Slip

Pearls of wisdom by Ms. Hove:

  Dishonesty is the beginning of the end in a relationship. If you suspect your significant other of lying, here are a few tips to keep in mind. 1) Be certain of the facts. Don’t go throwing accusations around before you’ve done your homework. 2) Do not overreact. Choose a calm time to approach him/her. Try to refrain from raising your voice. 3) Present evidence to support your claims. This will allow you to make your case on stronger footing. 4) Keep the conversation focused. Now is not the time to dredge up past transgressions. 5) Determine, together, how to fix the problem. 6) Make a conscious effort to move forward. While the past does play a role in relationships, your greatest hope of happiness lies in the future.

  Declan fought to manage his emotions as he pulled into his garage. So much had happened in the last forty-eight hours that, as much as he hated to admit it, a return to the ordinary routine of school had been a welcome relief.

  And yet the hours away had only served to intensify his focus on Vivien. Never before had he felt this way about someone. Everything she said, everything she did fascinated him. When he wasn’t with her, she was the first person he called to share the details of his day. He imagined teaching her how to ski, how to drive a car, how to catch a ball without closing her eyes. Spring Break, he’d already made plans for them to visit Patrick at Notre Dame. And this summer he was looking forward to taking her out on the Sunfishes they kept at the lake.

  At the same time, she literally drove him crazy. Nothing came easily. No matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t penetrate the walls she’d built around herself. After all their time together there remained a part of her she’d never let him touch. And this ate away at him. Drove him mad with frustration.

  And now, as he headed into the house, he found himself dragging his feet, wondering which Vivien would be there to greet him. The goofy, affectionate one? Or the guarded stranger?

  Inside he dumped his backpack on the kitchen floor and went to the refrigerator, grabbing a half-gallon of orange juice and chugging it straight from the carton. He wiped his mouth with his sleeve and let out a long sigh.

  The house was completely silent. He figured she was upstairs sleeping. That pain medication had gone straight to her head last night. Being such a lightweight and all, he probably should’ve given her just the one. He bet she’d felt pretty groggy when she woke up this morning.

  Last night. The memory drew forth a scowl. When he’d tried to get close to her, she’d pushed him away. Again. Hurled the worst insults she could think of. Afterward, her apology had seemed false. Words only. What she’d said would stay with him forever. And then she’d been in such pain. He never should have forced the issue. The timing was all wrong. Guilt racked him. He needed to let loose and beat the shit out of something. Maybe he’d sneak down to the basement and have a go at his punching bag. That usually did the trick.

  But first he’d go check on her. If she was sleeping, he’d give her an hour or so before waking her. Then they could head over to the hospital to see her mom.

  Upstairs he checked his room first to see if everything was as he left it. He could totally picture her snooping around in there and then denying it. Not that he had anything to hide. What you see was what you got. But the room looked unchanged. Sloppy as usual.

  He headed down to Patrick’s room. The door was open just a crack. Peering inside, the first thing he saw was her bag, smack dab in the center of the room. It looked as though she had everything packed and ready to go, and he wondered if she was dying to get the hell out. Pushing the door farther open, he stepped inside and turned toward the bed. The covers lay smooth. And empty.

  OK. Where was everybody? Was she out somewhere with his mom? Maybe they’d gone shopping or grabbed some lunch. But it was nearly four o’clock, a little late for that.

  As he spun around, something caught his eye. Something sticking out of her bag, caught in the zipper. A closer look revealed a slip of paper. That made sense. She’d probably left it there for him, explaining where she’d gone. Upon careful extraction, he unfolded the note and began to read.

  He nearly stopped when he realized it was not, in fact, meant for him. Never one to stick his nose in other people’s business, he steered clear of gossip and nasty rumors. Plus reading private, personal messages was just plain dishonest. But something caught his attention near the bottom of the page, those two pesky words: French teacher. He found himself forging ahead, quickly scanning Lauren’s loopy doodles. The last few lines were a direct blow to the gut: the two of you having a thing…blah, blah, blah…sexy older man…

  What the hell?

  He read it again. And again.

  Dropping the letter, he tore from the room and down the stairs. Back in the kitchen, he yanked his cell from his backpack. Breathing hard and feeling slightly light-headed, he pushed speed dial. His hand trembled as he waited for the sound of her voice.

  It rang. Once. Twice. The third time he heard it: the ring, duplicated, louder. Coming from somewhere nearby. He let his own phone dangle at his side as he strained to identify the source of the ringing. He circled the table. No phone. He scanned the room for her purse. Nothing. Puzzled, he squatted to the floor, searching beneath the chairs. The ringing stopped, the call lost to voicemail.

  “Shit!” He redialed and listened once again. He walked around the kitchen, trailing his hand along the countertop. He stopped abruptly at the hand-painted canisters his parents had brought back from Portugal. They held the flour, sugars, and various other mysterious baking essentials his mother used to whip up her masterpieces. Another muffled ring sounded off and Declan pounced on the largest cylinder. Bingo! He extracted the dusty white phone with his thumb and forefinger. It rang once more before the room was silent.

  Declan stood frozen. What was this? What logical explanation could there be for leaving your phone in the flour? Something was wrong. Something was definitely wrong.

  Immediately he placed a second call.

  “Hi, Dec,” his mother answered. “How are things going? The roads are absolutely terrible! I hope you took extra care driving home from school.”

  “Mom,” he droned, her unnecessary concern only adding to his agitated state. “I’m always careful. Listen, can I talk to Vivien? She left her cell here.”

  There was a pause. “Vivien? She’s not with me. I’m at the dry cleaner’s. Then I’m stopping at the market to stock up before the blizzard hits.” Another pause. “She wasn’t there when you got home?”

  Declan took a deep breath. “No. Nobody’s here. And we’re not having a blizzard, by the way. Last I heard they were calling for six inches.”

  “No, no. It’s at least twelve, hon. They just said so on the radio.” He could hear her thanking the cashier at the drycleaners. Then she was back. “I haven’t talked with Vivien today. I was afraid if I called I’d wake her up. The girl has been through quite an ordeal.” As an afterthought she added, “Maybe she’s visiting with friends.”

  “Yeah. Maybe.” All at once he didn’t feel like talking anymore. “Never mind. I’ll see you later.” He hung up and began pacing the room. Vivien was missing. Something was wrong. What should he do?

  He should call the police. “Yes,” he said aloud. He pressed nine—one…his finger hovered over the final one. He ended the call.

  Wait a second. The possibility that his mom was right crossed his mind. One of her friends could’ve swung by and taken her somewhere. Like the hospital. Maybe she’d needed to get there sooner than they’d planned. Maybe Mrs. Allen had taken a turn for the worse.

  All he knew was that he had no intention of just sitting around. He had to move. He had to something.

  Grabbing his keys and jacket, he flew out the door. Once he was on the road, he’d get his thoughts in order. He had to keep his head on straight. He had to find her.

  It took Declan nearly an hour to get where he wanted to go. Surprisingly, the roads were in good condition thanks to the salt trucks. The same could not
be said for the quality of driving he witnessed on the main routes through town. He did his best to remain calm, but by the fourth traffic jam, he felt on the verge of serious road rage. At last he could take it no longer, swerving around an exceptionally long traffic jam, riding the shoulder until he could make the right turn that would take him to the hospital.

  Ditching the car in a dubious parking spot, he jogged through the main entrance at a fast clip, searching the faces around him as he went. No sign of Vivien. He punched the up button with his fist and stood fidgeting while he waited.

  As he approached Mrs. Allen’s room, he was disappointed to see the door was closed. Now he would have to knock and go in, rather than getting a feel for the situation first from a safe distance.

  He did one last scan for Vivien before he raised his hand and rapped hesitantly on the door. After a moment he thought he heard a muffled reply, and with a deep breath he let himself in. He saw at once that she was alone and he wondered what exactly he was going to say to her.

  If Ramona was surprised to see him, she showed no sign of it. Her expression was welcoming in a queenly sort of way, as if she was pleased he’d come to pay his respects. She smiled and fussed over the bed linens, smoothing them repeatedly with her perfectly manicured nails as he came to a halt a polite distance away. “Why, Declan! How sweet of you to come,” she said, tilting her head coyly. “Is it bad out there? They keep interrupting my program with severe weather bulletins.”

  “Nah. The freezing rain has pretty much stopped. I think the snow’s supposed to start in about an hour.”

  She shivered. “Snow. Who needs it?” Then she lay back on her mound of pillows, looking at him expectantly.

  “I’m not sure,” he found himself answering, followed by a long spell of silence. “So…” He rubbed his hands together, then began to fidget with his zipper. There seemed to be no good place to put his hands so he ended up shoving them in his pockets. “Any word on when you’re getting out of here?”

  “I get a different answer every time someone comes in here,” she said irritably. At once she jerked her head, making a point of looking as if a thought had just occurred to her. “The name—Mieres. I’ve heard that before somewhere. Isn’t your father one of the top surgeons here?”

  “Yeah, that’s right. Over in the neurosurgery department.”

  “Yes. I remember now. Channel four did a piece on him. Some groundbreaking technique he came up with last year.” She gave him an appraising look. “Quite the big cheese, isn’t he? How nice.”

  Declan shrugged uncomfortably and veered the conversation in another direction. “You look…like you got some sleep last night.” She did look pretty good, all things considered. For someone her age, she’d managed to hang on to her looks and seemed to know instinctively all the right moves to get a man’s attention. Just as Vivien had remarked when she’d first met his parents, he could see the traits shared by mother and daughter: the petite figure, and something he couldn’t put his finger on, something around the mouth. But there was a callousness to Ramona, the way she set her jaw, the way she stared straight through you like most of what you said was inconsequential. This had yet to touch her daughter. Yet. He felt a sudden protective urge to get Vivien away from this woman.

  “I know Vivien’s anxious to have you home again,” he said. “To have everything back to normal. She’s—”

  “And where is my lovely daughter?”

  His mouth snapped shut. “I’m not…” He stopped, then began again. “She wasn’t here earlier, was she?”

  Ramona gave him a funny look. “Here? Not today. Of course, Ricardo came by—there’s absolutely no keeping him away—but he was my only visitor.”

  A look of consternation crossed Declan’s face.

  “Declan, darling, I’m confused. I was under the impression that Vivien was staying at your house.”

  “She is,” he assured her quickly. “But I had to go to class today so I…she slept in. She was beat. I didn’t get a chance to talk to her this morning. I’m thinking she might be with Miranda or Lauren. We probably just crossed paths or something.”

  She studied him closely. “How are things going?”

  He looked at her in uncertainty.

  “With the two of you. Is everything all right?”

  “Sure.” He smiled. “Everything’s great. We’re…great.”

  She narrowed her eyes ever so slightly. “Great,” she repeated, managing to change the meaning of the word with the inflection of her voice. She took a long sip of ice water and then bestowed another regal smile in his direction. “I’m going to share something with you.”

  Without knowing how, he was certain he wasn’t going to like what was coming. But it seemed as though he had no alternative but to stand there and listen.

  After another lengthy sip, Ramona began. “Vivien is damn lucky to have someone like you. I’ve had my fair share of boyfriends—modesty’s so overrated, isn’t it?—and I can spot a catch when I see one. It’s obvious you are well bred and have your act together. Not to mention you happen to be an exceptionally good-looking young man.”

  Declan nearly choked. Well bred? Was she kidding? Her choice of words made him sound like a champion racehorse. “That’s nice of you to say, Mrs. Allen.”

  “Nice has nothing to do with it.” She paused for effect, eyeing him openly as if she was about to put a wad of cash down on a new car. “Listen,” she resumed, “by now, I’m sure you’re well aware that my daughter…” Here she hesitated, searching for the right words. “She’s rather restrained, I would say.”

  “I think—”

  “Granted, she had a somewhat difficult childhood,” Ramona went on, “with her father turning out to be such a colossal disappointment. All the same, despite my best efforts, she’s turned out much too conservative, I’m afraid. I’ll be the first to admit I had my doubts as to what kind of boy would ever be interested in her. Not that she’s unattractive…” Here she smiled slyly as if the two of them were sharing a juicy secret. “But we all know boys like a girl who’s up for a little fun now and then. Am I right?”

  He couldn’t be sure, but he thought Mrs. Allen winked at him. He shifted his weight, contemplating his response. Was she actually waiting for confirmation that he preferred girls who put out?

  “Perhaps you are just the one to bring her out of her shell,” she answered for him.

  “I don’t know…I think she’s doing all right,” he replied. In truth, he didn’t know what to think. Ever since he’d read the note, he’d done nothing but replay the scenes of their relationship over and over again in his mind. Had the whole thing been nothing but a lie? He found himself wondering if, in fact, Vivien had them all fooled, posing as some kind of goody-goody when all along she was into something crude. Dirty. Like getting it on with a teacher. Even more disturbing: a French dude.

  Did he really believe this? He wished she hadn’t suddenly gone MIA so he could have the chance to confront her. If there was one thing that totally pissed him off, it was inaction.

  “Did you know she could’ve been somebody?”

  Mrs. Allen’s words snapped him out of his own private hell. He gave her a puzzled look.

  “It’s true. A real star. She’s gifted—musically, that is. She started playing the piano when she was four.” She began nodding vehemently. “Right away I knew. I knew she was different from all those other little brats. It was absolute agony listening to them pound away on the keys. And the parents,” she groaned, “videotaping their precious protégés. Clapping and grinning like a bunch of imbeciles. Vivien, she had finesse.”

  “No. I didn’t know,” he lied.

  “We hired the best instructors for her. She was playing in concert halls by the time she was seven or eight. Chicago, she played Chicago!” Ramona said this as if the city were the pinnacle of musical talent. “And then suddenly it was over. She refused to play anymore. No explanation.” Ramona frowned deeply. “Nothing I said or did wo
uld change her mind.” She paused, and it took several minutes of studying her rich-ruby-painted nails before she could go on. “It’s obvious what it was, though.” She looked up at Declan as if she expected him to proffer a guess and looked disappointed when he chose to remain silent. “That asshole ex-husband of mine put her up to it,” she declared with palpable venom. “I don’t know how he did it, but he did. He wanted to hurt me, to send me over the edge. And he used her to do it.” She shook her head in disbelief, then laughed. “Goddamn father of the year.”

  Declan was at a loss for words. The room felt uncomfortably warm. All he wanted was to get the hell out of there. At the same time he wanted to scream at this woman. This selfish, clueless woman who had no idea who her own daughter really was. She could have been somebody. What kind of parent said that about their kid? Wasn’t Vivien somebody already?

  “I’m sorry,” he told her.

  Ramona blew a puff of air in his direction, dismissing him, her daughter, Alan Allen, and the whole sordid affair.

  “Look, it was great seeing you,” he said, edging toward the door. “I’m glad you’re feeling better. But I really gotta run.”

  She appeared not to acknowledge his words, still adrift in the bitter memories of all the ways she had been wronged. Abruptly she snapped out of it. “Why didn’t you bring your friend along, too?

  The strangeness of the inquiry halted him midescape. “Excuse me?”

  She looked at him as if he was dense. “Your friend? The other nice-looking young man who helped save my life?”

  Declan shook his head. “Mrs. Allen, I’m sorry, but I don’t know what you’re talking about. Vivien and I were the only ones in the apartment that night.”

  A distant look settled on her face. “No,” she insisted. “There was someone else. I remember. He came to me when I was lying in bed. I was so exhausted I couldn’t move and he said something to me.”

  “What?” Declan asked. “What did he say?”

  She made a face, trying to recall his exact words. “Well, now this is peculiar, but I recall him saying that I had exquisite hands. Like mother, like daughter, he kept repeating. I don’t know. I can’t be sure. But he…he—at one point I could barely breathe…”

  Without a doubt, her story sounded like a freaked-out hallucination, a direct effect of the dicey assortment of drugs she’d taken that night. “Huh.” Declan shrugged. “I don’t know what to say. Like I said, I never saw anyone else there.” But he was careful not to show his disbelief. “EMS was in the room, of course. Maybe that’s who you’re thinking of, you just have the timeline a little messed up.”

  She looked at him and began to nod hesitantly, like she didn’t really agree with his suggestion but was making a show of pretending she did.

  “I’m sorry,” he found himself apologizing once more. “I’ve really got to go.”

  Appearing to have recovered, she smiled demurely at him. “Of course, dear. I wouldn’t dream of keeping you from your business.” Then, quick as a fox, she dropped the smile and replaced it with a wistful look. “Thank you for taking the time to see me. It’s dreadful in here, if you must know. Your visit was the unexpected highlight of my day. I very much enjoyed our little chat.”

  That makes one of us, he thought to himself.

  Declan exited the hospital in a fog, nearly walking into the automatic sliding glass doors before they had opened a sufficient distance. Slamming the door to the car, he sat motionless for several minutes. At length a security guard tapping on his window, motioning for him to move his vehicle out of the Emergency Only lane, startled him. He pulled out, scanning his phone messages as he drove. Almost too late he slammed on the brakes, barely avoiding a man guiding an elderly woman across the crosswalk. The man glared at him through the windshield, boldly flashing the middle finger as he passed. Declan looked away in embarrassment. Once they were out of sight, he punched the steering wheel in frustration. “Fuck!” he shouted.

  There’d been nothing. Not a word from Vivien when he’d checked. And he’d nearly taken down two people in the process. He needed to calm down. Think clearly. As he moved forward at a cautious crawl, his mind began to work, gathering known data, placing question marks where information was missing.

  With careful attention, he arrived at step one: it was time to have a talk with Nathan.

  He waited in the car, across the street from the small brown bungalow, watching for any sign of life. Behind the overgrown hedges, the house stood dark and sinister. What a shithole, he observed. Five minutes later, Nathan’s red Saab pulled up behind him.

  Declan got out and waited, leaning against the Volvo with his arms crossed.

  Nathan sauntered over. “You found it,” he said.

  Declan’s eyes narrowed slightly as he took in the house once more. So this was where she’d been meeting him. Coming here how often? And doing what, exactly? All the while keeping it a nice little secret. “Yep,” he said.

  “Well, I had Lauren call around to see if Vivs was hangin’ with her friends, but no one’s seen her today.” He waited, then said, “So what’s the plan?”

  Declan gave him a steady look. “Nobody’s home. The plan is, we let ourselves in and have a look.”

  Nathan nodded, a smile growing on his lips. “Awesome. Let’s go.” He made a move, but Declan grabbed his arm.

  “Hold on. We’re not gonna do anything stupid, right?” He held Nathan’s gaze.

  Nathan broke loose, grinning. “Dude! Hey, this is your show. I’m just the backup.”

  Declan stood silent for a moment, then nodded, and the two boys crossed the street toward the Frenchman’s house.

  “Let’s head around back,” Declan advised.

  It was early evening and the light had faded, allowing the boys to trespass without calling significant attention to themselves. Declan kept his hands in his pockets as he crept close to the foliage on the perimeter. The ground was slick from the freezing rain and he could see the fog of his breath as he exhaled into the darkness. As he crossed the backyard toward the patio, he tripped on a large, unidentifiable object in the grass—a cinderblock, he soon discovered. He cursed quietly and rubbed his shin, positive it had left him with a nice gash.

  Reaching the back door, he gave it tug. It didn’t budge. Upon closer examination, the door looked as though it had been painted shut. Clearly the thing hadn’t been opened in years.

  The boys separated, feeling along the back of the house for any play in the windows. But these also had been sealed shut with a thick coat of brown paint.

  They regrouped and headed back toward the front. Having no other option, they mounted the porch steps and hesitated at the front door. Nathan shrugged and pushed the handle with his thumb. With a clean click, the door eased open.

  “Well, what do you know?” Nathan remarked. “Our good pal Chris didn’t bother to lock up.”

  Declan shook his head in disbelief, looked over his shoulder once, and entered the house. Inside the boys paused in the front hallway, listening for any sounds and taking stock of their surroundings. Nathan veered off to the left into the living room, while Declan moved quietly down the hall to the kitchen.

  In the dim light Declan could make out a sink piled high with dirty dishes. The kitchen table was littered with cigarettes stubbed out in a wide assortment of saucers and plates. Walking over to the refrigerator, he opened the door, revealing its sparse contents: a case of beer—Milwaukee’s finest, nearly empty; a large block of smelly cheese; and a few slices of meat exhibiting an odd iridescent sheen. He shut the door and turned around, staring absently out the back window. What was he looking for?

  Nathan’s voice reached him from the other room, “Dude, you gotta see this.”

  Declan found him in the living room, standing before several large display cases. Resting his hands atop the glass, he leaned in with a scowl. “What is this?”

  “Some kind of weird collection. Look.” Nathan pointed. “That metal thing with the chai
n goes around your neck, I think. And check out those cuffs.”

  Declan strolled beside each case, studying the various oddities on display. Strangely, the four cases were mostly empty. He could see plainly where items had formerly sat by the faint indentations in the plush red velvet.

  “Maybe he likes it rough,” Nathan chuckled, then stopped abruptly when he realized the implications.

  Without commenting, Declan gave him a somber look and wandered away down a short hallway, pausing to peek into the first room. A bedroom. A dresser sat against the far wall, every drawer wide open. He crossed to have a closer look. Empty, save a single black sock and an old sweatshirt. Crumpled cigarette packets lay strewn about the bare futon in the middle of the floor. Over in one corner was a complete set of weights, push-up handles, and a jump rope. Declan frowned. How exactly did the dude jump rope on one leg?

  He left the room quickly and moved on to the next. It took a moment for his eyes to adjust to the complete lack of light. He felt along the wall and flipped the switch. The centerpiece of the cramped room was a piano. He studied it silently for a long time before he approached, a terrible sinking feeling settling in the pit of his stomach. A pair of wine glasses sat atop the upright, thick crimson residue still pooled at the bottom. Declan lifted a glass with care, twirling the stem in his fingers as he took in the shimmering pink lip prints congregated along the rim. He replaced it and moved his attention to the pages of music spread out on the music rest. “Tristan und Isolde, ‘Prelude,’” he read silently.

  Abruptly he turned on his heel and fled the room.

  Across the hall he found Nathan diligently snooping around what appeared to be an office.

  “Computer’s gone,” he informed Declan, “but check this out.” He opened a folder and tapped on the top piece of paper. “He’s been doing research.”

  Declan came up alongside and began reading. “Alan Allen: A Frank Talk with One of East Lake Pines’ Most Successful Professionals.” He skimmed the article, then flipped through the rest of the stack, revealing a large number of pieces dedicated to the illustrious attorney. At the bottom of the pile was a newspaper clipping featuring East Lake Pines’ own child prodigy, Vivien Allen. A photograph of the seven-year-old on stage graced the top half of the page, her expression that doe-eyed mix of defiance and uncertainty Declan knew so well. The caption read: Vivien Allen performs Anton Bilotti’s “Firefly” before a captivated audience.

  “What’s he doing with all this?” he thought, inadvertently voicing his puzzlement out loud.

  “This folder here’s all about her brother,” Nathan announced. “Listen to this: ‘Local Youth Killed in Two-Vehicle Highway Collision. Max Collins, 21, and Ashton Allen, 20, of East Lake Pines, died Saturday at the scene of the 11:56 a.m. crash near mile marker 66 on the northbound expressway. “High traffic volume and a series of dangerous curves make this a notoriously hazardous section of the highway,” confirmed Sgt. Frank McPherson, a state police spokesman. Collins was behind the wheel at the time the van swerved into the right lane, hitting an 18-wheeler travelling in the same direction. The impact caused the van to veer out of control, overturning several times as it tumbled down an embankment. The driver of the semi, Wallace Petoskey, 43, sustained minor injuries and was taken to the local hospital.’”

  Declan frowned.

  “There’s also a bunch of shit here about his band.” Nathan looked up to meet Declan’s scowl. “What the hell? It’s like the freak’s stalking her or something. This is fucked up, man.”

  Fucked up. Declan found himself reaching the same conclusion. He and Nathan stared at each other silently. “Do you think,” Declan said slowly, “they’re like, having an affair?” The word “affair” sounded silly as it sprang from his lips, but he wasn’t sure how else to put it. “His bedroom’s all cleared out,” he added. “It’s like he left in a hurry with no plans to return.”

  Nathan came over and patted him gently on the shoulder. “I should’ve said something before,” he said solemnly. “I caught her. I saw her leaving this house and I was like, damn, she’s two-timing my best bud. I’m sorry, dude.” Suddenly he smiled. “But we can have the pervert arrested. The teacher-student thing’s definitely illegal. With her being jailbait and all.”

  Declan turned to him with a look of repulsion. This couldn’t be real. Obviously she’d been monkeying around on the piano for him. This much he knew from being in that horrible little room. He’d felt as though he could actually smell her presence as he’d stood there with his heart pounding, his fists clenched.

  What kind of twisted game was she playing? All that crap she’d unloaded on him about not performing anymore, about punishing her parents. And the whole time she’d been hanging out here, chugging glasses of wine and playing demented operas about passion and death for him—of all people! It made no sense.

  When she was finished, did she let him drag her to the bedroom for fun and games with handcuffs? He felt sick.

  He looked up to find Nathan watching him and struggled to get control of himself.

  “So what’s the next move, Sherlock?” Nathan said. “It’s your call.” He took the pile of papers he’d been looking over and dumped them ceremoniously in the trash, keeping his eyes on Declan the entire time.

  Declan looked away, his thoughts in a jumble. He didn’t know what he wanted to do. But he couldn’t help the feeling that something needed to be done. That they were somehow a step behind and time was running out. He turned back to Nathan. “What’s your gut feeling? They’re together, right?” He ran his fingers through his hair. “I mean, she’s missing and so is he. Is that a coincidence?”

  “It’s looking bad,” Nathan admitted. After a moment he added, “But where would they go?”

  Declan glanced around the room once more and shrugged. “I have no idea. Does Frenchie even own a car?” He pictured Christophe limping around the school in his GQ clothes with that pompous look he always wore. For some reason it was nearly impossible to imagine him manly enough to drive a car.

  “I’ve seen a pickup parked here before. A blue one. Could be his.”

  Declan nodded. At first this seemed like helpful information. But the more he studied Nathan, the more peculiar the statement became. And the lines from Lauren’s note came back to haunt him: Nathan let it slip...Slowly, ever so steadily, something inside of him was unraveling. There was nothing he could do to stop it. “That’s great, Nate. Thanks for the tip. Tell me, exactly how many times have you been here, observing?”

  He waited for an answer. Yet, in truth, an exact number was hardly necessary. Once was enough. And Nathan had known. All along. “What the hell?” he said, his anger and injury exploding to the surface. “Who’s the original Sherlock fucking Holmes here? You must’ve had good reason to keep this house under surveillance.”

  “What? I didn’t,” Nathan said, then appeared to change his mind. “Look, hold up.” He walked around the desk and began fiddling with a stapler, avoiding Declan’s look of wrath. “Yeah. So maybe I followed her. Once. Twice. No more than three times at the most, dude. I swear.”

  Declan’s look of wrath intensified.

  “Only because she was goin’ all ape shit about Lauren and me!” he said in a rush. “She somehow got it in her head that I…took advantage of Lauren that night at Riley’s.” He laughed at the sheer absurdity of this idea. “So what if she was wasted? We both were. I never forced her to go upstairs!” His face was the picture perfect image of incredulity. “And your uptight little girlfriend was gonna blab that lie to all her BFFs—and who the fuck knows who else?” He dropped the stapler and began to pace the room. “I let that go and the next thing you know I’ve got cops at my door informing me I need to take a ride down to the station for a little chat.”

  Declan did recall having this very conversation with Vivien in his car, before Lauren’s imitation dinner party. It had hit a nerve and he’d immediately dismissed the idea. Nathan was his friend. Now he studied hi
m carefully, trying to decide if there was something he wasn’t saying. “OK,” he allowed. “You were pissed off, so you followed her. Then what?”

  Nathan looked uncomfortable, like maybe he’d said too much already. “Then we talked. I told her to shut up about Riley’s and I said I’d do the same about what’s-his-face—the teacher she obviously had the hots for.” He stopped pacing, checking Declan’s expression and shrugging apologetically. “I know. It probably wasn’t the best idea I’ve ever had.”

  Declan closed his eyes and dropped his head in his hands. He almost felt like laughing, the whole thing was so absurd. “Probably? Why the hell didn’t you say anything?”

  “I don’t know, man,” Nathan said quickly. “I guess I thought there wasn’t anything really juicy going on. I mean, please…it’s Vivs we’re talking about here. I was just messin’ with her.”

  So even Nathan doubted she would cross that line. Which was why this whole thing stunk more than that block of moldy cheese in Frenchie’s fridge. There had to be more clues here. He turned and pulled out the top drawer to a filing cabinet. Thumbing through folders he said, “Keep looking. There’s something we’re not seeing. I can feel it.”

  Nathan complied and they worked silently, scanning anything and everything they could get their hands on.

  “Hey. What’s this?” Nathan said at last, holding up a brochure. Declan came to his side and yanked it from his hands. “Whispering Pines, Where Beauty Meets Affordability,” he read.

  “And here’s a realtor’s card attached to…” Nathan held up more papers, “a map, and a letter:

  Greetings Mr. Laval,” he read, “Thank you for your interest in our Evergreen Cottage community. We currently have several cabins that fit your specifications.” He paused, speeding silently along until he reached the end. “I have enclosed a map and corresponding layout of our development. Vacant properties are highlighted in yellow. I look forward to hearing from you at your earliest convenience.” He looked up at Declan and their eyes locked.

  “A cabin. In Whispering Pines,” Declan repeated, working the implications.

  “You know it?”

  “Sure. I’ve stopped there to take a piss once or twice. Not much to it.”

  They were quiet for a minute. Then Nathan said, “What if he took her there?”

  The suggestion came at him without warning. The words took her balling up like twine in his gut. “We have to call the police,” Declan said.

  Nathan frowned. “Call the cops? What would we say? We’ve got nothing to back this up.”

  Declan shook his head. “We don’t need any real evidence. Something bad’s happened. This…” He gestured around him. “Isn’t right.”

  Nathan was quiet. Then he said, “We can’t call the cops. We just broke into the dude’s house.”

  An excellent point. “What about an anonymous call?”

  Nathan shrugged.

  “We’ll call and say Vivien’s missing…and then we’ll give them this address. When they get here they’ll see his creepy collection and…and everything else.” He dashed over to retrieve the newspaper articles Nathan had dumped in the trash, laying them out neatly atop the desk. “They’ll have to see what kind of crazy fuck this guy is. Right?”

  Nathan shrugged again. They stood in silence.

  “Fine,” Nathan said finally. “We’ll call and then we’ll go. You and me. How far is it?”

  Declan jerked his head up. “How far is what?”

  “The place, Whispering Pines. An hour? More?”

  “You’re serious?”

  “Why not?”

  “You think we should hit the road—with a snowstorm about to hit, by the way—and drive over a hundred and fifty miles to hunt down some obscure cottage on a lake?”

  Nathan regarded him calmly. “Dude, now that you put it that way…” He broke into a wide grin. “Hell, yeah!”

  Declan shared the laugh as he shook his head in disbelief. “You’re insane.”

  “Not at all,” Nathan insisted. “You want to figure this out. You want to find her. Preferably, soon.”

  It was madness, to be sure. But Nathan had underlined one important point: if they were going to do this, they needed to act. Now.

  Holding Nathan’s gaze with a steady eye, a smile gradually crept across his lips. “Who’s driving?”

  Twenty-Four