Chapter Thirty-Seven. Riley, Present Day
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
RILEY, PRESENT DAY
Sandra calls back within the hour, and after I hand my cell phone to Betty, I go to my bedroom to give them privacy. When Betty ends the conversation, she wheels to my doorway and returns my phone.
“Sandra wants to see me, too,” Betty says, her cheeks damp from tears. “She wants to hear all about Ivy. She never had the chance to know her mother.”
“Would you like to go visit her?” I ask.
Betty hesitates. “She said if it’s easier for me, she can come here. Let me think about it a bit.”
We head to the kitchen and Betty makes tea, then we chat more about Sandra. Betty also asks me to recount my trip again, this time from start to finish.
“Sometimes the tiniest detail lodges into our minds for a reason. It’s a clue to something much bigger,” she says. “Don’t doubt your intuition.”
“I’m not sure I have any,” I half joke.
Betty’s eyes meet mine over the rim of her china cup. “Remember the first time you came here? Just before you knocked on my door?”
“Sure,” I say. “It wasn’t that long ago.”
“What in particular do you recall about it?”
I frown, thinking back. “It was nice out. Not too sunny…”
She shakes her head. “Just before you knocked, you did something.”
“I’m not sure what you’re talking about,” I confess.
“You turned and looked behind you. I saw you from the dining room window.”
“Oh.” I’m a bit taken aback. “I didn’t realize you were watching me arrive.”
“I wasn’t the only one,” Betty informs me. “My nosy neighbor, the one with the dog? She was peering over her fence, staring at you. You sensed her gaze even from a distance. That’s why you turned around. You’re highly perceptive, Riley. I confirmed it within moments of meeting you.”
Despite the warmth of the delicate teacup in my hands, I feel a chill run through me.
“You’re holding another clue,” she tells me.
This I remember: She knew I wanted tea that day, not coffee.
“How did you know?” I feel myself leaning back, away from her. I’m a little creeped out.
“It could have been a slight change in your expression when I suggested tea versus coffee. Or something in your body language that indicated your preference. Or perhaps the human mind is more mysterious and complex than you’re willing to acknowledge.”
“Is that why you hired me?”
“Because you prefer tea? No.” She smiles. “But there’s a time for logic and a time for trust. I’ve learned how important it is to understand the distinction.”
I skirt away from the topic, feeling uncomfortable. A bit exposed, even. I’m still debriefing Betty on my trip when my cell phone buzzes with a text.
My eyes widen as I read it.
“What is it?” Betty asks.
I read her the message: “‘I have the information you’re looking for. Meet me at noon tomorrow at the Starbucks on Pine Street.’”
“Who is it from?” Betty asks.
“I don’t know.” I tap my screen to dial the number. An automated voice tells me the number I’m trying to reach is unavailable.
“They must have blocked me right after sending the text.”
A gentle rattling sound draws my attention to Betty’s hands. They’re trembling as she places her teacup on her saucer.
“It’s got to be the professor. Josh Woods. I left him a phone message telling him I knew what he did to Alex and what he took from the library. He could’ve gotten a burner phone. I guess I’ll find out tomorrow.”
“I think I’ll go with you, dear,” Betty says. Then she looks toward the door, as if anticipating our trip. Apprehension sweeps across her face.
There’s a wooden ramp leading from the porch to the front walk, so she clearly has had access to the outside. Still, something makes me ask, “Betty, when was the last time you left the house?”
“Oh, a long time.”
“What about going to see a doctor?” I ask.
“Douglas found one who came to me. Same with a dentist,” she says.
“So, a year?” I guess.
She looks up at the ceiling, as if calculating the time. Finally, she says, “Sixteen years.”
The next day, we pull up to the coffee shop half an hour early.
It doesn’t take long to unfold Betty’s wheelchair and help her into it.
Betty’s head keeps swiveling toward objects that must seem alien to her—an angular modern car; a girl’s belly ring glinting below the hem of her crop top; a man talking into AirPods as he types on an iPad.
Sixteen years ago, she wouldn’t have encountered things like Ubers, the facial masks used to prevent the spread of COVID-19, or smartwatches.
Fashion and architectural trends have changed countless times. Everything must be a wonder to her.
I find an accessible table, then order a couple of blueberry muffins and two bottles of water. I sit facing the front door so I can see everyone who walks through. There’s nothing left to do but wait.
“What does Professor Woods look like?” Betty asks.
“He’s handsome. Not that tall, but athletic. He has dark hair and a beard.”
“I suppose it’s natural for girls to get crushes on their professors,” Betty tells me. “My husband had a few admirers, too. After all, a handsome man with a steady job is a real catch.”
I just nod. Her point of view is understandable given her circumstances, but sometimes it’s hard to relate to her.
By 12:15, the door has opened a dozen times.
A frazzled mother with a red-faced toddler, a few teenaged girls including one with bright pink hair that Betty stares at as her jaw drops, and several businesspeople have come and gone.
Our muffins are gone, and I can tell Betty is tired.
This must be a staggering amount of stimulation for her.
By 12:45, I finally call it. “I don’t think he’s coming.”
Betty nods. “I agree.”
Once she’s settled in my car, she begins to doze almost immediately. Maybe this will be the end of it, I think. Betty finally has answers about her friends. If Josh has the files, he must’ve lost his nerve. We’ve done all we can.
When we reach the house, I wake Betty and help her inside, then I spend the rest of the afternoon performing the job for which I was hired.
I chat with Betty while I empty the dishwasher and prep dinner, then we listen to records together in the living room.
She’s listless, clearly wiped out from our excursion.
She’s wheeling herself toward the bathroom when she makes a sharp, surprised sound.
“Riley? Did you try to enter this room?”
I step into the hallway and glance at the door to the locked room. Then I move closer.
The doorknob is broken; it looks like someone knocked it off before jerry-rigging it back into place.
Betty pushes open the door and flicks on the overhead light. It must have been her husband’s old study—I see a big wooden desk with a chair, more bookshelves filled with old hardcover volumes, and a large cardboard box in the corner. Betty heads directly for the box and peers inside.
“Betty, we need to call the police!” My heart is pounding. What if Betty hadn’t come with me to the coffee shop? She would have been alone with the intruder.
I dial 911 and give the dispatcher Betty’s address. Meanwhile, Betty is wheeling back into the living room.
“They’re sending someone,” I tell Betty. “Was there anything valuable in the box?”
“It’s empty. It used to hold Douglas’s papers from Marquis. Do me a favor, dear, and hand me that atlas.” She points to one on the bookshelves.
I’m bewildered by her lack of concern over the theft, but I do as she asks. I brace myself for the weight of the large hardcover book, but it’s surprisingly light.
I hand it to Betty and she opens it.
Inside are several items, including a man’s wedding ring—it must have belonged to Douglas—and a thick stack of papers covered in typewritten notes and scribbles.
“The box used to hold Douglas’s papers, as I said. I moved them to a safer place the day you moved in.”
I’m still absorbing this when Betty’s mind leaps several steps ahead of my own.
“I don’t think Professor Woods or whoever it was ever intended to meet us. He just wanted to get us out of the house so he could get in to search for the papers.”