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Grace did not reply.
The Bedminster condos were generic, which, when you’re talking about condos, is something of a repetition in terms. They had the prefab light-brown aluminum siding, three levels, garages underneath, every building identical to the one to its right and to its left and behind it and in front of it. The complex was huge and sprawling, a khaki-coated ocean stretching as far as the eye could see.
For Grace, the route here had been familiar. Jack drove by this on his way to work. They had, for a very brief moment, debated moving into this condo development. Neither Jack nor Grace was particularly good with their hands or enjoyed fix-the-old-home shows on cable. Condos held that appeal—you pay a monthly fee, you don’t worry about the roof or an addition or the landscaping or any of that. There were tennis courts and a swimming pool and, yes, a playground for children. But in the end there was just so much conformity one could take. Suburbia is already a subworld of sameness. Why add insult to injury by making your physical abode conform too?
Max spotted the complicated, brightly hued playground before the car had come to a complete stop. He was raring to sprint for the swing set. Emma looked more bored with the prospect. She held onto her Game Boy. Normally Grace would have protested—Game Boy in the car only, especially when the alternative was fresh air—but again now did not seem the time.
Grace cupped her hand over her eyes as they started moving away. “I can’t leave them alone.”
“Mrs. Alworth lives right here,” Duncan said. “We can stay in the doorway and watch them.”
They approached the door on the first level. The playground was quiet. The air was still. Grace inhaled deeply and smelled the freshly cut grass. They stood side-by-side, she and Duncan. He rang the bell. Grace waited by the door, feeling oddly like a Jehovah’s Witness.
A cackling voice not unlike the witch in an old Disney film said, “Who is it?”
“Mrs. Alworth?”
Again the cackle: “Who is it?”
“Mrs. Alworth, it’s Scott Duncan.”
“Who?”
“Scott Duncan. We spoke a few weeks ago. About your son, Shane.”
“Go away. I have nothing to say to you.”
Grace picked up an accent now. Boston area.
“We could really use your help.”
“I don’t know nothing. Go away.”
“Please, Mrs. Alworth, I need to talk to you about your son.”
“I told you. Shane lives in Mexico. He’s a good boy. He helps poor people.”
“We need to ask about some of his old friends.” Scott Duncan looked at Grace, nodded for her to say something.
“Mrs. Alworth,” Grace said.
The cackle was more wary now. “Who’s that?”
“My name is Grace Lawson. I think my husband knew your son.”
There was silence now. Grace turned away from the door and watched Max and Emma. Max was on a corkscrew slide. Emma sat cross-legged and played the Game Boy.
Through the door, the cackling voice asked, “Who’s your husband?”
“Jack Lawson.”
Nothing.
“Mrs. Alworth?”
“I don’t know him.”
Scott Duncan said, “We have a picture. We’d like to show it to you.”
The door opened. Mrs. Alworth wore a housedress that couldn’t have been manufactured after the Bay of Pigs. She was in her mid-seventies, heavyset, the kind of big aunt who hugs you and you disappear in the folds. As a kid you hate the hug. As an adult you long for it. She had varicose veins that resembled sausage casing. Her reading glasses dangled against her enormous chest from a chain. She smelled faintly of cigarette smoke.
“I don’t have all day,” she said. “Show me this picture.”
Scott Duncan handed her the photograph.
For a long time the old woman said nothing.
“Mrs. Alworth?”
“Why did someone cross her out?” she asked.
“That was my sister,” Duncan said.
She flicked a glance his way. “I thought you said you were an investigator.”
“I am. My sister was murdered. Her name was Geri Duncan.”
Mrs. Alworth’s face went white. Her lip started to tremble. “She’s dead?”
“She was murdered. Fifteen years ago. Do you remember her?”
She seemed to have lost her bearings. She turned to Grace and snapped, “What do you keep looking at?”
Grace was facing Max and Emma. “My children.” She gestured toward the playground. Mrs. Alworth followed suit. She stiffened. She seemed lost now, confused.
“Did you know my sister?” Duncan asked.
“What does this have to do with me?”
His voice was stern now. “Yes or no, did you know my sister?”
“I can’t remember. It was a long time ago.”
“Your son dated her.”
“He dated a lot of girls. Shane was a handsome boy. So was his brother, Paul. He’s a psychologist in Missouri. Why don’t you leave me alone and talk to him?”
“Try to think.” Scott’s voice rose a notch. “My sister was murdered.” He pointed to the picture of Shane Alworth. “That’s your son, isn’t it, Mrs. Alworth?”
She stared down at the strange photograph for a long time before nodding.
“Where is he?”
“I told you before. Shane lives in Mexico. He helps poor people.”
“When was the last time you spoke with him?”
“Last week.”
“He called you?”
“Yes.”
“Where?”
“What do you mean where?”
“Did Shane call you here?”
“Of course. Where else would he call?”
Scott Duncan took a step closer. “I checked your phone records, Mrs. Alworth. You haven’t gotten or made an international call in the past year.”
“Shane uses one of those phone cards,” she said too quickly. “Maybe the phone companies don’t pick those up, how I should know?”
Duncan took another step closer. “Listen to me, Mrs. Alworth. And please listen closely. My sister is dead. There is no sign of your son anywhere. This man here”—he pointed to the picture of Jack—“her husband, Jack Lawson, he’s also missing. And this woman over here”—he pointed to the redheaded girl with the spaced-out eyes—“her name is Sheila Lambert. There’s been no sign of her for at least ten years.”
“This has got nothing to do with me,” Mrs. Alworth insisted.
