Reputation(90)

I swallow hard. Plunge my hands into my cardigan pockets and locate my phone. I need to run this by someone. I scroll through my calls and find the number. It rings a few times, and when he picks up, he sounds disoriented. Which—obviously. He was sleeping. It’s the dead of night.

“Please come,” I tell him, my voice cracked and dry. “There’s something we need to talk about.”





38





WILLA


SATURDAY, MAY 6, 2017


I snap awake and look around confusedly. It takes me a moment to realize I dozed off on my parents’ couch in the back room—I’d wanted to wait up for Kit when she came home to ask where she really was tonight, but I guess my sleepless nights got the best of me. I sit up and rub my eyes. My heart is still banging in my chest. Something woke me. A sound? Kit?

A car engine growls outside. Frowning, I hurry to the front window. Headlights glow on the circle. Kit drifts, sylphlike in a white cardigan, toward an open door of a white SUV. There’s a nervous, conflicted look on her face, almost like she isn’t sure she wants to get in. The car chugs. It’s too dark to see the driver. After a beat, Kit seems to gather her courage and climbs into the seat. The car door slams, and the car peels away noisily, tires screeching.

“Kit!” I cry out uselessly. But there was something so unsettling about the way the car just left the house. It was almost like a . . . getaway. Worry spirals through my gut. I know someone with a white SUV: I saw him, his wife, and her baby climb from it the day of Greg’s funeral. Ollie Apatrea. The cop. The murderer? Is that his car she just climbed inside?

“Oh my God,” I whisper, my hand flying to my mouth. Is this because of the call I made to their house earlier? Does Ollie know we know? What on earth did he say to Kit to tell her to get into the car willingly? I curse my choice not to text Kit with my hunch about Ollie. News that your dead husband had a child with another woman seemed like a callous thing to find out through text, but maybe I shouldn’t have waited. Clearly, Kit trusts Ollie enough to get in the car with him. But she’s dead wrong.

I rush down the path, but there’s no way I’ll catch the car; even before I reach the curb, it’s already turned off the street. I scramble back into the house, snapping on lights in the kitchen, wondering what to do. I can’t let them get far. I grab the VW keys from the table and hurry to the garage. The engine springs to life, and I’m backing out of the driveway and turning in the same direction the vehicle went—toward the college. If I drive quickly, I can hopefully catch the SUV. Where could it be going?

With one hand, I stab at the green phone button on my screen and dial Kit’s number, putting the call on speaker. But it rings and rings, then goes to voice mail. I press END, then do it again. Voice mail. My stomach swoops with worry and dread. Do I call a third time, or is this making the matter worse? If Ollie is the driver—and if Ollie is the murderer—he might hurt Kit faster if he’s aware someone knows she’s missing.

Far ahead, two taillights blaze at a stop sign. It’s them. I ease up on the gas now that I’ve got them in my sights—and then it hits me. What am I doing? Am I really going to do whatever this is, alone? As much as I want to handle this all on my own, maybe I’m being foolish.

My eyes are still on the car—and my sister’s shadowy figure in the passenger seat. I feel around for my phone in my cardigan pocket. Glancing from screen to road and then back to screen again, I click on the window I need, and then the phone number. The time between rings feels like an eternity. I hold in a breath, praying that he answers.

“Hello? Willa?” And here’s Paul’s groggy voice, full of concern and confusion. “I-Is everything okay?”

I swallow hard. “No. I need your help.”





39





KIT


SATURDAY, MAY 6, 2017


For a few minutes of the drive, I don’t speak. My heart is thumping with doubt. It’s like there’s a Ping-Pong match going on inside my head: One minute, I worry I killed my husband. The next, I’m certain I never could have done such a thing. Does even suggesting my guilt open doors I should keep shut? Maybe I should keep quiet?

Except that phone call. Someone’s trying to get to me. I need someone on my side.

So I look to my left to the man I’ve dragged out of bed at this time of night. Patrick. “Thanks for coming,” I say shakily.

He gives me a sidelong look but says nothing. It makes me uneasy. I climbed into Patrick’s waiting SUV because I thought he’d be full of concern and sympathy and comforting words with what I’m going through, but the vibe in the car is the opposite of that. Also strange: He hasn’t asked me yet what I want to talk about. Is it possible he knows already? Is it possible the person on the other end of the line called him, too?

I eye Patrick cautiously. His eyes are vibrating. His hair is mussed. He looks like he’s been electrocuted. I clear my throat. “So, um, were you awake anyway, when I called?”

Patrick speeds through a traffic light without answering. Blue Hill is eerie this time of night, and Patrick’s white SUV, when reflected in the shop windows, looks like a drifting ghost. At the main intersection before the college, he reaches over and gives me a small nod of recognition. “Actually, yes,” he finally says. “It’s been a weird night.”