement. It had been a long time since she was down there. She stopped at the top of the stairs.

“Dr. Miller, are you down there?” Her voice was weak.

She heard some movement. The TV went silent, followed by the sound of a door closing.

“It’s Liz Jarrett, Dr. Miller. I’m coming down. Are you all right?”

It was dark, and when she flipped on the light, she was blasted by a huge number of family photos. The stairwell wall was covered with them. It took her a minute to realize that she was looking at nothing but images of the Millers. It took her breath away. The photos seemed to show every moment of their lives on the river. Stunned, she stepped out of the room and looked around her.