The Boy from the Woods(71)

Wilde nodded. “She lives in Canada or something.”

“Right.”

“You thought Naomi was making it up.”

“Or imagining it, whatever. Yeah, at first.”

“And then?”

“Then after I pushed a little, she told me that the boy was Crash Maynard. She said the whole Challenge game was a cover and that Crash got jealous because she went into the woods with Matthew.”

Matthew.

“What did you say to that?” Wilde asked.

“I started wondering whether Crash was setting her up again.”

“Pretending to like her so he could ultimately humiliate her?”

“Yes. Like in Carrie. Or, wait, wasn’t the boy who asked Carrie out in the movie nice? Didn’t he try to defend her but then the bullies poured pig’s blood on her?”

Wilde didn’t remember. “So you think maybe Crash does like her?”

“I don’t know,” Ava said, chewing on her lower lip. “But maybe the simplest answer is the best one—Naomi and Crash are together. Maybe they just want a few days alone. Maybe it isn’t our business.”

Something wasn’t adding up. Or it was adding up too neatly.

“I have to get back,” Ava said.

“Let me walk you to your car.”

They headed out to the parking lot. Ava hit the unlock button. He wanted to open the door for her, but that felt too faux chivalrous. When she got into the driver’s seat, he signaled for her to lower the window for a moment. She did. Wilde leaned against the opening.

“I also talked to Naomi’s dad.”

“And?”

“He said Naomi’s mother was abusive.”

He filled her in on the details of his conversation with Bernard Pine. As Ava listened, her eyes glistened with tears. “Poor Naomi. I knew the relationship hadn’t been good obviously. But that?” Ava shook her head. “I better go.”

“You’ll be okay?”

“Yeah, I’m fine.”

“You want me to stop by your place later?” he asked.

The words just came out. Wilde hadn’t planned them. That wasn’t like him.

Ava looked surprised. She took another swipe at her eyes and turned to him. “When?”

“I don’t know. Tonight maybe. Tomorrow. We can just talk.”

Ava looked out the front windshield rather than at him.

“No pressure,” Wilde added. “I may not be free anyway, what with Crash and Naomi—”

“No, I’d like that.”

Ava reached through the open window and put her hand on his face. He waited. She looked as though she was about to say more, but in the end, she just took her hand away. She put the car in reverse, pulled out, and headed back toward the school.





CHAPTER

TWENTY-EIGHT



So you got Arnie Poplin ready?” Hester asked.

Hester stood facing the computer monitor in the Maynards’ state-of-the-art studio/office. The room was white and steel and looked more like something you’d find in a refurbished Manhattan loft rather than this old estate, but there it was. There were television screens lining the walls. Her producer Allison Grant was on the line.

Rola Naser, someone Hester had known for many years, was setting up the live feed. Hester had always liked Rola, admired her strength under adversity. When Rola and David were teens at the same high school, she’d even hoped that maybe her David would ask her out. She even pushed him a little, surprise, surprise. David never listened, of course, claiming that it would be “weird” because Rola was “like Wilde’s sister.”

What if he had? Would everything have changed? Would David still be alive?

“Okay, he’s connected in now,” Allison said.

Hester shook away the ghosts and leaned toward Rola. “Did you hear that?”

“Got it,” Rola said as she typed.

Hester’s idea was a simple albeit an unreliable one. Saul Strauss had said that his source on the Maynard tapes was Arnie Poplin. Arnie Poplin was, if nothing else, an attention whore. Hester got Allison to track him down with the promise of a “pre-interview” that could lead to a live segment.

Rola said, “You see that monitor on that wall?”

“You mean that gigantic TV?”

“Yes, Hester, the gigantic TV.”

“I see it. I think you could see it from space.”

“Stand over there,” Rola said. “I’m going to patch Arnie Poplin through.”

“Stand where exactly?”

“There’s a spike on the floor.”

And so there was. A spike was what studios or theaters called the mark, usually made with electrical tape, to tell you where to stand or where to place a piece of the set. Hester stood on it.

Rola said, “Ready?”

“As I’ll ever be. Will Arnie be able to see you in the room?”

“No. His camera will be focused on your face only. It’s why I chose that monitor.”

“Great, thanks.” Hester smiled at her. “It’s really good to see you, Rola.”

“And you, Hester. Ready?”

Hester nodded. Rola clicked a few more keys, and the screen came to life. Arnie Poplin’s familiar (though more bloated) face filled the screen, huge and close-up, too close-up—see-his-skin-pores close-up. Hester was tempted to take a step back, but alas, the spike.