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“Let’s go inside and maybe you can tell me what you remember.”
Harley completes the walk around the house—taking in some of the details he noted from the court transcript—the metal doors in the back that lead to the basement, the towering live oak with the swing, the path that led to the woods where Madeline Martin ran from Evan. You’d think such horrible events would have an echo, but the yard is pretty, well-kept, no sign or trace of a young girl’s murder, another’s escape. Nothing to mark that this is the last place two healthy, strong young women were seen alive.
Back in the front yard, on the porch, Chet opens the front door, swings it open, and Harley walks inside.
14
Three days until Christmas and the shop is pure mayhem. There’s a line of people waiting outside the door when I open at ten, and a steady flow all day. I never stop moving. Van and Brett don’t get here until after school. Before his stroke, I used to be able to call my dad to come work in the shop when he was off. He was always happy to do it, and people treated him like a celebrity. Word would spread that he was in the store and people would come for books and to complain to him about this or that. But today I’m alone.
The whirlwind of it is good for me, pushing away thoughts of the music box, my visit to Harley Granger, the pending candlelight vigil, the fact that I heard Mrs. Wallace was back in town and staying at The Little Valley Inn. The rumor is that she sold the house to Harley Granger because she’s basically destitute now, having slowly burned through her savings keeping the investigation open, caring for her elderly parents, unable to work since Ainsley and Sam went missing. Was it an act of charity on Harley Granger’s part? Or was it predatory? I looked it up on Zillow. He paid fair market value for the property, even though it’s in shambles. So it’s not like he took advantage of a widow still searching for her missing daughters, her own health—rumor has it—failing.
After Brett and Van get in, I sneak into the back office to eat for the first time that day and take a few minutes off. Wolfing down the leftovers from Miranda’s dinner last night, I use the time to search the web for news of Lolly Morris. I watch a press conference given by the new Sheriff, Barney Offal. He graduated a couple years before I did, went to John Jay College in Manhattan, and then returned to Little Valley, worked with my dad, and ran for Sheriff when my dad retired. My dad thought highly of him—said he was competent, smart, and compassionate. Maybe he still thinks that but who knows what my dad thinks now. At breakfast this morning, he was groaning.
“Come on now, Sheriff, eat your oatmeal,” Miranda was saying as I walked out the door.
When I looked back, he was staring at me hard, tilted in his seat, a dribble of oatmeal on his chin.
“Dad, be good for Miranda,” I said, pushing back the uncomfortable feeling that he was trying to tell me something but couldn’t.
On the video, Sheriff Offal clears his throat. “Lolly Morris was last seen leaving her place of work, Headlights, on Rural Route 94. Security cameras caught her walking to her car at oneA.M. She appeared to stop and talk to someone. Then she got in her car and drove away. Whoever she spoke with remained off camera.”
Someone shouts a question I can’t make out but the Sheriff lifts a palm. “I’ll get to your questions after my statement. A waitress at an all-night diner called Benny’s in Newton said that Lolly came in around one twenty and sat with a man, then proceeded to eat a meal with him.”
Sheriff Offal adjusted his hat. I can’t help but notice that he’s not the same commanding presence that my dad was. No one would have dared to interrupt my dad when he was speaking.
“There was nothing unusual about the encounter except for the late hour. The waitress has given us a description of this person of interest. Security cameras outside the restaurant were not in working order, nor have they been for over a year. The waitress said that this was a well-known thing. The man was in his late twenties, early thirties, large build, shoulder-length, brown hair, Caucasian.”
Cameras clicking, more shouts.
“But Lolly Morris left the diner in her own car, separate from her dining companion. Her roommate Angela Simpson, also an employee at Headlights, said that she did not return home that night or since.”
I know Angela. She was on the AP track with me in high school. I was surprised when she didn’t go to college. She waitressed around town for a while, then did some bartending, finally winding up at Headlights.
There’s a tearful plea from Lolly’s mother, an attractive brunette who doesn’t look much older than Lolly herself. “Please if you know anything about our daughter, call the help line. She’s the light of our lives—our daughter, a sister, a doting aunt. Please.”
I’m about to dig deeper when there’s a soft knock on my office door. Van pokes his spiky, blond head in, eyes wide. “He’s here,” he whispers fiercely.
“Who?”
“Harley Granger.”
I nod, put away my half-eaten meal, still hungry. “There should be three boxes of books behind the counter. Get those set up on a table near the true crime section? And a fresh box of Sharpies? Just a stock signing. He’s early.”
“OMG,” he says, face flushed. “Okay, okay, I got it.”
I force myself to breathe, take a moment to collect myself and calm my jangled nerve endings. When I go out, Harley is already seated with Van handing him books to sign, and a small crowd has lined up for their personalized copies.
“Thanks for doing this,” I say, coming up beside him.
He looks tired, purple shiners of fatigue under his eyes, stubble on his jaw. “My pleasure. Thanks for getting the books in.”
“They’ll be gone before Christmas.”
“So is it true?” asks Betty Delano, my true crime junkie, who has two copies for him to sign. “That you’re looking into the Evan Handy case?”
“I’m doing some early research. I’m not sure yet what I’ll find.”
There are a ton more questions, and he answers them all with ease as he signs, his scrawl fast and fluid. Vague but polite. No, he doesn’t have any theories yet. No, he doesn’t have theories about where Ainsley and Sam have gone. No, he doesn’t think the police flubbed the investigation, seizing on Evan and ignoring other possibilities. I wonder how much of what he’s saying in true. That article inNew York Magazinebasically portrayed him as a hack and a liar.
