“Wilde?”
Ava wore a big terry cloth robe. He knew the robe. He had even worn it.
“Can I come in for a second?” he asked.
He tried to read her face to see whether she was happy or sad to see him. Not that it would change anything. Her expression, however, seemed mixed. There was maybe surprise. There was maybe some joy. There was also something else — something in her expression that he couldn’t quite put his finger on.
“Now?”
He didn’t bother replying.
Ava leaned forward, met his eye, and whispered, “I’m not alone, Wilde.”
Ah, so now he could quite put his finger on it.
Her face softened. “Ah, Wilde,” she said in a voice too tender. “Why tonight?”
Maybe he shouldn’t have come. Maybe he should have left this to Hester.
“It’s about Naomi Pine,” he said.
That got her attention. She glanced behind her, stepped out onto the stoop, and closed the door.
“What about Naomi?” she asked. “Is she okay?”
“She’s missing.”
“What do you mean, missing?”
“She’s one of your students, right?”
“Sort of.”
“What do you mean, sort of?”
“What do you mean, she’s missing?”
“Did you notice she’s been absent?”
“I assumed she was sick.” Ava tightened the terry cloth robe. “I don’t understand. What’s your interest in this?”
“I’m trying to find her.”
“Why?” When he didn’t reply right away, Ava asked, “Did you ask her father?”
“My colleague” — easier than trying to explain about Hester — “did.”
“And?”
“He claims that Naomi is with her mother.”
“He said that?”
“Yes.”
Now Ava looked genuinely concerned. “Naomi’s mother hasn’t been a part of her life for a long time.”
“So we’ve been told.”
“How did you end up coming to me?”
“A source” — again easier — “claimed that you’re close to her.”
“I still don’t understand. Why are you looking for Naomi? Did someone hire you?”
“No. I’m doing it as a favor.”
“A favor for whom?”
“I can’t tell you. Do you have any idea where she is?”
The door behind her opened. A big man with one of those superlong beards filled the doorway. He looked at Ava, then at Wilde. “Hi,” he said.
“Hi,” Wilde said.
He looked back at Ava. “I better be going.”
“No need,” Wilde said. “This won’t take long.”
The bearded man looked at Ava some more. Then, as if he’d seen an answer there, he nodded to himself. “Rain check?” he asked her.
“Sure.”
He kissed her on the cheek, slapped Wilde on the back, and jogged down the steps. He slid into his GMC Terrain, headed out in reverse, and waved goodbye. Wilde turned back toward Ava and considered making an apology. She waved that away.
“Come on in.”
Wilde sat on the same red couch where he and Ava had first kissed. He quickly scanned the room. Nothing much had changed since he’d spent those three days here with her. On one wall, there were two new paintings hung the slightest bit crookedly — one watercolor of what looked like a tormented face, one oil painting of the Houvenkopf Mountain, which wasn’t far from here.
“The paintings,” he asked. “You do them?”
She shook her head. “Students.”
He had figured that. She didn’t like displaying her own work. Too personal, she’d told him when he asked. Too self-involved. Too easy to see all your flaws.
“Either of them by Naomi?”
“No,” Ava said. “But go ahead if you want.”
“Go ahead and what?”
She gestured to the walls. “Straighten them. I know how antsy it’s making you.”
At night, while Ava had slept, Wilde would go around, sometimes with a level, and make sure the paintings were indeed completely straight. It was one of the reasons why he was glad he had nothing hung up in his own abode.
As Wilde started to adjust the paintings, Ava took a seat in the chair farthest away from him. “You need to tell me why you’re looking for her.”
“No, I don’t.”
“Excuse me?”
He finished finagling with the mountain watercolor. “We don’t have time for explanations. Do you trust me, Ava?”
She pushed the hair back from her face. “Should I?”
There may have been an edge in the tone, he couldn’t be sure.
Then: “Yes, Wilde, I trust you.”
“Tell me about Naomi.”
“I don’t know where she is, if that’s what you’re asking.”
“But she’s one of your students?”
“She will be.”
“What does that mean?”
“I encouraged her to sign up for Intro to Watercolors next semester. She’ll be my student then.”
“But you already know her?”
“Yes.”
“How?”
“I do cafeteria duty three days a week. With the cutbacks, they were woefully understaffed.” She leaned forward. “You went to that high school, didn’t you?”
“Yes.”
“You’re not going to believe this, but when the two of us were, uh” — she looked up as though searching for the right word before shrugging and settling for — “together, I had no idea who you were. I mean, about your past.”
“I know.”
“How?”
“I can always tell.”
“People treat you differently, right? Never mind. It doesn’t matter. I imagine you were an outcast at that place, right?”
“To some degree.”
“To some degree,” she repeated, “because you’re strong and attractive and probably athletic. Naomi is none of those things. She is that girl, Wilde. The full-on, grade-A, bullied outcast. Somehow — and this will sound awful — but there is something about her that makes it easier for people. Human nature that no one wants to discuss. There is a bit of us that enjoys the spectacle. Like she deserves it. And it’s not just students. The other teachers smirk. I’m not saying they like it, but they do nothing to defend her.”
“But you do.”
“I try. It often makes it worse. I know that’s a cop-out, but when I stood up for her, well, let’s just say it didn’t help. So what I do instead, I pretend she gets in trouble — I hope that maybe gives her cred or something — and part of her punishment is, she can’t sit in the cafeteria during lunch. I take her to the art studio. Sometimes, if I get out of cafeteria duty, I’ll sit with her. I don’t think it helped much with the students, but at least...”
“At least what?”
“At least Naomi gets a break. At least she gets a few minutes of peace during the school day.” Ava blinked away a tear. “If Naomi is missing, she probably ran away.”
“Why do you say that?”
“Because her life is hell.”
“Even at home?”
“I don’t know if hell is the right word, but it isn’t great there either. Do you know Naomi was adopted?”
Wilde shook his head.
“She talks about it more than an adopted kid should.”
“In what way?”
“Fantasizing about being rescued by her real parents, for example. Her adoptive parents had to go through all kinds of interviews and screenings, and when they passed, they were awarded an infant — Naomi — but then pretty much right away, the mom couldn’t handle it. They even tried to return her to the orphanage. Do you believe that? Like she was a package delivered by UPS. Anyway, her mother had a breakdown. Or claimed to. She abandoned Naomi and her father.”
“Do you know where the mother is now?”