The Mystery of Hollow Places(57)
Miles looked at those blue-lipped bodies and knew immediately that:
1) All of the men had been drugged—by poisoned complimentary champagne aboard the rental boat, it later turned out, which is how they ended up in the water in the first place.
2) The men suffered from rewarming shock, wherein their icy hearts, once warmed, failed in the absence of blood. “The heart can take the cold,” Miles said. “Sometimes it’s the thaw that kills it.”
The bodies told him everything he needed to know. And so when a crime comes along that he can’t solve by looking, that’s when the mystery begins.
There’s no mystery when I look at my mother. The way she bites her thumbnail, the way she looks up at me through her eyelashes or, when she does turn away, the slight swing of her hair shielding her from view—in all of this, I can read the guilt and loneliness and sadness of the past, and how afraid she still is. I find every way I might hurt her. Everything I could say to smash the life she’s built, to tear her apart where she’s stitched herself together. The possibilities scroll through my mind and for a second, I think maybe there really are two kinds of girls, and I’m one of those girls: the kind who’ll use what she knows to wound her mother in the worst way. To make her feel the way I felt when Dad was at his worst.
But no. I really don’t think I am. At least, I don’t want to be.
I smile, making sure it’s a real one and not the icy kind my best friend uses to protect herself. “Yeah. We were okay. Dad . . . he wasn’t perfect, but he was a really good dad.”
It’s true, after all. I had more than a lot of people have. More than Sidonie had when she was a little girl. I had Lindy, and Joshua Zhi Scott, who loved me so much and tried to be his best for me.
I think I can do this. I know it. If anyone can get him home, it’s me, on my big shoulders.
EIGHTEEN
The outside world has changed in the past few hours. Thick snow coats the hedges and caps the ornate lampposts. Slowly, Todd backs his car up through inches of powder in the parking lot. As we pull away, a curtain resettles in the glowing window of 56 Pines Road.
Rather than leave me by a bench outside the Quick Mart, Todd insists on driving me all the way to Hartford, where I can catch my connection directly. It means a forty-minute drive with my mother’s husband, but I don’t mind so much. It’s a quiet ride. Todd plugs in his MP3 player and lets me deejay, which gives us something to do besides talk about our pasts. I’m kind of over that subject, anyway. I shuffle through his favorites playlist, and by the time we pull up to the bright, bright lights of Union Station, I’ve been introduced to the best of West Coast jazz.
“Now, somebody will be waiting for you in Sugarbrook, yes?” he asks sternly as I collect my stuff.
One more lie. Just one more. Then I can take off my liar pants and pack them away, only break them out later for stuff like, Don’t worry, I haven’t even been inside a boy’s dorm room since I started college. “My friend Jessa will be at the station,” I promise. “She knows what time my bus gets in.”
“Good. Don’t be a stranger, all right? I’d give you our number, but I guess you already have it.” He pats my puffy coat sleeve, and it’s only slightly awkward.
“Right. Yeah. Thanks.” I crack the door open, then on second thought, unbuckle the straps of my bag and pull out A Time to Chill. Letting it fall open to the bookmarked page, I peel off the battered sticky note holding my place and hand it to Todd. “Can you give this to Sidonie? It’s her cousin’s number. I think Lil would like it, you know, if they talked.”
He tucks it into his pocket and grins. He has a nice smile. “You’re really something else, aren’t you, Imogene?”
If we had the time, I’d be in danger of liking my technical stepfather. We could compare favorite books. I could tell him about Dad’s novels, and The Hound of the Baskervilles. The Woman in White. Rebecca.
Oh well. Maybe next time. “See you,” I say, and shove out of the car into the snow.
At the Greyhound counter I buy a ticket to Boston. I know I can get to Victory Island from there—once, when Dad’s car was in the shop, we rode the rail into Boston, switched from South Station to North Station, then took the Newburyport/Rockport Line. Just southeast of Newburyport, the tiny slice of land that makes up Victory Island juts out into the Atlantic, connected by one road to the mainland. It’s maybe five miles from the station to the shoreline where hotels and motels overlook the water.
The ticket’s another twenty-five dollars out of my fake-prom fund, and the train ride will probably be another ten dollars, which leaves me twenty-three dollars to flag a taxi to the island, and not nearly enough to get back home again. I’d better be right.
Because the next bus doesn’t leave till eight thirty, I’ve got plenty of time to sit on a bench outside the Dunkin’ Donuts kiosk and ponder the trouble I’m heaping on myself. Even if I can pull this off, I almost definitely shouldn’t. Lindy will think I’ve run away like Dad. It isn’t right to do that to her.
There’s still the nonrefundable, nonexchangeable return ticket I bought earlier that day that is set to take me from here to Framingham to Sugarbrook, though there’s little chance that I could get home before Lindy. She’ll be beyond furious that I left the house while grounded—correction, left the state while grounded. I’ll be spending lunchtime in her office until I’m eating mashed bananas with dentures.