The Boy from the Woods(16)
“But you know now.”
“Yes.” Her eyes were suddenly bright with tears. He reached out and took her hands in his. She pulled away. He let her. “Wilde?”
“Yes.”
“You need to find her.”
*
Wilde walked back to the condo parking lot. He drove Laila’s BMW twenty yards to a dumpster. Hester had been correct. Laila was a slob. A beautiful slob. She kept her own self meticulously neat and clean and freshly showered. But her surroundings did not follow suit. The backseat of her BMW had coffee cups and protein bar wrappers.
Wilde put the car in park and emptied it out. He wasn’t a germophobe, but he was glad that she had antibacterial lotion in the glove compartment. He looked back at Ava’s house. Would she call back the big guy with the bigger beard? Doubt it.
He didn’t regret his time with Ava. Not in the slightest. In fact, there had been a strange pang when he first saw her, something akin to…longing? Maybe it was justification or rationalization, but the fact that he couldn’t connect long term didn’t mean he didn’t appreciate new experiences with new people. He never wanted to hurt them, but maybe it was even worse to patronize them or hand them some bullshit line. He settled on being completely truthful, not sugarcoating it, not being too faux protective.
Wilde slept outside. Even on those nights.
It was hard to explain why, so sometimes he would leave a note, sneak back to the woods for a few hours, and then be back by the morning. Wilde couldn’t fall asleep when someone else was with him.
It was that simple.
Outside he dreamt a lot about his mother.
Or maybe it wasn’t his mother. Maybe it was another woman in that house with the red banister. He didn’t know. But in the dream, his mother—call her that for now—was beautiful, with long auburn hair and emerald eyes and the voice of an angel. Was this what his mother really looked like? The image was a bit too perfect, perhaps more delusion than reality. It could be something he just conjured up or had even seen on TV.
Memory makes demands that you often can’t keep. Memory is faulty because it insists on filling in the blanks.
His phone rang. It was Hester.
“Did you talk to Ava O’Brien?” Hester asked.
“Yes.”
“Are you proud of me for not prying about how you know her?”
“You’re the model of discretion.”
“So what did she say?”
Wilde filled her in. When he finished, she said, “That part about Naomi seeming calm. That’s not good.”
“I know,” Wilde said.
When people decide to end their lives, they often exhibit a sense of calm. The decision has been made. A weight, oddly enough, has been lifted.
“Well, I have news,” Hester said. “And it’s not good.”
Wilde waited.
“The mother called me back. She has no idea where Naomi is.”
“So the father lied,” Wilde said.
“Maybe.”
Either way, it wouldn’t hurt for Wilde to pay the dad a visit.
Someone called out to Hester. There was some commotion in the background.
“All okay?” he asked.
“I’m about to go live on air,” Hester said. “Wilde?”
“Yes.”
“We need to do something fast, agreed?”
“It could still be nothing.”
“Is that what your gut is telling you?”
“I don’t listen to my gut,” Wilde said. “I listen to the facts.”
“Bullshit.” Then: “Are the facts worried about this girl?”
“This girl,” he agreed. “And Matthew.”
There was more commotion.
“Gotta go, Wilde. We’ll talk soon.”
She hung up.
*
Hester sat at the news desk on a leather-backed stool, set a tad too high for her. Her toes barely touched the floor. The teleprompter was lined up and ready to roll. Lori, the on-duty hairstylist, was working some final touches, which involved two-finger plucking, while Bryan, the makeup artist, added some last-second concealer. The red countdown clock, which resembled the timer on a TV-drama bomb, indicated that they had under two minutes until air.
Her cohost for tonight played on his phone. Hester closed her eyes for a second, felt the makeup brush stroke her cheek, felt the fingers gently pull her hair into place. It was all oddly soothing.
When her phone vibrated, she opened her eyes with a sigh and shooed Lori and Bryan away. She normally wouldn’t take a call this close to going on air, but the caller ID told her it was her grandson.
“Matthew?”
“Did you find her yet?”
His voice was a desperate hush.
“Why are you whispering? Where are you?”
“At Crash’s house. Did you speak to Naomi’s mother?”
“Yes.”
“What did she say?”
“She doesn’t know where Naomi is.”
Her grandson made a sound that might have been a groan.
“Matthew, what aren’t you telling us?”
“It doesn’t matter.”
“It does.”
His tone turned sullen. “Forget I asked, okay?”