He turned away. “Leave.”
“Paige is missing.”
“I don’t care.”
In the distance, Simon could hear the scream-laughter of children, probably coming from the corn maze. Aaron Corval had grown up here, in this Norman Rockwell painting come to life, and look how it ended up. Then again, in all fairness, hadn’t Paige been raised in a slightly altered version of an idyllic childhood? And not just on paper. We all see the picket fences or the pretty facades, the two smiling parents, the healthy siblings, all that, and part of us gets that we have zero idea what’s going on behind closed doors, that there is anger and abuse, shattered dreams and blown expectations.
But that hadn’t been the case with Paige.
Were their lives perfect?
Of course not.
Were their lives pretty close to perfect?
As close, Simon imagined, as you get.
And yet their daughter had succumbed to the worst out there. Simon had asked himself a million questions, pondered every decision — had he shown enough interest, paid attention to her friends and studies, supported her hobbies? Were they too strict or too lax? There was that time Simon had exploded in anger and actually thrown a glass on the floor during dinner. Just once. Years ago. He remembered how Paige, only eight at the time, had started to shiver.
Was that to blame?
You go through every damn moment like that because even though his mother had warned him, “Kids don’t come with instruction manuals,” and you quickly learn that your child comes to you hardwired, that in the battle of nature vs nurture, nature kicks complete and total ass — still, when things go wrong, when something this dark invades your child’s soul, you can only wonder where the hell you went wrong.
From behind him, a woman asked, “Who’s this?”
Simon spun toward the voice. Again he recognized her from the picture in the foyer — Aaron’s mother, Enid. There were people traipsing down the path with her, ten or twelve, Simon estimated, including a man with a clergy collar carrying a Bible.
“Just a nice gentleman who walked down the wrong path,” Wiley Corval said.
Simon considered countering that with the truth — full-on confrontation, to hell with niceties — but he concluded that it would probably backfire. He muttered an apology and started past the family and friends and back up toward the farm. There was no one close to Aaron’s age here, and Simon remembered Paige telling him something about Aaron being an only child. That meant there’d be no sibling to question — and none of these people looked the right age to be a close friend, if indeed a junkie like Aaron had any close friends.
So now what?
Let them have their service, he thought. Whatever their son had turned into, Wiley and Enid had lost him now — brutally, suddenly, unnaturally, permanently. Give them this moment.
When he got back to the clearing, a group of kids Simon estimated were around ten or eleven years old emerged from the maze breathless. They all started high-fiving each other. Simon pulled out his phone. There were a lot of messages. He went to his favorites. Ingrid was listed first. Yvonne was second, and then Paige (whose number no longer worked but he still kept it in Favorites), Sam, Anya. Age order with the kids. Only fair.
He hit Yvonne’s number.
“No change,” Yvonne said.
“I have to be there with her.”
“No, you don’t.”
He looked back at the kids who’d just finished the corn maze. They all had their phones out now, some taking photos, both selfies and group shots, others doing whatever it was we all do on those screens.
“Reverse roles,” Yvonne said. “You’re the one shot. You’re the one lying here in a coma. Do you want Ingrid sitting next to you and holding your hand? Or—”
“Yeah, okay, I get it.”
“So have you found Aaron’s family?”
He filled her in on what had just occurred.
“So what’s your plan?”
“Hang here. Wait until the service is over. Try to talk to them again.”
“The father doesn’t sound amenable,” Yvonne said. “A mother might be more understanding.”
“Sexist,” he said.
“Yep.”
“How are things at work?”
“We got you covered.”
Simon hung up and moved back to his car. He took out his phone again and started to listen to the messages. Word about the shooting had somehow not yet made the papers, so most of the messages were mercifully client- rather than solace-related. He returned some of the client calls, not mentioning his own situation, making it just another workday. Doing something routine was comforting.
He was blocking on Ingrid. He knew that. But he also knew that was the right way to go right now.
Half an hour later, while discussing with Dr. Daniel Brocklehurst, a neurosurgeon at Mount Sinai, the financial benefits of retiring in Florida versus Arizona, Simon spotted the mourners coming back over the gentle hill. They were led by Wiley Corval and the clergyman. Wiley’s back was bent over in apparent if not melodramatic grief, and the clergyman had his arm around his shoulders, whispering what Simon assumed were words of comfort. The other mourners trailed them, some squinting up into the sun, others nodding to passing tourists.
In the back of the group — way in the back, come to think of it — was Enid Corval, Aaron’s mother. For a brief flash, Simon imagined them as a pack of gazelles and him the lion, readying to take down the one farthest away from the pack. Silly image, but there you go.
But that one would be Enid, the mother.
Simon kept watching. Enid looked distracted. She glanced at her watch, slowing her walk, staying farther and farther back from the rest of the mourners. Alone.
Odd, Simon thought. She was the mother. You’d think a few of them would be with her, putting an arm around her, offering her comforting words. No one did.
She was also dressed differently. The rest of the group, including Wiley Corval, had gone with the blue-blazer, khaki, loafer-sans-socks spirit, even if that wasn’t exactly what they were wearing. Poor man’s yacht club. Enid wore mom jeans, Velcro white sneakers, and a stretched-out cable-knit sweater that was a yellow usually found on a Ticonderoga pencil.
Wiley and the clergyman started up the porch steps. The receptionist who’d helped Simon greeted Wiley at the door with a buss on the cheek. The rest of the mourners filed in after him.
Except Enid.
She was now trailing the group far enough that she remained outside after the door had closed. She glanced left, then right, then headed behind the inn.
Simon wasn’t sure what his move was here. Get out of the car and confront? Stay where he was and see where she was going?
When Enid Corval disappeared around the back of the inn, Simon slid out of the car to get a better view. He spotted her getting into a pickup truck. She started it up and put the truck into reverse. Simon hurried back to his car and hit the ignition button.
Thirty seconds later, he was following Enid Corval’s pickup down Tom Wheeler Road.
The road was lined with low stone walls offering a modicum of protection to the vast farmland on both sides. Simon didn’t know enough about this area — were these real farms or for show or what? — but most looked pretty worn and dilapidated.
Fifteen minutes later, the pickup truck pulled into a dirt parking lot with like-minded vehicles. There was no sign visible advertising a name or description for this establishment. Enid got out of the pickup and headed toward a converted barn with aluminum siding, like it’d been snapped together. The color was faux bright orange, like a clown’s hair.
Simon pulled in, self-conscious of his Audi, and cruised to a far corner. He looked to his left. Hidden from the road on the far side of the barn were a couple of dozen motorcycles lined up in two anally straight lines. Harley-Davidsons for the most part. Simon didn’t know much about motorcycles, had never been on one, but even from this vantage point, he could spot the iconic Harley logo on a few of the bikes.