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They were driving through a low-income neighborhood now. Homes with patched windows; kids playing soccer in the street. The red Toyota pulled up outside a house, larger than most, the color of its dented aluminum siding long faded. Casey parked behind Ms. Michelob, who was waiting for them at the curb.
“There are four foster kids here,” she explained as they negotiated the cracked sidewalk and mounted the porch steps. “I know the place doesn’t look like much, but Etta Price does a good job of keeping them clean, fed, and safe. They might not get much quality time, but Matt has done all right here.”
She rang the doorbell. The woman who answered was overweight and tired-looking, but she had a kind smile. “Come in,” she said. “Have a seat in the parlor. I’ll send Matt in to meet you.”
Val sat next to Casey on a sagging couch, while Ms. Michelob took a chair. The walls were bare of decoration, and the carpet was worn and faded, but the room was clean. From somewhere beyond the closed inside door came the sound of a television.
Then the door opened partway. Val’s heart seemed to stop. She heard Casey’s breath catch as a young boy in an oversize Marvel Heroes T-shirt walked into the room.
He was frail-looking, but a beautiful child, his fair skin lightly freckled, his indigo eyes shining with hidden intelligence. His fiery hair wanted cutting. It tumbled in curls over his forehead, into his eyes. Lifting a hand, he brushed it to one side.
“Hello, Matt,” Ms. Michelob said. “Miss Champion and Mr. Bozeman have come to meet you. Can you say hello to them?”
“Hello.” His lips shaped the word. It emerged as little more than a murmur.
“Hello, Matt. You’re a fine-looking boy.” Casey’s voice rasped with emotion.
“Hello, Matt. I’m happy to meet you.” Val’s throat was so tight that it was painful to speak.
In the silence, the boy walked forward. Val held her breath as he reached out and touched her cheek with a fingertip.
Only then did she feel the wetness.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
BROCK HADN’T SET FOOT INRIDGEWOOD, MISSOURI, SINCE THE DAYwhen a dour county judge had sentenced him to three years in the state penitentiary. He’d left town cuffed and shackled in a prison van, his $100,000 fortune locked away in a safety deposit box in Branson.
As part of their agreement, Chase, who had some influence, had posted his bail so he could put the money away and take care of a few other personal matters. Then he had gone to trial, entered a plea of guilty.
Putting the cash in an interest-bearing account would have made him even wealthier. But he’d feared that Chase might find a way to access it and take it back, so he’d opted for security.
He’d kept one of two keys glued under the end paper of a Bible, the only personal thing he’d been allowed to keep in his cell. The other key, as a backup, had been buried in the earth alongside Mia Carpenter’s headstone. Brock had never gone back for it.
Now, dressed in work clothes and driving the compact car he’d rented at the Springfield airport, he was back where so many things had begun.
As he passed theWELCOME TO RIDGEWOODsign at the town limits, memories washed over him—working at Carpenter Motors, living over the garage, and making friends with Jeff; the wild Saturday nights, drinking and skinny-dipping in the lake; the willing girls; the midnight street races, and so much more. Life for a young man in Ridgewood had possessed an idyllic quality—until the night of the accident.
But he hadn’t come here to reminisce. He’d come here looking for answers. If Jeff Carpenter had faked his death—and if he was out to destroy the one man who knew about his past—at least Ridgewood might give up some clues.
Now, as he drove down Main Street, Brock wondered if anyone would recognize him. Half a lifetime had passed since he’d called Ridgewood home. He had a mature face and body now and even a different name. The town had changed, too. The bar where he and Jeff had drunk that night before picking up Mia was gone. So was the drive-in. A chain supermarket had replaced the mom-and-pop grocery store. But the bank looked the same. So did the auto dealership, except for the name change out front. It was Ridgewood Motors now.
He made a right turn into the driveway, pulled into one of the customer parking slots, and climbed out of the car. The salesman who came out to greet him was a stranger—middle-aged but fit, with a thick black toupee. “Can I show you some good buys today, sir?” he asked. “We’ve got some great wheels for the best prices in three counties.”
“Not today, thanks.” Brock glanced around to make sure there were no customers waiting. “I’m from out of town, just making a trip down memory lane. I used to work here when it was Carpenter Motors. I washed and detailed the cars, moved them around, did all the grunt work. Chase Carpenter was a good man. He worked us hard, but he treated us right.”
“So I’ve heard. But that was years ago, before my time,” the salesman said.
“I’ve been trying to track down the family,” Brock said. “If you’ve got a minute, maybe you can help me.”
The salesman leaned against the side of a late-model Subaru Outback. “Well, like I say, I only know what I’ve heard. But people do talk. Most of that family came to a sad end.”
“I get that impression, but if you don’t mind, I’d like to hear your take on it.”
“Sure. As long as no customers show up.” The salesman rubbed his jaw. “Chase died years ago. It was cancer. But they say what really killed him was his daughter dying in a car wreck. The guy driving was drunk, rolled the car into a canal. He went to prison for it. Should’ve got the needle if you ask me.”
“Too bad.” Brock’s expression was neutral. “What about his son—Jeff, was it? I remember him.”
“He didn’t do so great either. Got his law degree, married a rich society girl, had a son, and then it all went to hell. He started hitting the bottle, lost his family, ended up shooting himself and falling off the end of a boat at Table Rock Lake. No prints but his on the gun he left. Folks are still trying to figure out how he managed it. Almost sounds like a faked suicide, doesn’t it?”
