Chapter 42
42
NOW
After looking up where the new high school is being built, Aimee drives in that direction. It isn’t hard to find, a monstrosity of cement and glass jutting into the sky from the flat of the surrounding fields. She slows down as she passes a hand-painted sign that reads:
PUMPKINS
HOMEMADE PIES
2 MILES AHEAD
“So, if the cement truck was blocking the road on the way to the coffee shop,” Gwen says, “then Cathy must live on the other side of the school.”
Aimee stares down the country road that dips and rises in the distance. “That’s a lot of territory.”
“Well, let’s go slowly and maybe we’ll see something.”
Just past the school is a dense copse of trees, and then a clearing. Finally they come across a modest one-story house with a beat-up truck on the grass in front, but no Subaru.
“Should we knock on the door?” Gwen asks.
“No,” Aimee says, pulling onto a dirt road to make a U-turn. “She wouldn’t complain about the construction noise from this far away.”
As she heads back toward the high school, Gwen grabs her arm.
“Wait, is that a road?” Gwen points to the right. Aimee hits the brakes, and sure enough, there is an unmarked road, its entrance almost hidden by the woods they passed earlier.
“We must have driven right by it.”
Aimee directs the truck onto the bumpy dirt road, and after a while the trees are replaced by more farmland. A house appears, a one-story vinyl-sided rambler with a leaning carport. Aimee edges the truck up to the beginning of the asphalt driveway. “Look, there’s a Subaru, under the carport. I think it’s Cathy’s.”
“Maybe now’s a good time to call the police,” Gwen says.
“And say what? We found a Subaru?” She starts to get out. “No, I have to go in and see if it belongs to Cathy for myself.”
Gwen unbuckles her seatbelt. “Then I’m coming, too.”
“No, stay here. If you don’t see me in fifteen minutes, text me, and if I don’t respond, call the police.”
“Ten,” Gwen says, opening up her phone and starting the timer. “I’ll give you ten minutes.”
“Fine. But text first. Don’t call the police unless I don’t text back, promise?”
“I guess.”
“Promise me, Gwen.”
“Fine. I promise.”
Aimee gets out and trudges up the driveway. In the tumultuous days since Scott’s disappearance, she thought she had felt every single emotion there was to feel—anger, betrayal, grief, loss, vulnerability, despair. But this is a new one.
Fear.
A faded wood sign hangs next to the door proclaiming Home Sweet Home . The house has seen better days. Green algae grows thick on the house’s siding, spreading upward from the concrete base. On the window to the right of the door a loose screen hangs on as if by its fingernails. A strong wind would send it flying, Aimee thinks. She knocks on the door and waits. From inside comes a shuffling sound and her whole body tenses, readying.
The door opens. A woman stands on the other side of the screen door. “Hi, Aimee,” she says.
It takes a second to register that it’s Cathy. The woman before her is much younger and fitter-looking than the Cathy she knows. Gone are the filmy Eileen Fisher clothes, the tight bun, the chunky glasses. This Cathy wears tight-fitting blue jeans, a flannel shirt, and boots, and her hair is braided loosely, hanging over one shoulder.
No one would mistake her for a librarian. She looks like what her dad would call a tough broad . “You don’t seem surprised to see me,” Aimee says, barely able to get the words out. Her bravado masks her nerves. Her heart is beating so hard she can feel it in her belly.
“I’m not, really. I was wondering if you’d track me down. Come in, please.” She steps back, inviting Aimee inside. “You must have a lot of questions for me.”
Aimee stands there a moment, looks over her shoulder to her truck. A part of her wants to walk back, climb in, call the police, and sit there to wait with Gwen. But mostly she’s dying to get inside and confront Cathy. She has so many questions. She follows Cathy through a cramped living room to a small kitchen that overlooks an empty field in the back. The house feels heavy and dark. Even the big windows in the kitchen are no match for the depressing, dark-wood cabinets and mustard-yellow linoleum counters.
“So, this is where you really live?” Aimee pauses at the entrance, unsure if she wants to go any further.
“It’s where I’ve been staying, but I’ll be hitting the road soon.” Cathy puts a kettle on the stove. “It’s an Airbnb, but if you ask me, I’m being ripped off. The water pressure’s lousy and it’s drafty as hell. I’m going to make some tea. Would you like some?”
“Where’s Scott?”
Cathy ignores this question. “What about your friend? The one in the truck? Would she like to come in and have some tea?” She picks up an aluminum tea kettle and takes it to the sink.
Aimee tries to hide her surprise. Had Cathy been watching from the window? “I think she’s fine. Now, where is my husband? What did you do with him?”
Cathy smiles. “Are you here to rescue him, Aimee? That’s very brave of you. You must love him very much.”
“I do. I want to see him.” Aimee senses that beneath Cathy’s friendly words lies an undercurrent of threat. Whatever fury Aimee feels toward Scott for keeping her in the dark, there is something that stopped it from consuming her. Love. She loves Scott, and he loves her. Whatever lies he told her, she knows that wasn’t one of them. He gave her Noa and Benji and Max. He gave her fourteen wonderful years. “I do love him. That’s why I am here.”
Cathy puts the full kettle on the stove. Click, click, click —she ignites the burner and a blue flame whooshes up, which she lowers. Cathy turns around. “Have a seat, Aimee. Then text your friend to come inside. Tell her everything is fine.”
Aimee scoffs. “Why would I do that? You still haven’t told me where Scott is. I could just call the police right now.”
“And tell them what? You can call the police, but I haven’t done anything illegal. As for Scott, he’s not here. But he’s fine.” Cathy crosses her arms over her chest. “Now, if you want the answers you came here for, text your friend and tell her to come inside.”
“Fine.” Aimee picks up her phone.
“Not so fast,” Cathy says, walking over. “Let me see what it is you’re writing.” She stands over Aimee’s shoulder as she types. Once she’s sent the message, Cathy takes the phone.
“I’ll keep this for now.” Cathy drops it in a wicker basket next to a wood-paneled microwave. “You can have it back when you leave.”
A few moments later there’s a knock on the door. “Tell her to come in,” Cathy says.
“Come in,” Aimee calls. “We’re back here.”
Gwen comes through the door and stops short when she sees the look on Aimee’s face. “Is everything okay?”
Aimee nods, feeling guilty for dragging Gwen into this. But the desire to hear Cathy out overpowers everything right now.
“Put your phone over there.” Cathy nods toward the basket.
Gwen looks to Aimee.
“Do you want to know where Scott is?” Cathy asks.
“Just do it,” Aimee tells Gwen. “Please.”
Gwen does as she’s asked and takes a seat next to Aimee, just as the kettle begins to screech.
“Tea, anyone?” Cathy asks, pulling a mug down from the cupboard.
“Just tell me where Scott is,” Aimee says.
“I can’t get used to calling him Scott. Michael’s his real name, but he’s fine. He’s running an errand. He should be back soon, and you’ll be able to see for yourself.”
“I don’t believe you. I don’t believe he’s fine,” Aimee says. “If he were fine, he would have gotten in touch with me. He wouldn’t let me worry like this.” She fights the urge to jump up and attack Cathy, to pin her down, pull out her gardening knife and press it against the woman’s throat, get the truth out of her.
“You’re a sweet girl.” Cathy turns, holding the mug. “And you’re a good mother. But if you really love him, if you really care about your children, you need to let him go. Forget about him.”
“Why, so you can kill him?”
Cathy laughs sharply. “Kill him? Now why would I want to kill my own son?”