Bring Her Home Page 8

  “We did.”

  “And?”

  “She wasn’t with them the day they disappeared. She’s mostly been giving us background on the kids at the school, especially Summer and Haley’s friends. It’s kind of scary for a kid to talk to the police this way. She’s dealing with a lot of complicated emotions.”

  “We all are.”

  “Do you think Summer’s mood, her defiance, was affected by the proximity of her mother’s death anniversary? You said this Halloween thing was a month later.”

  “Maybe. I mean, sure.”

  “And you told me on the day the girls disappeared that your wife’s birthday had just passed. I believe . . .” He flipped through the notebook. “Was that two weeks earlier?”

  “It was,” Bill said, his heart sinking. “She lost her mother. She was in a lot of pain.”

  “Of course. And so were you.”

  “Sure. I’d like to think I wouldn’t have grabbed her if I hadn’t lost my wife a year earlier. Sure.”

  Hawkins gave Bill a paternal nod, a recognition they’d reached some mutual understanding. “I know we discussed you giving a DNA sample when Summer disappeared, and I think now would be a good time for you to provide one. Like I said back at the hospital, there could very well be evidence from the attacker on Summer’s body, and we’d pretty quickly want to exclude you.”

  Bill’s mouth felt dry. “I thought you wanted DNA for . . . to help identify her if you found her in some condition where she couldn’t be . . .”

  The look on Hawkins’s face didn’t change. And he didn’t say anything.

  “My God, do you really think I might have done that to my own daughter? Beating her and almost killing her?”

  “We need your DNA to exclude you from anything found on the girls’ bodies. You’re heading back to the hospital now, right? We can arrange for the DNA sample to be taken there. One of our technicians can come by.”

  “But you’re also checking up on me.”

  “Bill, I have to. Everybody has to be cleared.”

  “Are you talking to that shithead Clinton Fields? What about him and his friends? They’re probably a bunch of little date rapists. He put a boy in the hospital.”

  “I told you, we’re talking to him as well.”

  “Are you checking their DNA? Isn’t that a good idea?”

  “Bill, you can’t just take a DNA sample from a juvenile unless you have a strong reason to suspect him. We’re not there yet.”

  “Maybe Clinton and I are in cahoots? You know what, get out. Just get out.”

  But Hawkins was already lifting his bulky body up from the chair, adjusting his sport coat, and moving toward the door. He turned his back on Bill as he walked to the front of the house, and Bill watched the back of the man’s head, his fist clenching and unclenching. He reached down for the coffee table, his hand almost touching a small ceramic bowl that sat there.

  But he pulled his hand back.

  He wants you to do that, Bill thought. That’s what they want. To rattle my cage so much—

  Instead, Bill spoke. “I wish they had pressed charges that night.”

  Hawkins stood framed by the doorway, and he turned his big head to look at Bill. “Why?” he asked.

  “Maybe it would have changed something. Maybe it would have forced me to understand something about Summer that I clearly missed.”

  Hawkins walked out and said nothing, pulling the door shut behind him and leaving Bill seething alone in the house.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  Bill called Paige as he walked to his car. It was late afternoon, just past four, and the winter sun was already slipping away.

  “Hey,” he said when she answered. “Is everything okay there?”

  “Yes, she’s fine. The same.”

  “Hawkins just left here.”

  “Okay. Are you coming back?” Paige asked.

  Bill clicked the key fob, unlocking his Civic. He held the phone with one hand while he pulled the door open with the other. “Paige, did Summer talk about anything else when she called you that time?”

  “I told you everything.”

  “Did she talk about Julia?”

  “I asked how she was doing. The usual stuff. But we didn’t get deep into it.”

  Bill started the car and backed up, angling and heading down the driveway. “I have to make a stop.”

  “Where? Bill, what happened with the police?”

  “I’ll see you soon.”

  • • •

  The halls of Jakesville High School were almost empty when Bill walked in. Bill felt a little like an intruder, a tired, frazzled, middle-aged man wandering a building meant mostly for teenagers. He passed lockers and brightly colored bulletin boards. He saw a banner advertising an upcoming basketball game and another about taking the ACT. He didn’t know where he was going.

  Two kids, a boy and a girl who looked to be about Summer’s age, came toward Bill. Their bodies nearly touched as they walked, and their heads were inclined toward each other, their voices low, conspiratorial in the echoing hall. They didn’t notice Bill until he said, “Excuse me,” and then they looked up.

  “Do you know where Ms. Halstrom’s office is?” he asked.

  The girl turned halfway around and pointed behind her, her overstuffed backpack shifting as she moved. “Down there,” she said. “I think it’s, like, room one oh one?”

  “Thanks.”

  Bill started to go, but the boy was staring at him, his mouth slightly open. “You’re that girl’s dad. Summer.”

  “Yes.” Bill stopped his forward motion and turned back to the boy. “Do you know her? Are you friends with her?”

  They both shook their heads, a paired set of bobbleheads. “We’re freshmen,” the girl said. “But we heard about it. We heard she almost died.”

  “Shhh, Rachel—”

  “Well, I’m sorry.”

  “It’s okay,” Bill said. “She’s hurt bad. But we’ll see.”

  He was walking away, his shoes loud in the hallway, when the girl, Rachel, said, “We’re both sorry.”

  Bill looked back one more time. “Thank you.”

  He meant it.

  • • •

  Ms. Halstrom’s door stood open. Her desk was covered with books and papers, and a well-known Bob Dylan song Bill hadn’t heard in years, “It Ain’t Me, Babe,” played over her laptop.

  She looked up, brushing her long salt-and-pepper hair out of her face. She appeared to be at least ten years older than Bill, maybe even closing in on sixty.

  “Mr. Price,” she said. She used her index finger to lower the volume, and then she scrambled to her feet, her long, flowy skirt billowing around her like a sail. She held out her hand, and they shook. “Sit down, please. If you have the time.”

  “I came to see you,” Bill said, sitting. He’d met Summer’s guidance counselor on a couple of occasions—once at a school open house and again at Julia’s funeral. Both Summer and Haley raved about Ms. Halstrom, speaking about her in the same reverent tones they normally reserved for the cast of Pretty Little Liars or Daniel Radcliffe. “You don’t mind me just showing up like this, do you, Ms. Halstrom?”

  “Of course not,” she said. “And call me Anna. I was going to talk to Principal Reynolds to try to find more information out about Summer’s condition. And then I was going to stop by the hospital if she’s up for visitors.”

  “She will be soon. I hope.” Bill spotted a box of tissues on the edge of the desk next to a stack of brochures about the stages of grief. “Rough time around here, I guess.”

  Anna nodded, her lips pressed into a tight line. “Lots of kids coming by. Lots of parents calling. Everyone is sad and scared—I can tell you that. If it’s any comfort, and it has been some to me, the kids coming by have spoken very highly of Summe
r and Haley. They’re so upset because they love those girls so much.”

  “That does help to know,” Bill said. “Thank you. And thank you for all you’ve done for Summer over the last two years, especially when Julia died.”

  “That girl.” Tears formed in Anna’s eyes. “Such a good kid. You know, last year, when the school board was contemplating changes to the dress code, changes that I thought were sexist, quite frankly, Summer spoke before the student council.”

  “I remember that.”

  “She was so articulate. So polished. Just a natural. I could see her running for student body president when she’s a senior. I know she’s been given a heavy load. You have too. I’ve tried to share hers, and if I can share yours, I will. You must have a lot on your mind right now.”

  “Summer’s on my mind right now. Haley too.” Bill looked around the small office. The shelves of more books, the framed diplomas, the posters of Gandhi and Einstein. The low twang of Dylan’s voice. “I know she talks to you a lot. I’m trying to figure out what might have happened, and I thought you could help me.”

  Anna nodded, her head moving as though she were bopping along to the music. “Yes, we always had good talks, Summer and I. She’s a beautiful girl, inside and out. And I can only imagine how this is tearing you up.”

  “The police are saying . . . They’re asking about everything.”

  “I know what the police are saying,” Anna said. “They came to my house on Sunday morning.” Anna leaned back in her chair, the springs squeaking as she moved. She considered Bill a long moment. “Ordinarily I wouldn’t share the details of our counseling sessions, but since this is so serious, since lives are potentially in danger, I’m okay with it.”

  “I’m okay with it too,” Bill said, sounding to his own ears like an eager kid. “What did Summer say to you? What did you tell the police?”

  “I’m not sure the police understood everything I was telling them, but maybe you will.” She leaned forward again. “Summer and I rarely talked about boys. We really didn’t. I was much more concerned about something else Summer seemed to be obsessing over lately. Something she started talking about again and again.”

  “What was it?” Bill asked.

  “Her mom’s death.”

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  Bill shifted in his seat. He suddenly felt like almost thirty years had fallen away, transforming him back into a nervous high schooler, one who’d forgotten a key assignment or been caught smoking behind the football field.

  “What about that?” he asked.

  Anna steepled her fingers, resting the tips against the underside of her chin. “I only bring it up because I noticed that Summer’s thoughts about her mother’s death seemed to have changed over the past couple of months. As I’m sure you know, I spent a great deal of time talking with her—listening, really—when your wife died.”

  “I know,” Bill said. “I’m grateful for that. Really.”

  Anna smiled. “Thank you for saying that.” She lowered her hands. A bracelet on her wrist jangled as she moved. Another Dylan song played, one Bill was less familiar with. He tried to conjure the name. “Caribbean Wind”? Was that it?

  Anna said, “Can I be honest with you, Mr. Price?”

  “Bill. And, yes, I wish you would be.”

  “When I heard on Saturday that Summer was missing, I worried, just for a split second, that maybe she had run away.”

  Bill’s hands tightened their grip on the arms of his chair. “Why would you say that? Had she talked about that?”

  Anna was shaking her head. She seemed to be choosing her words carefully. A line from the Dylan song stood out, reaching Bill through the pause in the conversation: “I hear a voice crying, ‘Daddy,’ I always think it’s for me. . . .”

  “I’m speaking from my gut here,” Anna said. “It had been months since Summer spoke about her mother in any meaningful way. I took that as a good sign. She was healing, not that anyone can ever get over losing a mother, especially so young. But a couple of weeks ago, Summer came by and brought her up again. She seemed agitated, more upset than I’d seen her in a long time.”

  “It was Julia’s birthday a couple of weeks ago,” Bill said, hoping Summer was merely upset about that and not something deeper and darker.

  “I knew that.” Anna waved her hands in the air, a gesture of uncertainty that made the bracelets jangle again. “There seemed to be something more at play there, something I couldn’t get her to talk about. She said she felt her mother’s death weighing on her again, that everywhere she turned, she was reminded of it. She talked about looking forward to college so she could move away. She kept returning to that thought. A desire to leave, to get away. It seemed like an intense feeling.”

  “She wanted me to stay in the house,” Bill said, his voice defensive. “I would have moved or sold it. I don’t care.”

  Anna held up a hand, a signal she understood. “Kids are fragile. They can turn on a dime. I made an appointment to follow up with her, to talk through more of it, but we never got back to it. I saw her in the hallway the week before she disappeared, and she seemed perfectly fine. The same old Summer. But it seemed to me that something had happened, something had triggered those feelings. It could have been the birthday, which is a fact of life. Birthdays come around for people, even when they’re gone. But I also wondered if it was something more.” Anna let out a deep, yogalike breath. “That’s why I worried she’d run away. I worried something had happened, something she couldn’t deal with.”

  Bill scrambled through his memories, searching for something that might have occurred in the last few weeks to upset Summer, something besides Julia’s birthday. He’d answered the same kind of questions for the police on the day Summer disappeared, but Anna’s words cast everything in a new light. “I can’t think of anything. And obviously she didn’t run away. We know where she is now.”

  “Right,” Anna said. “And that’s a tiny piece of good news.” She clenched her hand into a fist, holding it above her desk. She looked like she was taking hold of hope and never letting go. “That’s the best thing right now.”

  Bill nodded, hoping the affirmative gesture would make him feel better inside, make him feel as positive as Anna wanted him to feel. But he was faking it, and even as he nodded, he knew he wasn’t going to be able to stop thinking about what Anna had just told him.

  • • •

  Bill walked through the mostly empty parking lot. The buses were gone, the cars belonging to students and faculty mostly cleared out. He replayed the talk with Anna. Julia’s death? What could be bothering Summer about Julia’s death so much that she’d want to run away? Hadn’t they been through the worst? Why on earth weren’t they emerging onto the other side?

  He pressed the key fob, unlocking his doors, and as he reached for the handle, he looked up. Two kids—two boys—were walking to a car, looking back over their shoulders at him and hurrying away.

  “Hey!” Bill said, recognizing them. He rushed around the back of his car, jogging lightly to make up the fifty or so feet between him and the boys. Clinton and Todd. “Hold it!”

  But the boys had already stopped. They stood side by side next to a white Kia Rio each wearing light jackets and carrying backpacks. They blinked in the winter sun as Bill approached. Clinton wore his hair longer, so it brushed the tops of his shoulders, and his cheeks looked rosy at any time of year. His eyes were small brown pearls set deep in his face. Todd looked younger, a little smaller, his hands and face pale. His eyes were slightly bloodshot, and Bill wondered if they’d been drinking or getting high during the school day.

  “Hi, Mr. Price,” Clinton said. His voice was low, less confident and more unctuous than when he showed up at the house and laid it on thick for Bill. Todd looked even more uncertain. He shuffled from one foot to the other, his eyes cast to the ground.

  Bill felt his
body moving faster and faster, as though some internal engine were driving him forward like a car without brakes. He raised his index finger, the boys’ faces growing larger in his vision. And then Clinton took a couple of steps back, his body bumping against the car.

  “What are you doing here?” Bill asked. And, indeed, he couldn’t stop himself in time. He lost his balance, falling forward and making contact with Clinton, who put his hands up so Bill didn’t tumble over.

  “Watch it,” Clinton said. “Jesus.”

  Bill pulled away from the boy, straightening up. “Did you talk to the police? The police are looking for you.”

  “We have to go, Mr. Price,” Todd said. He slung his backpack onto his shoulder and reached for the passenger door. “We have to get home.”

  “The police,” Bill said. “What happened? Did you see Summer that day? Do you know what happened to her?” Bill still stood too close to Clinton, saw a fleck of spittle fly out of his mouth and land in the boy’s hair. “Was one of you having sex with her? Is that it? Todd? You went to that dance with her. Were you dating? I don’t care. Just tell me.”

  Clinton’s hands were still out in front of him, warding Bill off. “You can’t say these things to us.” His voice was defiant again, laced with open contempt for Bill, as though he were speaking to a peasant. “This is rude. And inappropriate.”

  “Rude? What about what happened to Summer? And Haley?”

  “We talked to the cops,” Todd said, his door open. “More than once. Look, we’re sorry, but we have to leave. We’re not supposed to talk about it.”

  “With anybody,” Clinton said. He scooted back, reaching for the door on his side.

  Bill knew he needed to back away, to turn and go to the hospital or anywhere else so he wouldn’t be in the faces of the two kids. But the internal engine kept pushing him. He stepped forward into the space vacated by Clinton. “Just tell me what you know. Why did you hit her? Why did you do that to those girls?”