Locust Lane(45)

Still not wanting to go back home, she drove around Emerson. Left turn, right turn. Stop signs and traffic lights. Not looking for a clue, exactly. Just a sense. An inkling. The feeling she’d had when she first brought her daughter out here returned with a vengeance, although this time not in a good way. This was another country. The houses, the yards, the schools. The speed bumps twice as high as where she lived. Most of the houses glowed with inner light; you could see people inside. Tonight, they’d be staring at some screen or another, feeding on her child’s death.

She wound up parked across the street from the Bondurants’. The house was protected by its wall of trees. Not a place you’d randomly approach. But also a place where you wouldn’t be seen from the street if you did show up at the front door. This would have been how things were when it happened. Quiet, dark, apparently safe. She thought about Christopher Mahoun arriving. Had Eden invited him? Or had he come unannounced and unexpected, someone she knew only in passing, a near stranger who secretly coveted her?

Danielle became aware of another presence. A man had appeared, walking along the side of the road toward the house. He didn’t seem to be a cop or a reporter. He wore nice clothes and his hair was cut right. He stopped at the top of the driveway and it was then that she placed him. He was the one she’d seen earlier at the police station.

She got out of the car, shutting the door quietly so as not to scare him off. He turned, unsurprised, as she drew near.

“I saw you earlier,” she said.

“I remember.”

“Yeah, so I got a question—who exactly are you?”

“Just a curious bystander,” he said after a moment.

Her eyes were getting used to the light. He was attractive but, as she’d glimpsed back at the station, soft. Like he’d been basted in a light batter of money. His Beemer, which for some reason he’d parked in front of the house next door, looked like it was worth about two years of her salary. Men like this tended not to be bystanders to anything. If they were present, it was about them.

“But why were you talking to the cops?”

“You’re her mother, right?”

“Yeah. I’m her mother.”

“I’m really sorry,” he said, his voice so gentle she had to lean forward a little to hear it.

“Thank you. But I’m still sort of wondering who you are and why you’re here.”

“Really, I don’t want to intrude.”

“You kind of already have, though.”

He continued to look toward the house.

“Come on, help me out,” she continued. “The cops sure aren’t.”

“I wouldn’t put too much faith in our local police.”

She could now detect the slightest slur. Everything was a little too slow. He’d been drinking. It took a minute to see, but it was there.

“Oh yeah?” she asked. “Why’s that?”

He shrugged. She decided to try a new approach.

“What’s your name?”

“Patrick.”

“Danielle.”

Shaking hands would have been too weird.

“I mean, look at this from my point of view,” she said. “I see you at the station, talking to the detectives. Then I see you here. There’s got to be a reason for that. Please.”

It wasn’t a word that usually came tripping off her tongue. For infrequency, it was right up there with sorry. He seemed to sense that.

“I hit a dog.”

“Okay.”

“Last night, when I was driving by here.”

“What, like a big black dog?”

“You know it?”

She pointed toward the house.

“That’s theirs. The Bondurants. My daughter was looking after it. Thor. I just saw him a couple of hours ago.”

“How’s he doing?”

“He’ll live.”

“He bit me.”

“Really? He doesn’t seem like a biter.”

“I guess he was having a rough night.” He winced. “I’m sorry.”

She shook off his apology.

“So you hit the dog and…”

“It didn’t seem too hurt so I just went home. And then when I saw the news, I thought it was something the cops should know.”

“And you’re here now because, what, you’re this big dog lover?”

“There was…”

He stopped. The words were there, on his tongue. He was trying to decide if he should say them.

“What? There was … what?”

He shook his head.

“I just wish there was something I could have done.”

“Yeah, me, too.”

He looked at her and she knew her words had come out far more harshly than intended.

“What I mean is, I wish there was something I could have done, too.”

“I should go,” he said.

Damn it, Danielle, she thought. This isn’t some drywaller you’re dealing with. Use some finesse. He reached into his pocket and took out his wallet. For a moment, she suspected he was going to give her money. But he’d produced a business card.

“If you want to talk.”

“We’re talking now,” she said.