Chapter 12 Susan
Chapter 12
Susan
She could hear them talking downstairs, their voices somber and muffled, trying not to disturb her. On her dresser was the lunch tray that Elizabeth had brought up hours earlier, still untouched. A chicken sandwich and a bowl of tomato soup, neither of which she could stomach. Certainly not the soup, so bright red, like blood. She heard someone knocking on the door downstairs, and then a new voice joined the others. Arthur Fox. Oh God, more people in the house. She knew they were all trying to be supportive, trying to ease her pain, but their efforts only irritated her. Their sideways, pitying looks. Their repeated attempts to feed her, ply her with repetitive cups of tea. She didn’t want tea; she wanted her daughter. She wanted to smell Zoe’s hair, hear her laugh, feel that silky cheek against hers.
“Horrible business,” she heard Arthur say downstairs, before his voice dropped back to a murmur. Arthur had assumed command over the situation, as if it was his usual place in any pyramid. He’d called friends he knew in the Maine State Police and asked about Jo Thibodeau and whether she was up to the task. He’d inquired about access to tracker dogs. Dogs trained to find the living, not the dead, he’d assured her, although she knew dogs were used for both purposes. No one had mentioned cadaver dogs, not to Susan. They wouldn’t dare.
She thought about their first night here at Moonview, how Zoe had come out of the shower with her skin flushed and sweet smelling and had curled up beside Susan in bed. A good night cuddle, the kind they used to have when Zoe was eight years old and they were still raw with grief over Matthew’s death. That first day here, with the Conover family and their neighbors, had felt overwhelming, and both Susan and Zoe wanted the quiet comfort of a familiar embrace. Now, sitting on the bed and hugging only herself, she could still feel Zoe in her arms.
You must be alive. I’d feel it if you weren’t. Wouldn’t I?
There was a soft rap on the door. She looked up to see Brooke standing in the doorway. “Susan? Is it okay to come in?”
Susan nodded. Sat up straighter.
“I wanted to show you the poster design, to make sure it’s okay with you before we print them. Ethan thinks they look fine, but I thought you should take a look too.” Brooke held out a sheet of paper.
Susan stared at a photo of Zoe smiling from the page.
Missing
Zoe Hellman Conover, age 15, Brown hair, brown eyes, 5 feet, 3 inches, 105 pounds
Last seen June 21 in Purity, Maine
“A reward,” said Susan. “There should be a reward.”
“That’s what Kit thinks, too, but Elizabeth says any decent person would respond, reward or not. And Colin said we’d then have to decide how big a reward, and it would all just delay getting these printed.”
Of course Colin the money man would be the one to focus on numbers and logistics. Her brother-in-law was all about efficiency.
“We think we should print maybe fifty to start,” said Brooke. “We’ll fan out tomorrow and post them all over town.”
“And up and down the coast too?”
“Of course.” Brooke sighed. “I wish there was something more I could do, besides putting up posters. I can’t imagine how I’d feel if Kit went missing. How I’d be able to cope.” She sat down on the bed next to Susan. “God, it all seems pointless now. This stupid ceremony.”
“What?”
“George’s memorial service. It’s still set for Thursday, as if it matters. But all these people are planning to come, and Elizabeth says it’s too late to call it off.”
Susan had completely forgotten about her father-in-law’s memorial service. That was the reason they’d all come to Maine in the first place, to honor George Conover’s wish to have his ashes scattered here. If not for George, they’d be safely home in Boston. It’s his fault this has happened, she thought, although she knew it was unreasonable to blame a dead man.
“You don’t have to go to the service,” said Brooke. “We’d understand if you choose not to.”
“I can’t go. I need to stay here, in case the police ...”
“Of course. Do you want me to stay here with you?”
“You don’t have to.”
“Because I wouldn’t mind, not at all. I’m not really that keen to go anyway. I mean, I liked George well enough. He was always kind to me, but he was a hard man to really get close to. Twenty years in this family, and I’m still trying to figure them out.” She gave Susan’s hand a sympathetic squeeze. “I’m sorry we haven’t had the chance to spend much time together, with you and Ethan in Boston and our family in Manhattan. I was hoping these two weeks would be that chance. And Colin was really looking forward to spending time with Ethan. But now ...” Brooke sighed.
“Colin was looking forward to it?”
“Of course. He hardly gets a chance to see Ethan. And they had so many happy times on this pond.”
That was not the way Ethan had described their boyhood summers here. How different the past looked through another pair of eyes. Could Colin really be that blind to all the ways he’d tormented his younger brother? But then, Susan had to admit she had her own blind spots. When she’d first met Brooke, with her designer dresses and her Upper West Side address, she’d seen a woman who had everything. Now she noticed the cracks in that flawless facade: The brusque and arrogant husband. The pathologically shy son. No one’s life was perfect, and Brooke, for all her earlier aloofness, really was trying to be a friend.
“Thank you,” Susan said. “For the posters. For everything.”
“I’m happy to do it.” Brooke stood up. “I’ll go call the print shop. First thing in the morning, we’ll start putting up these posters.”
She heard Brooke descend the stairs, heard Arthur’s voice rumbling above the others, something about the state police. She couldn’t hide in this bedroom forever, but there were too many people in the house right now, and she couldn’t face them, couldn’t bear the looks they gave her, their murmurs of sympathy, however sincere. She couldn’t even bear the proximity of her own husband. As much as Ethan might care about Zoe, he’d been her stepfather for only two years; he couldn’t possibly know the pain Susan was going through.
She rose from the bed and opened the door, and the voices downstairs became clearer. Colin, asking if he should pick up pizzas for dinner. Elizabeth responding yes, since no one had the energy to cook tonight. For them, life went on. Her daughter was missing, and these people were discussing their next meal. She left her bedroom, stepped into Zoe’s room, and closed the door behind her, shutting out the voices and their trivial conversation. Sinking onto the bed, she took a deep breath. Inhaled the same air that Zoe had breathed. Beside her on the bed was a laundry basket with freshly washed towels and clothes that had not been here this morning. Brooke must have taken them out of the dryer and brought them upstairs. On top was Zoe’s T-shirt, the one she’d worn on the drive to Maine. She took it out of the basket and pressed it to her face, but it smelled only of laundry soap, not her daughter. Just anonymous cotton, with no trace of Zoe’s scent. She set it back in the basket and suddenly glimpsed a sliver of red peeking out from beneath the mound of laundry. A shade of red that was alarmingly familiar. She dug into the pile and pulled out a red-and-pink dress with puff sleeves, gauzy and almost see-through from too many washings. She stared at it, remembering what Ethan had said when Jo Thibodeau asked what Zoe was wearing the last time he saw her.
A dress. Something red and pink, I think.
This made no sense. If Zoe had been wearing this dress when she was abducted, why was it here in the laundry basket, freshly washed? She thought back to the afternoon when she’d returned from Bar Harbor with Hannah. Remembered that the dryer had been rumbling when she walked into the house, a detail that suddenly seemed important. If Zoe had taken off this dress and added it to the dirty laundry, what had she changed into next? What had she been wearing when she vanished?
She jumped up, went to Zoe’s open suitcase, and began pulling out clothing. Out came underwear and bras, T-shirts and shorts and jeans. Zoe’s swimsuit wasn’t in the suitcase. She thought of the last time she’d seen Zoe wearing it, swimming with that local girl. Splashing, laughing. And then what? Zoe would have hung up the swimsuit to dry.
Susan ran to the bathroom and glanced at the shower rod, the towel racks. The bathing suit wasn’t there.
She ran downstairs, ignoring the alarmed looks from Elizabeth and Arthur, and darted straight to the laundry room. In the washing machine were damp towels and two of Kit’s dirty T-shirts, but she did not see Zoe’s purple bathing suit. She remembered the day they’d bought it. Remembered that Zoe insisted it had to be a chlorine-resistant Speedo, because she spent so many hours training in the pool. And her goggles—where were Zoe’s swim goggles?
“Susan?” said Ethan, frowning at her from the doorway.
She sagged backward, against the dryer. No, this wasn’t possible. Her daughter was too good a swimmer. She could hold her breath for two and a half minutes, could free dive deeper than any of her classmates. She was practically a mermaid. How could she ...
“What’s going on?” said Ethan.
“The pond.” Susan pressed her hand to her mouth, but the sob spilled out anyway. “They have to search the pond.”