He didn't see me when he came through the door. He tossed his book bag on the stairs, whirled to the right, and strode into the kitchen. I heard him open the refrigerator. There was a clink of bottles, the sound of one being opened. I assumed he'd taken a bottled water or a soda, but when he slouched back into the foyer, I saw that he held a beer.
When he saw me sitting in the living room, he stared at me evenly, waiting for a challenge, then tilted back his head, took a long swig, and wiped his mouth with his sleeve.
"You're not of drinking age, Keith," I reminded him.
"That right?" he asked with a smirk. "Well, by the time I'm old enough to drink, I'll be in jail, so, like they say, what the fuck." He grinned at me defiantly, took another swig, then pressed the bottle toward me. "Care for a drink, Dad?"
I stood up, walked over to him, and yanked the bottle from his hand. "We need to talk," I said. "In your room."
"My room?" He laughed dismissively. "No way, Dad."
I placed the bottle on the table beside the door. "Your room," I said evenly. "Now."
He shook his head with exaggerated weariness, turned, and made his way up the stairs with a slow exhausted gait, like a boy who'd worked in the fields all day, rather than one who'd spent the last seven hours sitting in a classroom.
At the door of his room, he turned to me. "You're not going to like it," he said. "It's not like all neat and orderly."
"I don't care what it looks like," I told him.
With that, Keith opened the door to his room and stepped inside.
I followed behind, stepping into a level of clutter and disarray that I'd fully expected. The only surprise was that between the window and the small desk that had once held his computer, he'd hung a thick black cloth, which was clearly meant to block the monitor from view. The walls of the room were covered with torn-out magazine pictures of people dressed in Goth attire, black jeans and black T-shirts, stringy hair dyed black, blackened eyes and lips and fingernails.
"Like the décor, Dad?" Keith asked with a brutal laugh. "Glad you came to visit?"
I whirled around to face him. "Delmot Price and I had a little talk this morning," I said.
Keith slumped down on the unmade bed and idly picked up a magazine. "So?"
"The police have talked to him, too," I added. "They know you called him the night Amy disappeared."
Keith flipped a page of the magazine, licked his finger, and flipped another. "I just wanted to talk," he said.
"About your plan to run away?"
Keith gave no sign that the fact that I knew about his plan in the least bothered him. He continued to stare at the magazine.
"Look at me, Keith," I said sharply.
He lifted his eyes languidly.
"Put the magazine away."
He flipped the cover, tossed it across the room, and made a great show of staring me directly in the eye.
"First off, don't even think about leaving town," I said. "That's all the cops would need right now."
Keith kicked off his shoes, pressed his back against the wall, and folded his arms over his chest.
I pulled the chair away from his desk, planted it in the center of the room, and sat down so that we were now eye to eye.
"I need some answers, Keith," I said.
Keith said nothing but continued to stare at me sullenly.
"They found pictures on your computer," I said.
I looked for some sign that the shock of having the pictures discovered had shaken him but saw nothing but his cold metallic stare.
"Why did you have those pictures, Keith?"
His silence was like a cocked gun.
"Little girls," I said. "Naked."
He closed his eyes.
"Why did you have pictures of little girls on your computer?"
He shook his head.
"They found them, Keith," I said firmly. "They found them on your computer."
He continued to shake his head, eyes still closed.
"You know what that looks like, don't you? How bad it looks. With Amy missing."
He began to breathe with exaggerated force, rhythmically, like a pant.
"Keith, are you listening to me? They found pictures!"
He was breathing in short gasps, loud and furiously, like a diver gearing up for a frightening plunge.
"They showed them to me, Keith," I said. "Little girls. Seven, eight years old."
Suddenly the gasping breaths ceased, and his eyes shot open. "What else?" he hissed. "What else, Dad? I know there's more."
"Yes, there is," I said hotly, as if he'd challenged me to make a stronger case against him. "I want to know who brought you home the night Amy disappeared."
He stared at me silently for a moment, and I expected him to yell back some ridiculous reply, but instead something appeared to unravel deep within him, as if he were suddenly in the motions of a final letting go. "Nobody brought me home."
I leaned forward threateningly. "I saw a car pull into the driveway, Keith. Up on the road. It pulled in. I saw the lights. Then it backed up and drove away. That's when I saw you coming down the drive." I lifted my head and looked him dead in the eye. "Who brought you home in that car, Keith?"
"Nobody," Keith answered softly.
"Keith, I have to know the truth," I said. "I have to know about those pictures. And I have to know about that car."
"I didn't have any pictures," he said with surprising firmness. "And nobody brought me home that night."
I felt nearly drunk with exasperation, dazed and staggering. "Keith, you have to tell me the truth."
Without the slightest warning, a wrenching sob broke from him. It seemed to come from an unexpected depth, a sob that all but gutted him. "Fuck me," he cried. He dropped his head forward then brought it back against the wall so hard that the force rattled the shelf that hung above him. "Fuck me!"
"Jesus, Keith, can't you see I'm trying to help you?"
"Fuck me," Keith cried. He jerked forward, then, like a body caught in a seizure, he slammed his head back against the wall.
I shot out of my chair and jerked the black cloth from the wire. "No more fucking lies! "I screamed.
Keith thrust forward, then slammed back again, his head pounding violently against the wall. He seemed caught in an uncontrollable spasm, his body moving like a puppet in the hands of a murderous puppeteer,
I grabbed his shoulders and drew him tightly into my arms. "Stop it, Keith," I pleaded. "Stop it!"
He began to cry again, and I held him while he cried, held him until he finally stopped crying and slumped down on the bed, where he wiped his eyes with the palms of his hands, then looked up and started to speak. That for a moment I thought he'd decided to come clean, admit what there was to admit about the pictures, the car that had brought him home that night. Even at its worst, I thought, it would be a relief to have it out, done with, known. It was the suspense that was killing us, slowly, hour by hour, like a long drawn-out strangulation.
"Keith, please tell me," I said softly.
His lips sealed immediately, and his eyes were dry now. "I didn't do anything," he said softly. He closed his eyes slowly, then opened them again. "I didn't do anything," he repeated. He slithered out of my arms and sat bolt upright on the bed, no longer broken. I felt him harden before my eyes. "May I please be alone now?" he asked stiffly. "I'd really like to be alone."
I knew there was no point in challenging him further. The moment had come and gone. This had been my chance, and his, but nothing had come of it, and it was over.
I walked out of the room and down the stairs to where Meredith now sat in the living room.
"Nothing," I said. "He denied everything."
Her eyes took on a kind of animal panic. "He has to tell you the truth, Eric."