The Storm King(74)

Nate’s thoughts used to travel that same line. If only he’d asked for a cherry pie instead of a peach pie. If only he’d struck out at the plate instead of hitting a triple. But the older he got, the more difficult it became to imagine the phantom futures that had been closed to him. That April day made Nate who he was.



Who would he be if not himself?

“I have to go,” Nate said.

“Of course, I know you’re a busy man. A big surgeon in the city. Good for you, Nate. We’re all very proud of you.”

The smile on the man’s face was desperately sincere. That’s what made it so shattering. “I’m so sorry. I really am. I’ll be sorry for the rest of my life.”

Nate nodded and felt his way through the side door. Outside, leaves and debris skimmed the surface of the street as if rushing toward something with incredible urgency. There was no sky or lake or town in this rain. He didn’t open his umbrella or close his coat. He let Medea whip him.

Nate followed Tom to the cruiser. When he got inside he was just short of hyperventilating. They sat there, watching their breath fog the windows and letting the wind rock them from side to side.

Focus, Nate told himself. He tried to collect his thoughts and feelings and reorder them in a way that resembled the man he was supposed to be.

“I want to talk to Adam Decker,” Nate said.

Tom turned to him. “You’re joking.”

“I found something back at the station,” Nate said. “Behind the locked door in your dad’s office.”

“His closet?”

“He has filing cabinets hidden in there. Photographs, notes, transcripts. All relating to Lucy’s disappearance. He has her journals, too. He’s had them the whole time. He knows about the Thunder Runs. I denied everything, obviously. But she could have written anything in there. Anything. Everything.”

Tom blinked at him as if he’d just awoken in a place where he didn’t remember falling asleep. “You’re saying my dad knows what we did back then?”

“Yes.” Chief Buck had violated both law and oath to conceal this from his son as much as anyone. But the chief had had fourteen years to get to the bottom of this. Now it was Nate’s turn.



“He’s known the whole time?”

“Right.”

“But—but,” Tom sputtered. In an instant, he melted into pure sopping panic. “The journals weren’t introduced into evidence. He never once asked me about—”

“He was protecting you. The statutes of limitations are up on most of what we did, but back then it could have ruined us.”

Tom’s hands dropped from the wheel to fall limp at his sides.

“That’s why I need to talk to Adam,” Nate said. “There was a note in his file that said something about his alibi not matching up with the rest of his story.”

“What else was there?” Tom’s voice was barely a whisper.

“I didn’t have much time to look. I don’t know if your dad followed up on the lead with Adam, but maybe he thought it’d be easier if everyone thought Lucy really had run away. If we talk to Adam, maybe we can figure out what he’s hiding.”

“You solve crimes now?” Tom had seemed close to hysteria, but was reeling himself in from the edge.

“I know, right? If only there was a taxpayer-funded organization meant to deal with things like this. We could even give them uniforms and badges to make it seem official.”

Tom took the car out of park and backed the cruiser from its parking space. “If you harass him, he might press charges for the sucker punch you landed on him this morning. He told my dad he wanted you to stay away from him.”

“It wasn’t a sucker punch,” Nate said, though that memory belonged to a part of himself that he didn’t have access to.

Tom didn’t respond, but he turned the car north onto the Strand.

The lake was swollen with rain, and the distant foothills were lost in veils of clouds. Nate watched the waters surge and recede against the shore. The mansions and their meticulously maintained grounds soon blocked his view. His body absorbed the bucking of the car as it churned through a stretch of inundated road while his mind pulled at strategies to get Adam to reveal whatever he was hiding. He hadn’t fully unpacked this problem when Tom pulled into the short driveway of a small, wood-shingled ranch house. They were several blocks inland, not far from Grams’s house on Bonaparte Street. It was a tidy home, but not much to look at. At a glance, Nate knew it wasn’t right. A married lawyer with two children didn’t live in a place like this.



“This isn’t Decker’s house.”

“No.”

“Whose is it?”

Tom activated the garage door and drove the cruiser inside. “Mine.” He exited the car. “Welcome.” He slammed the door shut.

Nate watched Tom disappear into the interior. He’d become unpredictable, his Tom. But Nate had no car, no phone, and no other options. He followed his friend inside.

The carcass of something that might have once been a couch lay along one wall of the narrow room. The carpeting was a noncommittal shade between brown and gray. Thrift store chairs and a low coffee table were dotted with books and bottles. A vacant dog bed sat in a corner.