Hidden Pictures(18)
“Teddy? What is this?”
He shrugs. “A game.”
“What kind of game?”
He bites into a strip of pepper and answers while chewing. “Anya acts out a story and I draw it.”
“Like Pictionary?”
Teddy snorts and sprays little flecks of green pepper all over the table. “Pictionary?!?” He flops back in his chair, laughing hysterically, and I grab a paper towel to wipe up the mess. “Anya can’t play Pictionary!”
I gently coax him to calm down and take a sip of water.
“Start over from the beginning,” I tell him, and I try to keep my tone light. I don’t want to sound like I’m freaking out. “Explain to me how the game works.”
“I told you, Mallory. Anya acts out the story and I have to draw it. That’s it. That’s the whole game.”
“So who is the man?”
“I don’t know.”
“Did the man hurt Anya?”
“How should I know? But it’s not Pictionary! Anya can’t play board games!”
And then he flops back in his chair again, caught up in another giggle fit, the kind of blissfully carefree laughter that only children can produce. It’s so joyous and genuine, I suppose it outweighs any concerns I might have. Clearly there’s nothing bothering Teddy. He seems as happy as any kid I’ve ever met. So he’s created a weird imaginary friend and they play weird imaginary games together—so what?
He’s still flailing around in his chair as I stand and carry the drawing across the kitchen. Caroline keeps a file folder in the bills drawer where she’s asked me to place Teddy’s artwork, so she can scan all the pictures into her computer.
But Teddy sees what I’m doing.
He stops giggling and shakes his head.
“That one’s not for Mommy or Daddy. Anya says she wants you to have it.”
* * *
I haven’t owned a computer since high school. For the past few years, I’ve been getting by with just a phone. But that night, I walk a mile to a shopping plaza and spend some of my paycheck on a new Android tablet. I’m back at the cottage by eight o’clock. I lock the door and change into my pajamas and then get into bed with my new toy. It only takes a few minutes to set up the tablet and connect to the Maxwells’ Wi-Fi network.
My search for “Annie Barrett” generates sixteen million results: wedding registries, architecture firms, Etsy shops, yoga tutorials, and dozens of LinkedIn profiles. I search again for “Annie Barrett + Spring Brook” and “Annie Barrett + Artist” and “Annie Barrett + dead + murdered” but none of these yield anything helpful. The internet has no record of her existence.
Outside, just over my head, something smacks against the window screen. I know it’s one of the fat brown moths that are all over the forest. They have the color and texture of tree bark, so they can easily camouflage themselves—but from my side of the window screen, all I see are their slimy segmented underbellies, three pairs of legs and two twitchy antennae. I rattle the screen and shake them loose, but they just fly around for a few seconds and come back. I worry they’ll find some gap in the screen and wriggle through, that they’ll migrate to my bedside lamp and swarm it.
Next to the lamp is my drawing of Anya being dragged through the forest. I wonder if I was wrong to keep it. Maybe I should have passed it to Caroline as soon as she walked through the door. Or better yet, I could have crumpled it into a ball and stuffed it into the recycling bin. I hate the way Teddy has drawn her hair, the obscene length of her long black tresses, dragged behind her body like entrails. Something on my nightstand shrieks and I spring out of bed before realizing it’s just my phone—an incoming call with my ringtone set to high.
“Quinn!” Russell says. “Am I calling too late?”
This is such a typical Russell question. It’s only eight forty-five, but he advocates that anyone serious about fitness should be in bed with the lights out by nine thirty.
“It’s fine,” I tell him. “What’s up?”
“I’m calling about your hamstring. The other day, you said you were tight.”
“It’s better now.”
“How far’d you go tonight?”
“Four miles. Thirty-one minutes.”
“You tired?”
“No, I’m fine.”
“You ready to push a little harder?”
I can’t stop staring at the drawing, at the tangle of black hair trailing behind the woman’s body.
What kind of kid draws this?
“Quinn?”
“Yeah—sorry.”
“Everything okay?”
I hear a mosquito whine and I slap the right side of my face, hard. Then I look at my palm, hoping to see mangled black ash, but my skin is clean.
“I’m fine. A little tired.”
“You just said you weren’t tired.”
And his voice shifts gears a tiny bit, like he’s suddenly aware there’s something going on.
“How’s the family treating you?”
“They’re fantastic.”
“And the kid? Tommy? Tony? Toby?”
“Teddy. He’s sweet. We’re having fun.”