Locust Lane(44)
People said she’d outgrow it. They tested her at school but she passed with flying colors. Teachers shook their heads when they talked about her but they were smiling, too. Everybody loved Eden. Why wouldn’t they? She was cute as a button and up for anything. It was all well and good when she was a little girl. But Danielle also knew there was a tsunami coming. She felt like one of those people on that beach in Thailand. You could turn and run but that only meant you wouldn’t see what was about to hit you.
She was thirteen when the wave finally crashed. Boys entered the equation. They sure liked Eden. And they just kept coming. It was like the Walking Dead. Except they were very much alive and none of them seemed to be walking. Eden wasn’t the prettiest girl in town but something about her lit the fuse. Danielle tried to explain about the birds and bees, with special emphasis on the part about getting stung and swelling up. But Eden was focused on a simpler biological truth. If you let boys kiss you, they liked you. Danielle tried to school her in the fine art of making them work a little, but if she was willing to hug any old gross homeless person when she was little, she wasn’t going to practice self-restraint when some hot young stud in a Charger and a Gronk jersey rolled up outside. Not that Danielle was one to give relationship advice. She had so much baggage by this point that she felt like she should give anyone bold enough to date her a tip.
But Eden was no slut. Danielle had known nymphos. Hell, there was a period when she was in her early twenties when she probably was one. But that wasn’t Eden. There was always only just one boy at a time. Sean or Ryan—there were a lot of Seans and Ryans. Rayshard, with his smile. She’d go crazy after one date and then that was all she could talk about. The boys always seemed stunned by the torrents of affection coming their way. More than one was scared off by it. Most, however, hung around, like a kid who discovered a busted gumball machine.
But then the gumballs ran out. It amazed her how quickly Eden’s head could turn. Danielle thought of herself as a hard bitch, but damn. The girl lost interest so quickly, so absolutely, that it was like she’d suffered romantic amnesia. It led to some awkward moments, a few of which wound up with Danielle at the front door, armed with whatever weapon she’d been able to grab off the kitchen counter. It wasn’t easy, warding off an enraged ex-boyfriend with only a whisk in your hand.
It was all so exhausting. Which was why the move to the Bondurants’ had seemed like such a good idea, especially after her daughter swore off boys for the time being. Maybe here, away from all that working-class testosterone, Eden could break the chain of dumb decisions. But clearly Danielle was wrong. As far away as Emerson seemed, it wasn’t far enough.
* * *
After an hour of aimless driving, she stopped at a diner on Route 9, just beyond the town’s northernmost edge. The place reeked of old smoke. An ancient couple frowned in unison over their his-and-hers Salisbury steaks; a fat weirdo with tinted glasses stared out the window at the late rush-hour traffic, probably imagining sniper scenarios. Two junkies emptied packet after packet of sugar into bottomless coffees.
Danielle ordered a chef’s salad, a coffee, and an apple juice. She checked her phone to see if there were any updates from the cops. Nothing. Just more messages from friends and relatives and work. Her mother up in New Hampshire was offering to come down in a tone of voice that made it clear she didn’t really want to. Her sister in Florida actually did want to come. Danielle knew she should probably deal with all that. They’d be hurting. They cared. She’d get some food in her and then do her duties. Accept the sympathy she knew wouldn’t do her a damned bit of good.
And then she saw it on Twitter. The Emerson youth now had a name. Christopher Mahoun. A senior at the high school. Somebody had posted a photo of him. He was thin, smiling, wide-eyed. He sure didn’t look like a killer. In fact, he had such a harmlessly likable face that it took a moment for the hate to come. The initial comments reinforced her confusion. Despite the Middle Eastern name, there didn’t seem to be much bigotry. People who knew him were saying he was a good kid. Nobody could believe it.
She looked up his family. If he lived in Emerson, they must have money. His father owned a fancy restaurant in town where they’d cook you a rabbit for a mere thirty-six dollars. There was a photo of him from the local paper—he’d donated food to some charity run. He was very handsome, his smile reserved but genuine. He’d come from Paris, although his roots were back in Lebanon. How did Eden know this kid? Had she been involved with him? He didn’t look her type. He seemed too civilized.
Gates would have known about this when they spoke earlier, after she left Bill and Betsy. The kid was probably locked up just a few steps from where they were standing. Why hadn’t she told her? Why did Danielle have to hear about this from Twitter? The suspicion she’d been feeling on and off all day returned, stronger than ever. Local kid, local cops. You need to trust us with this.
Her phone buzzed. Her mother again. She took the call.
“Oh my God, I was beginning to think they got you, too,” she wailed, before dissolving into tears.
It took her a while to get the old bat off the phone. The sniper guy was looking like he was working up the nerve to take a shot at her. She paid her bill and did the rest of her calling from her parked car. She started with her sister down in Bradenton. Danielle told her to stay put until they had a funeral date. Steve Slater told her to take off as much time as she needed, which she figured meant she had until Monday. It seemed inordinately important to him to send flowers. Danielle told him she’d let him know. She called her friend Jackie, who sounded a bit offended when informed her presence was not needed. After that, she decided to put off the rest of the calls. She really didn’t need to manage the grief of others.