Crooked Little Lies Read online

  “It was awful, Mommy. I fell.” Kenzie admitted this in a small voice that cracked with humiliation.

  “Oh, honey.” Lauren put her arm across Kenzie’s narrow shoulders, pulling her tight against her side. “You aren’t the first, you know?”

  “That’s what Miss Madden said. Even Jodie told me she fell, too, when she first got her toe shoes.”

  “Well, there, you see?” Lauren jostled Kenzie a bit. “And just look where she is now.”

  Jodie was Miss Madden’s star pupil, a senior in high school who had recently landed a scholarship to Juilliard.

  “She’s so nice,” Kenzie said. “She told me if I want to, she’ll work with me after class sometimes. I said I would ask you.”

  “Can we talk about it later? Daddy ordered pizza, and we need to make a salad.”

  The four of them sat down when the pizza came.

  “I found a great deal on a four-wheeler on Craigslist,” Drew said, stuffing half of his pizza slice into his mouth.

  “What makes you think you’re getting a four-wheeler, champ?” Jeff asked.

  “I’ve got money saved.”

  “He thinks if he gets it, he can ride it at the farm,” Kenzie said. “I told him you’re selling the farm, but he didn’t believe me.”

  “Yeah, dummy, because Aunt Tara said—”

  “You talked to Tara?” Lauren asked.

  “Not lately,” Drew said.

  “Well, you’re not getting a four-wheeler, bro,” Jeff said.

  “Have you talked to her since you got back?” Lauren addressed Jeff.

  He shook his head, chewed his pizza, drank his Miller Lite.

  Watching him, Lauren was seized with fresh doubt. It wrote itself into the crevices of her mind, as dark and indelible as the blackest ink. They were talking, Jeff and Tara, behind her back. Lauren would bet the month’s grocery money on it.

  Get off the dope or lose your kids.

  Wasn’t that the ultimatum they’d given her?

  It’s for your own good.

  How many times had Tara said that?

  It’s because I love you and them, she had insisted.

  Lauren put aside her napkin. Even though she’d been off drugs almost a year, they were still treating her like she was some kind of lawbreaker, and entering a treatment facility and attending 12-step meetings were conditions of her parole.

  “You know, you and Tara were never such huge friends before I cracked myself up,” Lauren said, and she was staring at Jeff. Staring hard at him. She had a sense of the children, frozen in her peripheral vision, but she couldn’t stop herself, couldn’t break her glance.

  “What are you talking about? Before what?” He looked perplexed.

  Genuinely so.

  Was it an act? Lauren held his gaze, trying to decide. But it was impossible, and she left the table, feeling his eyes, and Drew’s and Kenzie’s eyes, following her. Feeling trapped and as helpless as a beetle tipped onto its back, legs fruitlessly clawing the air. She heard noise, a kind of buzzing. It seemed to originate in her brain, and she touched her ears with her fingertips. Was this insanity? Could a person know the exact moment she lost her mind? She thought again of Dr. Bettinger’s warning that she might continue to suffer from any number of symptoms as the result of her fall.

  Or she might not.

  “It depends,” he’d said.

  Depends. He used the word a lot. It wasn’t helpful.

  “You didn’t do your head any favors, getting hooked on Oxy.” Bettinger said that a lot, too.

  Jeff thought she shouldn’t go to the meeting, but when she insisted, he offered to drive her.

  “I can do it,” she said. “There’s no reason you should go. You’re exhausted.” She pushed a smile.

  He handed her the truck keys. “Maybe you do need a meeting.” He meant because of how she’d behaved at dinner.

  She said yes, but thought no. It wasn’t a meeting she needed, but Greg. Greg had been at the farm. He would know what was going on with Jeff and Tara. He might not want to talk to her after the way she’d distanced herself from him, but she’d make him. She’d tell him she wasn’t leaving until he did.

  She was pulling into a parking space at the Methodist church when her cell phone beeped, signaling she had a message, and she closed her eyes, praying, and dreading that it would be from Tara. Instead, the message was from Kenzie. She didn’t want Lauren thinking her fall during ballet practice would stop her.

  I’m not afraid, Kenzie had typed.

  You are my brave girl, Lauren responded, and the letters swam in her vision.

  Lauren got out of the pickup, searching the half-filled rows for Greg’s car and not finding it. He wasn’t in the church classroom, either. It worried her. He never missed meetings. In fact, he was so religious about attendance that Lauren often teased him. He’d make God wait, if there was a meeting on the night he died. She took a seat, nodding at a few others she knew, most of them only vaguely. But that was her fault. She didn’t try to know them. She didn’t feel she was like them. She’d tried explaining it to Greg once, that her addiction was the result of her accident. She hadn’t been looking to get high or looking for a way to escape anything, except the brutal pain. Greg had argued the reason for getting stoned didn’t matter; the result was the same.

  You were hooked if you couldn’t get through a day, an hour, a moment of your life without it.

  The meeting came to order, people got up and spoke and sat back down. Lauren kept her eye on the door and missed most of what was said. When the session ended, a few of the guys wandered outside, lighting cigarettes. Lauren went over to them and asked about Greg.

  “He came by early and told us he was taking off,” said one of the men.

  “Taking off?” Lauren heard the question in her voice, the protest.

  “Said he was going to Kansas City, didn’t he?” Another man spoke.

  “Yeah, something about a job.”

  Lauren felt as if she’d been punched. She took a step back, almost staggering; then catching herself, she walked away, quickly, ignoring the men when they called after her.

  Sitting in her car, she tapped in Tara’s number and when her voice mail came on, Lauren said, “I’m worried about you, I’m on my way over.”

  She had just clicked off when her cell rang.

  “Not now,” Tara said before Lauren could utter a word.

  “What’s wrong? Is Greg there? I’ll only stay a minute.”

  “No, I’ve got some kind of stomach crap. It’s going around at the office. I don’t want you catching it.”

  “You sound funny,” Lauren said, and it was true. Tara’s voice was stretched as thin and taut as a wire. “Is it Greg? Is something wrong between you?”

  Tara said she couldn’t talk; she would call later. “When I’m better,” she said, and before Lauren could answer, she was gone.

  Lauren sat listening to the dead air, feeling disturbed, unsure why. After a moment, she started the truck and drove home.

  The children were in bed by the time she got there. She heard the television going in the great room and went to the doorway, waiting for Jeff to see her, and she was nervous. She felt on the verge of something and started to speak, uncertain of what she intended to say, but then the news commentator said something about a man who was missing.

  “. . . since last Friday,” the commentator said.

  Lauren whipped her glance to the television screen, knowing the man’s identity before the commentator said his name. “Bo Laughlin.” The reporter went on, asking for anyone who might have knowledge of the young man’s whereabouts to contact the Lincoln County Sheriff’s Office.

  “I should call and tell them I saw him on Friday,” Lauren said. “Remember, I told you I nearly hit him?”

  Jeff looked sharply
at her. “You already called.”

  “I know, but that was only to ask if they’d check up on him. He wasn’t missing then.”

  “The woman you spoke to didn’t seem concerned, you said.” Jeff scooted to the edge of his chair. “She yakked on and on about the salvage business.”

  “She did, but—”

  “Well, I don’t know what more you can tell the cops.” He picked up the remote, switched off the set. “I’m going to bed. You coming?”

  “In a minute.” Lauren waited until Jeff was gone, then lowering herself to the ottoman in front of his chair, she switched on the TV again. Now the reporter was interviewing a girl. She was slightly built, with a pert, upturned nose. Her hair was cut short, not more than a cap of auburn curls, and framed her small face like layers of petals. She was wearing earmuffs, red earmuffs, and somehow Lauren knew it was Annie Beauchamp, Bo’s sister. She thought she would have known even if the girl wasn’t shaking from top to bottom. She looked so young and frightened, just heartbroken. Lauren’s own heart constricted. She thought of Bo, that he’d told her he was on his way to get candy for his sister.

  I have a dog named Freckles . . .

  Lauren looked at him in her mind’s eye. She saw him come out of the store and get into the car with the older, white-haired woman, the elegant woman. She looked at his hands, but they were empty. He wasn’t carrying anything. He hadn’t purchased the candy he’d said he was going to buy, or anything else.

  She sat a moment after she turned off the television, listening to the sound of the water running in the pipes, and then, going into the kitchen, she opened her purse and slipped out her cell phone.

  Making the call was the right thing to do.

  8

  Bo wasn’t mislaid like the mate to a pair of socks or a library book. He wasn’t going to turn up any minute, the way Madeleine and others said when they offered Annie their perky reassurance. No. He was gone, totally gone. Vanished. Poof. Annie knew it. From Day One, the moment when Sheriff Audi had initiated the BOLO, she’d felt Bo’s absence in her bones, in the deepest recesses of her brain. But no one other than law enforcement and the media was talking about the possibilities, the dark and logical realities, that he had been hit by a car or met with foul play. There were vague hints of robbery or a drug deal gone wrong.

  Annie could look at the speculation only sidelong and only for a moment. Her eyes kept filling the empty spaces with his presence. She would see him, vividly, sitting in a booth at the café or on her front steps or on the sidewalk outside the community center. She imagined him peering in the window there, wondering at all the activity—the people going in and out or seated at tables answering phones that now, halfway through Day Two since his disappearance had been reported, rang constantly.

  Annie had thought, given Bo’s erratic behavior, his handful of drug arrests, the police would wait at least twenty-four hours before they set up a command post and called on volunteers for help, but Sheriff Audi said Bo’s case was different. Because of his mental issues, Annie thought. Because he’s vulnerable and everyone cares about him, Madeleine and Carol said. But Annie couldn’t take it in, that people—she’d had the idea everyone, or most everyone, was disgusted by Bo—would drop everything to assist her and her family. She didn’t know how to respond. Her emotions were in turmoil. She was grateful for their help, but at the same time, her need for it humiliated and infuriated her, which made her feel ashamed.

  People were only acting out of concern for her. They only meant to be kind when they plied her with reassurances and food and urged her to rest. And she was sorry to disappoint them. But she couldn’t eat more than a bite or two, and she didn’t even try to rest until very early on Day Three, Wednesday, during the hours after midnight—the ones her mother had called the despair hours—when, over her objections, Sheriff Audi barred her from joining yet another team of searchers, a group assigned to an area north of Hardys Walk that included a heavily wooded, rural neighborhood.

  Cooper drove her back into town, to the café. Madeleine toasted grilled-cheese sandwiches for them, and Annie, with Madeleine sitting over her, managed to eat half. She was more exhausted than she’d realized, almost falling into her plate, and she didn’t protest when around one in the morning, Cooper led her to his truck parked in the alley behind the community center. He assisted her into the backseat. Rufus hopped in after her, sitting on the floor, while Cooper covered her with a blanket that was soft and smelled clean, the way he did, like pine. Like the woods after a good rain. She liked the smell, she thought, drifting.

  Setting Bo’s earmuffs over her ears, she closed her eyes and slept hard, jerking awake a short time later when she thought she heard Bo calling her name. Annie sat up slowly to listen. Rufus sat up, too, eyeing her worriedly, as if he knew the nature of the calamity that was unfolding. After several minutes passed, when she heard nothing other than the insistent throb of her own heartbeat and the rush of her breath, she pulled Bo’s earmuffs off her head.

  “I can’t hear him now,” she whispered to Rufus. “I can’t hear him at all.”

  She climbed down from the truck, and Rufus came with her. He trotted off to relieve himself on some nearby shrubbery, but Annie paused, lifting her chin, looking into the sky’s high arch. It was too late for stars, even the moon had fled, and the air had taken on a brittle quality. It wasn’t cold exactly, but there was a premonition of fall in the slight breeze, like a warning. And so far as anyone knew, Bo was in shirtsleeves and chinos, a pair of worn-out tennis shoes. He might or might not be wearing socks. Sometimes he forgot. Soon it would be cold all the time, and it would rain, and Annie couldn’t stand the idea of him outside in horrible weather, all alone. It was silly. She knew that. He walked the streets in every season. The difference was that on his own turf, he knew where to find shelter, and she knew where to find him.

  Putting his earmuffs back on her head, she walked down the alley toward the community center, Rufus by her side. Light glared from the metal-caged fixtures mounted above the row of shop doors. Still, she was glad for Rufus’s company. In fact, she preferred it to human company. He didn’t ask her continual questions about how she was doing. He didn’t push food on her or beg her to rest. He never promised her it would be okay.

  A group of teenagers appeared, walking toward Annie, carrying stacks of flyers, the ones Carol had helped Annie make on Monday evening. She’d found a suitable photograph of Bo in a box at JT’s. She thought her mom had taken it. It showed him leaning against one of the front-porch posts, his mouth quirked into a half smile, a teasing light in his eyes. He looked so cute, as if he had a secret. He looked normal.

  As ordinary as any one of these kids, who, having recognized Annie, had stopped now in front of her and stood shifting their feet, not quite meeting her eye. They didn’t know any more than she did how to proceed, and Annie didn’t know how to help them.

  She was grateful when one of the girls, a tall brunette, wearing glasses, stepped forward. “We’re going to put these up at shopping centers and malls, the ones between here and Houston. Everything around here is pretty much covered.” She was unsmiling and grave, but there was an aura of excitement in her demeanor, too, as if she were launched on an adventure and thrilled to be part of it.

  Annie thanked her.

  “It’s the least we can do,” one of the boys said.

  Another said, “Hang in there,” and bending over, he patted Rufus and spoke to him. It was easier than talking to her, Annie thought.

  “We know Bo,” the brunette girl said. “He comes to all the football games, basketball, too.”

  “Really?” It was news to Annie that Bo went to the high school games.

  “Yeah, he’s like our mascot, one of our biggest cheerleaders. We love him,” the girl said.

  “Not everyone does,” said the kid who’d been patting Rufus.

  “Some people are just
mean.” The girl’s glance darted toward Annie, and away.

  Her breath went shallow. “Did someone threaten him, threaten to hurt him?”

  The girl said no, looking uncomfortable. Rufus’s fan, the boy, didn’t answer until Annie pressed him, and then he was vague in a way that made Annie feel he wasn’t being honest, that he might even be fearful. She asked his name.

  “It’s Sean,” the girl said when he didn’t answer. “Sean Hennessy. I’m Gabriella, Gabby for short.” Gabby introduced the others, but Annie wasn’t listening. She was repeating Sean’s name to herself so that she would remember it when she spoke to Sheriff Audi.

  Gabby talked a bit more about Bo, saying how funny he was and how sweet. The other kids chimed in, awkward in their praise of Bo, more awkward in their leave-taking, and watching them go, Annie felt half-bewildered, half-irked, some frustrating combination. People kept telling her things about Bo that she didn’t know. They talked as if they shared a warm, fuzzy connection with him. But weren’t these volunteers the same people who called him a head case or a retard, the very ones who would turn away from Bo in alarm or disgust or stare with outright annoyance when he erupted into constant chatter or lapsed into sullen silence? Where were these caring, concerned people when he was still here?

  Annie didn’t know, couldn’t sort it out.

  The lights at the back of the community center were off when she let Rufus inside. The volunteers manning the telephones were grouped around tables at the front of the building, in the reception area that overlooked the street and the sidewalk where Annie had been interviewed by the local media on Tuesday night. She hadn’t wanted to speak publicly, had only consented when everyone said it might do some good.

  Nothing could have been further from the truth. The segment aired at ten o’clock, and there she was for everyone in the entire state of Texas to see, or most of the state, anyway, wearing Bo’s earmuffs. She’d been wearing them so constantly, she’d forgotten them, and no one pointed it out to her. She figured it was only the seriousness of the situation that kept the immaculately dressed and perfectly coiffed blonde commentator from laughing. Watching the segment with JT later, Annie wished the earth would open and swallow her down whole, but JT had turned to her, eyes swimming with tears, and cupped her cheek in his rough palm. The gesture was so rare, so singular, and unexpected, she forgot herself. It embarrassed them both when she barreled into his arms.