Chapter Fifty-Three. Riley, Present Day
CHAPTER FIFTY-THREE
RILEY, PRESENT DAY
“Alex is missing?” I echo. My knees threaten to buckle and I grab the handles of Betty’s wheelchair to steady myself.
The girl turns away and hurries to meet a young woman in a Tri Delt sweatshirt who is running across the grass toward them. “What’s happening?” I hear her cry.
“We should probably leave,” I tell Betty.
“But don’t you need to tell the police what you know?” she asks.
“I don’t have any real information. Surely they’ve learned of Alex’s accusation against Professor Woods, and his against her; it’s common knowledge.”
Betty’s brow creases, but she heads for my car, probably because she’s still overwhelmed by the changes to the world as she knew it. Her brain must feel assaulted not just from her fall, but from the barrage of unfamiliar stimuli.
Once we’re inside my Toyota, she runs her hand over the inside of the passenger door. “I’d like some air. Where is the window crank handle?”
I show her how to push the small flat lever and she raises and lowers the window several times, gently shaking her head.
“Can we see Sandra before we go home?” she asks.
“I spoke to her last night. She can’t wait to see you. She said she has a busy workday, but we can meet up when she’s done.”
Betty nods. “In the meantime, I guess there’s one other person I’d like to visit. Samuel Trimble.”
“Are you sure?” He seemed harmless, but it’ll be unnerving for Betty to meet the grandson of the man who caused her and her friends so much anguish.
“Douglas took whatever papers he could grab when we ran away from Marquis. Dr. Trimble probably did the same when he was cast out; he was so protective of his work. Maybe someone has been trying to talk to Samuel about his grandfather’s experiments or get the papers.
That could be the person who’s behind all of this. ”
I avert my eyes from hers. I didn’t tell Betty about Sam’s accusation that she could have been involved in the deaths of her friends. But when he meets her, he’ll have to realize how wrong he is.
I already have his address from researching him, so I pull up directions to his house. I don’t call ahead because I’m worried he’ll tell us not to come.
As I start to drive, Betty tilts her head against the window and closes her eyes for so long I figure she has fallen asleep. Then her eyes pop open.
“Whoever is doing the new experiments took Alex,” Betty says. “I don’t know why or how they’re linked, but I feel certain of it.”
I brake at a red light before replying.
“Alex could’ve just decided to get away for a day or two, given all the stress she’s under,” I suggest. “She could’ve accidentally dropped her phone when she was getting into an Uber.”
“You’re doing it again.” Betty’s tone is an accusation.
She’s right. I’m trying to talk myself out of what I know in my gut: Alex’s disappearance doesn’t have an innocent explanation.
Before I can change my mind, I pull over to the side of the road and dial the police non-emergency number, telling them I have some information on Alex Finch.
I get transferred to an officer who takes down my name and phone number and asks me what I know.
I describe my meeting with Alex and her revelation about her affair with Professor Woods.
Then I tell the officer Alex suspected him of stealing her student ID.
When I hang up, Betty reaches over and touches my hand, but doesn’t say a word.
A few minutes later, we turn down Samuel Trimble’s street. It’s a peaceful cul-de-sac, but Samuel’s house is bedraggled compared to his neighbors’. The yard is overgrown and the gutters sag. The low concrete front porch holds a few aluminum chairs and a rickety-looking side table.
I get Betty’s wheelchair out of the back and she maneuvers into it. When we’re almost at the door, she holds up a hand. “Wait! What is that?”
I look around, but don’t see anything amiss. It’s an overcast morning, and the street is quiet, other than a couple of women out walking.
“That smell,” she whispers. “I’d know it anywhere.”
I inhale deeply and detect the aroma of vanilla. I look to my right, onto the front porch, and spot a wooden pipe in an ashtray. It looks like someone set it down while it was still burning; a wisp of white smoke rises from the bowl.
Betty cries out and clutches her head. “I need to get out of here! Help me, Riley.”
I grab her wheelchair handles and rush her to my car. She’s trembling so violently I’m scared she’ll fall, so I half lift her into the passenger’s seat.
“Is your head hurting?” I blurt. “Should we go back to the hospital?”
“It isn’t that,” she says in a strangled voice.
We’re half a mile from the house before Betty finally speaks again.
“The smell of that tobacco,” she whispers. “I swear I still breathe in that scent in my nightmares. That was Dr. Trimble’s pipe.”