Chapter 15 Above
Above
I slink out of my office, muttering an excuse about a lunchtime appointment, promising I’ll be back in an hour.
Franklin is divided into distinct rings—-the smaller houses near downtown, like mine, built on the flat valley floor, and then houses getting larger the farther out you get, where developers had to tuck them in among woods and hills.
The Vales live to the northwest, in a pocket of smaller houses on wooded lots, most of them a bit run-down.
I park on the street. The lawn of the Vales’ house is untrimmed, weeds outpacing the grass and the bushes encroaching on the walkway.
The doorbell doesn’t work when I press it, so I knock briskly, wait, knock again.
There’s no answer. My hand strays toward the knob, but I stop myself. What am I thinking?
A clunk sounds from behind the house. I give a guilty jump and then square my shoulders.
I walk around the side of the house, and there, emerging from a small, rotting shed, is a man who must be Meghan Vale’s father.
He’s short but stocky, with red--blond hair mashed against his scalp like he’s been wearing a hat.
A thick sweater the color of oatmeal gives him more bulk, the sleeves shoved up above his elbows.
“Hello?” I say, more tentative than I’d like. He looks up from the old gas mower he’s examining. His hands are dark with grease.
“Who are you?” he asks.
“My name is Audrey Dixon,” I say, picking my way past the weeds. I stop a good fifteen feet back, not wanting to encroach too far. “I’m a counselor at Franklin High School. I was hoping to talk to you about your daughter.”
“Meghan? What about her?” he asks, brow drawn down and eyes dark with suspicion.
What am I supposed to say? I’m not supposed to be here at all. “I’ve been thinking about her, that’s all,” I say. At least it’s true. He doesn’t reply, and the silence hangs awkwardly. “Is the investigation still active?”
“Don’t know that there was ever much of an investigation in the first place,” he says.
“I’m sorry. They should—-that isn’t right,” I say.
“Isn’t it?” he asks. He reaches into his pocket and pulls out a rag. He rubs grease from his palms methodically, not looking at me.
“They should be looking for her,” I say.
He grunts. “I’ve never gotten far trying to get in that girl’s way,” he says.
“You don’t want her back?” Maybe I shouldn’t be surprised, but I am.
“If she doesn’t want to be here, why should I bother?” he asks, an undercurrent of anger in the words.
I shift uncomfortably. I don’t know what I thought this conversation would be like, but this isn’t it. “I wondered,” I begin. I stop and clear my throat, all too aware of how inappropriate this is. Len would be furious. I plow ahead. “Do you think I could look in her room?”
“Why? ” He squints at me. I grope for an answer to the question, but he only grunts again. “You know what? Sure. Knock yourself out.”
He strides abruptly forward, and I shy back before I realize he’s angling for the back door. I follow at a distance, uncertain, as he throws the sliding glass door open and waves me toward it.
“Up the stairs. First door on your right. Don’t go nosing around anything else,” he says, and turns away, his interest in me apparently at an end.
I mumble a thank--you and scurry in. I hesitate a moment, wondering if I should take off my shoes, but the way the carpet crunches under my steps, I’m guessing it doesn’t matter much.
I head up. There are a few crooked pictures on the walls.
A camping trip, a wedding photo—-a much younger Mr. Vale looking somewhat stricken next to a woman with platinum blond hair done up in extravagant curls.
At the top of the stairs is a photo of the same woman, sans updo, cradling a baby who can only be Meghan.
There are no other photos of the mother, and in the most recent of Meghan, she looks about eight.
Her bedroom door is closed. A sign is taped to it, reading knock first or better yet go away.
I can’t help but smile a little. There were days I wanted a sign like that.
But while my parents and I never got along, exactly—-too different, too opaque to each other—-they were always concerned and involved.
Supportive of me even when they didn’t get me.
The door is cheap hollow--core. Down near the bottom, it’s cracked and caved in.
Right about boot height. My imagination summons slammed doors, shouting.
My parents disciplined us through long, disappointed lectures, but I remember being at Janie’s house, and Len’s later, and the soundtrack of bellowed words and stomping feet.
I always felt like I had no right to be anything but happy, when my home was so peaceful in comparison.
There wasn’t anything wrong with my home life, just with me.
It makes me feel like even more of an intruder, passing into her room. It makes me feel like a fraud all too often, trying to convince my students that I understand what they’re going through, when I really can’t at all.
The room, though, reminds me a little of mine.
I was never much for decorating. A few half--hearted objects planted on top of my dresser, but no posters on the wall, no color scheme, no character.
Meghan’s room is similarly plain. A bed with blue sheets, a dresser on which rests a single pink chunk of quartz and little figurine of a waving cat, and a desk.
Her algebra textbook lies open next to a spiral--bound notebook.
I flip through quickly, but there’s nothing but numbers and formulas.
It doesn’t look like math was her strong suit. Another thing we have in common.
No diary. If it had been out in the open, surely the police would have taken it—-surely they would have done that much. Len didn’t mention one, so I’m assuming—-hoping, maybe—-they didn’t find one.
I open her dresser drawers, rooting through. Her clothing is stuffed inside with only half--hearted attempts at folding. I find a thin, crumpled joint in a sandwich bag but nothing else of interest. Her desk drawers produce pens and a half--finished bag of Skittles.
On the wall above her desk, she’s taped a handful of photographs.
Photos of her feet, standing in various places—-the rocky shore of a stream, a road, somewhere woodsy.
I spot the photo of the beads, and near it one she didn’t post to her Instagram—-the handprint in the woods.
Still no indication of whether she found it or made it herself.
I flip the photos up to check the backs, in case she wrote on them, but no dice.
Diary. Where would she hide her diary? I was never much for hiding things.
My life was too dull to have secrets I needed to keep.
But I’ve seen enough movies to know the greatest hits.
The floor here is carpet, so no loose floorboards to pry up.
The vent proves empty, and I don’t find anything tucked in the back of her closet.
There’s so little in here, it’s not like there are many places to hide. Just the bed and the desk.
The bed it is, then. I glance over my shoulder, reassuring myself that I’m alone.
At that moment, the lawn mower gutters briefly to life, and I relax.
I’m not about to have company. I drop to my knees and then lie along the ground, peering under the bed.
Dust bunnies, socks, and a discarded hoodie greet me.
And there, tucked up between the mattress and the bed slats—-a book.
I prize it out and sit up, sniffing at the influx of dust. It’s just like Ethan described—-a small diary with a purple cover and a latch holding it shut. I almost open it on the spot, but then I realize the lawn mower has gone silent. Footsteps sound, coming near the stairs.
I shove the diary into my bag and get to my feet quickly. As Mr. Vale’s footsteps approach, I grab the textbook from the desk. He appears half a second later. He stands a moment, silent, examining me. I stare back at him, my heartbeat thudding in my throat. I feel like a thief. I suppose I am one.
“So,” he says. “Did you find what you were looking for?”
I lift the textbook. “I can take this back to the school, if you’d like, and spare you the trip.”
“More like the bill,” he says. I dip my head in a quick nod.
“Do you mind if I take a couple of these photos?” I ask, pointing to the wall.
“I’ve got no use for them.” He leans against the door as I pluck the two photos of the forest from among the others. I tuck them inside the textbook and turn to go, but he’s still there, blocking the doorframe.
“I should go,” I say.
His eyes are dark and hard. “Runs in the blood, you know,” he says. “Leaving. Her mother left, too. Didn’t care about anything except herself. Meghan’s the same. Doesn’t care how much I gave up for her. How hard it was, being on my own.”
“I’m sorry.”
“No, you’re not.” There’s a sneer in his voice.
“I should really go.”
“Then go,” he says. He doesn’t move. There’s a bit of space next to him.
I inch toward it. He shifts at last, opening a gap.
I start through—-and he grabs my arm. Not hard enough to hurt, but I freeze.
“Why are you really here?” he asks. His breath smells stale, and sweat stink clings to his clothes, along with the tang of motor oil.
“Please,” I whisper. He narrows his eyes at me and then grunts contemptuously and lets me go.
I want to run, but I force myself to walk briskly past, trying not to feel his gaze on the back of my neck.
I clatter down the stairs and out the door, and by the time I reach my car, I almost am running, my pulse quick as a rabbit’s.
I sling myself into the car and throw my purse on the seat next to me. Only when the doors are locked and the engine started does the welling panic start to subside.
“He didn’t do anything to you,” I scold myself, trying to calm my breathing. I glance over. The purple corner of the diary sticks out of my purse.
But did he do something to her?
I pull away from the curb. I watch in my rearview mirror all the way down the street, but Mr. Vale does not emerge again.