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“Of course.”
“Why ‘of course’?”
“Because the houses share the beach. The little boys play out there. Build sand castles, splash in the ocean. I went out there yesterday and horsed around with them for a while.” Dawson stopped and gnawed the inside of his cheek, refusing to say anything else until Headly supplied something more eloquent and intelligible than a grunted Huh.
After an extended silence, Headly asked, “Who do they look like?”
“Both have blue eyes like hers.” The second the words were out, Dawson wanted to kick himself. Crossly, he added, “I don’t know who they look like. They look like kids.”
“Okay, no need to bite my head off.”
“This is why I didn’t tell you up front. I knew you’d pester me with questions.”
“They could be Carl Wingert’s grandkids. You don’t expect me to be curious?”
Dawson didn’t respond to that.
“What’s she like?”
“She’s—” A dozen adjectives crowded into his mind, but none he wanted to share with Headly. “Intelligent. Articulate. Assertive. Self-controlled. Guarded. Modest.”
“You’ve just described my old-maid third-grade schoolteacher.”
“All right, she’s—” Desirable. Kissable. Fuckable.
“Fair of face,” Headly said. “I’ve seen pictures.”
“Then why ask me to describe her?”
“What’s her mental state?”
“She’s scared.”
“Of you?”
“That he’s alive.”
“Jeremy.”
“Yeah.” Now he had no choice except to explain how he knew that. “I led her into casual conversation, learned a little about their life together.” He gave Headly the gist of what had been said, and passed along what Amelia had told him about Jeremy’s parents. “What has your pal Knutz uncovered about them?”
“Haven’t heard back from him yet.” He gave a snuffle of skepticism. “But, come on, a house fire that killed them both and destroyed all the family memorabilia?”
“I figured you’d find that a little too pat. I did. Knutz needs to check it out. A house fire with two fatalities must’ve made local news. Maybe there was a photo of Mr. and Mrs. Wesson in the newspaper obit. If they were in fact Carl and Flora, that means they’ve been dead for years, I’m on a wild-goose chase, your search is over, end of story.”
“Not if their son faked his death and is still alive.”
Dawson swore under his breath.
“Don’t cuss at me,” Headly said. “It’s not a ‘voilà’ idea. His wife—ex-wife—advanced it herself.”
“No, I advanced it. She denied the possibility.”
“But you said—”
“She protested too much.”
“Huh. Indicating to you that the possibility has occurred to her.”
