Locust Lane(46)

“Things might come up later. They might be clearer.”

Now what the hell did that mean? He continued to offer the card. She took it. She had to angle it toward the streetlight to read the name.

“No one?”

“It’s pronounced ‘noon.’” He smiled. “But I answer to both.”

Once again, he seemed to regret his joke immediately.

“I’m really, really sorry about your child.”

Parting words, though he stood his ground. He met her eye and it occurred to her that this guy, this Patrick Noone, wasn’t crazy and he wasn’t a creep. No, there was something there that she didn’t understand but couldn’t turn away from.

“Just because she’s dead doesn’t mean she’s gone,” he said, the drink suddenly vanished from his voice.

“Okay,” she said after a stunned silence.

“But you’ll find it’s up to you to keep her alive.”

“It was up to me last night.”

“No, this is different.”

“How?”

“It’s hard to explain. But you’ll see.”

He smiled at her, then turned and walked away. His car sounded like three cars when he turned over the engine. As he drove past he gave her a brief blind wave. She used the card he’d given her to wave back.





Thursday





CELIA


Jack was just about to leave for school when the police called. Celia hadn’t wanted him to go—the place would be pulsating with gossip and histrionics. The police holding a Waldo student for murder was the biggest thing to happen in this town in living memory. And Jack was right in the middle of it. He needed to be protected until the hysteria died down. But Oliver had overruled her. Their son had done nothing wrong, so there was no reason for him to act like he had.

Despite her concern, Celia had believed that the worst of it was over when she woke this morning. Yes, more testimony would be required. People would talk. But yesterday’s sensation of a failed-brakes emergency had passed. Oliver was right. Jack was blameless. He’d been long gone when his friend had taken leave of his senses. Hannah had confirmed the story. Celia still wasn’t thrilled about his lying to her about his whereabouts, but Oliver was inclined to let it go as a lesson learned.

And then the police called for the second time. They reached Oliver in his car—he’d headed off to work before dawn but had turned back after they called. When he came through the door unexpectedly, his finger was worrying his scar.

“Detective Gates called. They need to speak to him again.”

“About what?”

“That’s not clear. But it seemed urgent.”

“Did you call Bart?”

“He didn’t say much. Except that the district attorney’s involved.”

“Well, what’s your guess?”

“I honestly don’t know. As far as I can tell, they’re still building a case against Christopher.”

Celia would have taken more comfort if her husband’s demeanor had matched his words. But he looked even more concerned than he had yesterday. She went to get her son, who was getting ready for school. He answered the moment she knocked. She told him what was happening; he claimed to have no idea what it could be about. And yet he looked every bit as worried as his father.

“Jack, what is this?”

“I’ll be down in a minute,” he said, gently shutting the door on her.

She wanted to go with them to the station, but Oliver thought it was best that it was just him. He was in full lawyer mode now. Elaine Otto would be meeting him there. Celia grew even more alarmed when she heard this, but Oliver assured her it was just out of an abundance of caution.

“I can’t wait to get to the part of this where I don’t need to keep being reassured,” she said.

She spent the next two hours pacing the house. She checked online. Nobody was talking about new developments, certainly nothing that could damage her boy. All speculation remained about Christopher, mostly from bigots who had no idea what they were talking about. Suddenly everybody was an expert on the Mahouns, who were quickly morphing from sophisticated French Catholics into Arab fanatics stitching together suicide vests in their Smith Street basement.

She’d given the landscapers the day off, although now she wished they were out there making noise. She felt very alone and a little panicky. Something wasn’t right. The involvement of the head of Oliver’s criminal defense department was not a good sign. Celia couldn’t stop thinking about Jack’s distress yesterday morning, before the girl’s body had been discovered. Last night, in her rush to stop thinking the worst, she’d convinced herself it was nothing. Now, however, it was hard not to believe he’d known something had happened long before the police forced open the Bondurants’ door.

As if sensing her concern, her older sons called, one after the other. Scotty from Dartmouth and Drew from his office in New York. That made her feel better. She filled them in on the most recent developments, although they already seemed fully briefed. Emerson was a small town with a long reach. People ventured far from here, but they stayed connected. Neither boy was very concerned. Dad was on it. Things tended not to go wrong when he was involved.

There were more calls after that, friends and acquaintances eager for gossip. She tried Alice—they still hadn’t connected after she’d fled the police station last night—but she didn’t respond. Which wasn’t surprising, given the fact that she and Geoff were dealing with the same thing as the Parrishes. She’d swing by later. It would be good to speak with her. Her voice had a way of soothing Celia.