The Boy from the Woods(6)

“Where’s your grandmother?”

“Right here,” he said. “Uh, Nana?”

“Coming!”

Feeling both panicked and like a total idiot, Hester quickly slipped out of the bedroom and into the hallway bathroom. She closed the door, flushed the toilet, and even ran the water to make it look good. Then she headed toward the stairs. Laila was at the bottom, staring up at her.

“Hey,” Hester said.

“Hey.”

Laila was gorgeous. There was no way around it. She dazzled in the fitted gray business suit that hugged where it should, which in her case was everywhere. Her blouse was a vibrant white, especially against the darkness of her skin.

“You okay?” Laila asked.

“Oh, sure.”

Hester made it the rest of the way down the stairs. The two women hugged briefly.

“So what brings you out, Hester?”

Matthew came into the room. “Nana was helping me with a school report.”

“Really? On what?”

“The law,” he said.

Laila made a face. “And you couldn’t ask me?”

“And, uh, also being on TV,” Matthew added clumsily. Not a good liar, Hester thought. Again, like his dad. “Uh, like, no offense, Mom, being a famous lawyer.”

“That a fact?”

Laila turned to Hester. Hester shrugged.

“Okay then,” Laila said.

Hester flashed back to David’s funeral. Laila had stood there, holding little Matthew’s hand. Her eyes were dry. She didn’t cry. Not once that day. Not once in front of Hester or anyone else. Later that night, Hester and Ira took Matthew out for a hamburger at ABG’s in Allendale. Hester had left early and come back. She walked into the backyard, into the opening in the woods where she’d seen David disappear countless times to go see Wilde, and even from there, even at that distance with the night wind howling, she could hear the guttural cries of Laila alone in her bedroom. The cries were so raw, so ripping, so pained that Hester thought that maybe Laila would break in a way no one could ever fix.

Laila had not remarried. If there were other men in the past ten years—and there had to have been many, many offers—she had not told Hester about them.

But now, there was this too-neat house and this long brown hair.

Leave it be, Hester.

Without warning, Hester reached out with both arms and pulled Laila in close.

Surprised, Laila said, “Hester?”

Leave it be.

“I love you,” Hester whispered.

“I love you too.”

Hester squeezed her eyes shut. She couldn’t keep tears back.

“Are you okay?” Laila asked.

Hester gathered herself, took a step back, smoothed her clothes. “I’m fine.” She reached into her purse and grabbed out a tissue. “I just get…”

Laila nodded. Her voice was soft. “I know.”

From over his mother’s shoulder, Hester spotted Matthew shaking his head, reminding her of what she’d promised.

Hester said, “I better go.”

She kissed them both and hurried out the door.

Tim was waiting for her with the door open. He wore a black suit and chauffeur cap to work every day, whatever the weather or season, even though Hester told him he didn’t have to and neither the suit nor the cap ever seemed to fit him right. It could be his bulky frame. It could be that he carried a gun.

As she slid into the backseat, Hester turned for one last look at the house. Matthew stood in the doorway. He looked at her. It hit her yet again: Her grandson was asking for her help.

He had never done that before. He wasn’t telling her the whole story. Not yet. But as she wallowed in her own pity, in her own misery, in this awful hole in her own life, she reminded herself that it was a much bigger and more awful hole for Matthew, growing up without a father, growing up, especially, without that father, without that good and kind man, who had been the best of Hester and even more Ira—Ira, who died of a heart attack, she was convinced, because he could never get over the heartbreak of losing his son in that crash.

Tim slid back into the driver’s seat.

“You heard what Matthew said?” she asked.

“Yes.”

“What do you think?”

Tim shrugged. “He’s hiding something.”

Hester did not reply.

“So back to the city?” Tim asked.

“Not yet,” Hester said. “Let’s stop at the Westville police station first.”





CHAPTER

FOUR



Well, well, well, as I live and breathe. Hester Crimstein in my little station.”

She sat in the office of Westville police chief Oren Carmichael, who, nearing retirement at age seventy, remained what he’d always been—a grade-A prime slice of top-shelf beefcake.

“Nice to see you too, Oren.”

“You look good.”

“So do you.” Gray hair worked so well on men, Hester thought. Damn unfair. “How’s Cheryl?”

“Left me,” he said.

“Seriously?”

“Yep.”

“Cheryl always hit me as dumb.”

“Right?”

“No offense.”