“That’s true,” Andrea concedes. “It can be hard to prove. Meanwhile, during Angel’s stay with this family, there was no one else placed there. Angel claimed that there was a boy who was kept in a cellar, or some kind of bunker on the property?”
“That’s right.”
“According to state records there was no boy placed with them at that time, or since. In fact, Angel was their last foster.”
“Okay,” I say.
“However,” she says, “I ran a search against the national database of missing children. Angel claims that the boy there had a birthmark on his shoulder in the shape of heart, is that right?”
“Yes.”
“Well, searching with that distinguishing feature, I found a listing for a boy gone missing about that time, just a few towns over. He was a runaway, drug problems, fourteen years old. He has not been found.”
“What’s his name?”
“Billy Martin,” she says. “He’s been missing eighteen months.”
I hear an odd humming in my head that I know is not healthy. There are little signs these days, tells—that humming, sometimes there’s a kind of flash in my vision as if the lights are flickering. He’s making himself known more often, trying to push me out of the way when my anxiety or anger levels are even slightly elevated.
“I reported my findings,” she says. “Gave a call to the detective who investigated Billy’s disappearance. It’s still active—he hasn’t let it go cold. I wouldn’t be surprised if he reaches out to Angel.”
I feel an unreasonable flash of annoyance. But, of course, she did the right thing, what she was obligated to do. That’s what we’re all trying to do, isn’t it? The right thing. I remind myself that if there’s a missing child, it’s not about Angel’s trauma, or even about Tom and Wendy Walters. It’s not about his wicked appetites. It’s about finding Billy Martin.
“Thank you, Andrea,” I say.
Tess sits in the corner of the room. Today she’s wearing gym shorts and a T-shirt with a rainbow on it, those silly white socks with the stripes at the top and the sneakers she used to wear. Braces, glasses, braids. She looks out the window, kicks her leg back and forth. She’s whistling something. What is it?
“Thank you,” Andrea says. “For keeping on this when others might have given up or discounted a troubled girl’s allegations. There might be something here. Though I have to admit, I really hope not.”
“Me, too.”
There’s an awkward silence. I could ask her how she is. Or suggest maybe we have dinner. But I just don’t. You know I think I would have been socially awkward anyway. I can’t blame everything on Kreskey.
“Keep me in the loop?” she says.
“Of course.” I struggle with what to say next. Why is it all so hard?
Then, “Take care of yourself, Hank.”
She ends the call. I stare at the phone—feeling like an idiot.
“So, what are you going to do?” asks Tess.
Somehow, she’s found herself an ice-cream cone. Remember that farm, the dairy, how we’d ride our bikes down that dangerous twisting road, heat rising off the asphalt and the smell of cow manure heavy in the air? We’d turn off onto the farm drive and the cows would low at us, munching on grass. The ice cream there, made fresh every day from the milk of those cows. Have you ever had better ice cream? I haven’t.
“I’m going back tonight,” I tell her.
She rolls her eyes. “For the third time?”
“For as many times as it takes.”
“What if you can’t find anything?” she asks. “What if there’s nothing there?”
I look around my empty kitchen, my single dish in the sink, the container of massaman curry from the Thai place empty beside it. The single glass of red wine imbibed for its health benefits.
“Why don’t you call Beth back?” Tess suggests.
The woman I met at the party. I’ve been thinking about her. This could be another one of those moments. Like that moment when I was still on my bike with the choice to turn around and ride for help. Or that moment when I stood at the doorway of Kreskey’s house and could have run out across that field screaming.
Maybe in this moment, I could pick up the phone and call Beth. Maybe we’d meet for a drink or catch a late movie. Maybe she’d come back here, and who knows what might happen after that. I can almost see my way along the well-lighted, normal path. I’ve gone above and beyond within the