The muted television played in the background.
“I have to fly home today,” Lilith announced. “Irina has been covering the shop while I’m gone, but she’s got her own work. I promised I’d only be gone for a couple days, and it’s been nearly five.”
She carried her suitcase down from her room upstairs
Bette hugged Lilith hard.
“Thank you for coming, Lil.”
Lilith nodded, her eyes swimming with tears.
“I hate to go…” She glanced at Homer, who hadn’t moved and seemed like a statue at the window.
“It’s okay. I’ll call you the minute we find out anything,” Bette promised.
She wanted to say the minute we find her, but more than a week had passed. Finding her now meant something very different than it had in those first days.
Bette glanced at the television and saw Weston Meeks, hounded by reporters as he walked away from the East Lansing Police Station
“It’s Meeks,” she shouted, diving for the remote and jamming her finger on the volume button.
Weston ducked his head and shielded his face as a reporter snapped his photograph. The flash of the bulb was followed by voices as several other reporters ran up to him.
“Is it true you were having an affair with the missing woman?” one man yelled, thrusting a microphone in Wes’s face.
“Was Crystal Childs pregnant with your baby, Professor Meeks?” a woman shouted.
Bette watched, frozen by the sheer terror on Wes’s face. He looked like a little boy who’d stumbled into a room full of monsters. No one appeared to help him, no lawyer or officer or friend shielded Wes or ran with him to his car. He ran alone, his face a shade of gray that matched the sidewalk beneath him.
He climbed into his jeep and pulled from the curb, sending a plume of stones back toward the reporters. More bulbs flashed as they caught his desperate escape.
“That was him?” Lilith murmured.
Homer, too, had turned away from the window, eyes glued to the screen.
His cheek twitched, and for several more seconds he stared at the television.
A photograph of Crystal appeared on the screen.
“Crystal Childs is a twenty-two-year-old co-ed at Michigan State University,” a man’s voice announced. “She was last seen on the morning of Friday, June fourteenth. If you have any information about Crystal, please call the number at the bottom of the screen.”
A reporter standing at Frasier Gorge replaced Crystal’s image. The woman was young, not much older than Crystal and Bette, with curly blond hair and fashionable black glasses perched on her strong nose.
“Crystal Childs’ pale blue Volkswagen Beetle was discovered at the bottom of this gorge eight days ago. The car was driven off the cliff behind me and landed in the woods below. Although search-and-rescue teams scoured the woods for more than two days, no trace of Crystal has been found. Police suspect foul play and have named Weston Meeks, a poetry and writing professor at Michigan State University, a person of interest in this case.”
“Yeah,” Bette said as the news shifted to the weather report. “That was Weston Meeks.”
Lilith put a hand on Homer’s shoulder. “I’m flying home today, Homer, but I’m only a call away. Don’t hesitate.”
He dragged his eyes from the television and looked at Lilith, nodding as if slowly comprehending her words.
“Home,” he murmured. “Thanks so much for coming, Lilith.”
He hugged her, but his eyes had taken on the distant glaze they had often held in the weeks and months after their mother’s death.
At the beginning of Joanna’s sickness, Homer had gone into fix-it mode. He drove all over the country buying mushrooms, tinctures and oils to save his ailing wife.
When the cancer progressed, despite his best efforts, Homer began to shut down. In the final days of her life, he rarely left the chair by her bed. He didn’t shower or eat unless Lilith forced him to.
It took years for Homer to emerge from that dark place, and Bette was terrified he might slip into it once more.
“Dad.” Bette stood directly in front of her father. “I’m going to Traverse City. I want to talk to Weston’s wife and see if I can’t find out more about that girl who disappeared a couple of years ago.”
“I’ll come with you,” he said.
“No.” She shook her head.
“You’ve got to keep the pressure on the police. Plus, that reporter from the Lansing State Journal wants an interview. I should be back in time, but if I’m not, you’ve got to talk to him.”
Homer’s face remained rigid. He blinked and nodded. “Okay. Call me, though. I want to know everything you find out.”
“Of course.” She hugged her dad. “Lilith needs a ride to the airport.”
Bette kissed Lilith on the cheek and headed for her car.
31
Now
Hillary Meeks’ white-blond hair framed her angular face. She was pretty in a sterile way, all sharp edges and narrow features. She wore sunglasses and walked with her chin lifted as if she were a movie star, and the paparazzi might descend at any moment.
And they might, Bette thought, to question her about her husband’s mistress.
“Hillary! Hillary Meeks?” Bette shouted, hurrying to catch up with the woman as she walked briskly to her car.
The woman didn’t acknowledge her. She pulled open her door, as Bette caught up with her, and dropped into the front seat. Bette grabbed the door.
Hillary’s eyes flicked to her hand and Bette saw she intended to wrench the car door closed on it. Bette winced, preparing for the pain.
Another nurse from the hospital walked to a green pickup truck parked next to Hillary’s car. Bette saw the woman’s eyes narrow at her co-worker. Hillary released the handle of her car, apparently not comfortable crushing Bette’s fingers with a witness present.
“Please, I’m not a reporter,” Bette whispered loudly. “My name is Bette Childs. I’m Crystal Childs’ sister. Please talk to me.”
Hillary’s lips flattened into a line, and she threw Bette a withering, almost hateful look. After a moment, the look slid away, and she smiled coolly.
“I’m sorry for your situation, Bette, but I’ve already spoken with the police. I’m sure I can’t help you.”
“Please,” Bette said again, still holding the door.
Hillary stared straight ahead through her windshield, putting both hands on the steering wheel and squeezing.
“Fine. There’s a park on Union Street. You can follow me there.”
Bette ran to her car and jumped in. Hillary was already pulling from the parking lot, and Bette had to jam the gas pedal to catch up with her. The woman drove fast and barely paused at stop signs, slamming on her breaks when a lady walking her dog stepped off the curb in front of her.
Bette found the whole experience unsettling. The woman was clearly angry, and Bette tried to approach the situation in the way Crystal would have, finding compassion for the scorned wife. Instead, she felt her own mixture of emotion: anger, but also fear.
Hillary whipped her car down a side street and pulled to the curb. She stepped out, and walked down a steep hill toward a slow-moving river. She perched on a bench at a picnic table, her eyes trained on the dark water.
Bette followed her, glancing both ways. It was a cloudy June day in the middle of the week and not another soul occupied the park.
Bette sat across from Hillary at the picnic table. She felt as if the woman’s steely gaze passed right through her.