| |
The next afternoon, luxury vehicles of all makes and models fill the parking lot of Westview Academy as the pickup hour approaches. On the private school’s twenty-five acres of perfectly manicured landscaping, no piles of leaves are available for jumping in. They have someone on top of it, it seems. I can’t help wondering how many of these kids are picked up daily by their nannies and, of the ones who are, how much time they actually spend with their parents.
As the students file out of the newer building, which is designed to look very Gothic Revival, I work my way in. I’ve done my research. If I walk in like I’m supposed to be here, I can blend in all the way to room 203 on the west wing of the second floor.
I approach the door labeled “Mr. Stone—6th grade Reading” and peek through the glass to see him speaking with a young female student, and I get cold feet. As a single mom working alone, I may not want to be involved with someone who has a reputation as a stalker. At the same time, I recognize the financial independence that breaking the Allegra story would bring me and Graham, especially after the surge in likes and followers I saw after my interview with Mr. Burns.
A source appears to be reading my mind or watching my every move as I think things through in the hallway, because my phone buzzes with a brand-new text. Leave no Stone unturned, Mad.
I take a deep breath as I turn the knob, enter the room, and patiently wait by the door for them to finish up. I lightly clear my throat to announce myself. Lane Stone’s instant double-take tells me he notices my arrival.
“We’ll talk about this more tomorrow, Anne. You can go now.” He quickly shoos his student away with a kind grin and lowers his glasses. “I’m sorry. Do I know you?” His wrinkled eyebrows almost meet in the middle.
“No, you don’t. I’m Madeleine Barton. Nice to meet you.” I smile and step toward him with my hand extended.
“Lane Stone. Great to meet you, Madeleine. Whatever brings you my way?” He has a happy twinkle in his eye as our hands meet. He seems about the same age as Allegra, forty-five-ish, but dresses like a hipster in his twenties—skinny jeans, Vans sneakers, and a newsboy cap.
“I’m doing a story on Allegra Hudson, and I heard you two used to be quite close. Is that right?” I narrow my eyes.
His face drops, and he steps backward. “I don’t have anything to say to the press, thanks.”
I’m losing him fast, so I backpedal. “Look, Lane. I promise, it’s not like that. I’ve actually been asked by Allegra’s close friends and family to conduct my own assessment of the situation. I’m trying to help them out by getting all the facts. Until we get to the bottom of what happened to her, there will be no other Allegra story on my part. No embellished reports or manufactured drama.”
Lane’s skeptical eyes meet mine, and his head cocks as if he’s still trying to place my face. “Wait. Are you the girl who used to work at WKNX and started her own online gig?”
“The one and only.” I laugh and take a bow, trying to lighten the mood and gain his trust.
He smiles, and his tense shoulders finally drop. “Okay, have a seat. I’ve got a few minutes before I meet my buddy at the gym, so shoot.”
I take a seat at the desk closest to his, set my papers down, and shuffle through them.
“Are you sure we’ve never met before?” He leans in closer and tugs on his sweater vest.
With my pen in my mouth, I look up. “No, I think I’d remember you. You don’t look familiar.” I grin afterward to dull the harsh truth. It sucks when someone remembers you and you don’t recall them, though I suspect he may be saying he knows me as a way to flirt.
“You must just have one of those pretty faces I think I’ve seen before, then.”
I can see every tooth in his head and realize I was spot-on. I’d better get us back on track before this charmer asks me for a date.
“My first questions for you are...” I flip through my list, and I imagine he’s still making moon eyes at me as I get organized. “How long did you know Allegra, how did you meet, and what was your relationship with her? Let’s start with those and see where we end up.”
Lane’s playful eye contact breaks, and he shifts in his seat, looking uneasy. I suspect he’s wondering how much I already know about him and who told me.
“We, uh, we met in 2001, I believe. She and I went to the same gym. We were friendly in passing for a while, nothing romantic or anything. Then after a few months of running into each other, I finally asked her out, and she said no. She said it was because of Mason. He was about two and a half then, and she said she couldn’t see herself dating anyone while having a toddler to tend to. I told her I had no problem with her having a kid, I loved it, actually, but she didn’t want him to meet any men at that time. I think a lot of it was truly about Mason’s dad. I never got the full story on why or how he left them, because she didn’t like to discuss it, but I don’t think she wanted any other men in Mason’s life. Almost like she didn’t trust anyone to stick around, you know?”
“Oh, wow. I guess I can really relate to that. I didn’t realize Mason isn’t Connor’s son and that Allegra was married before. What else can you tell me about her first husband?” He might have had a motive for killing her as well.
Lane purses his lips and shrugs. “All I know is he left and never came back. She could never talk about him without crying, so I didn’t push it. Nothing else to look into there as far as an investigation goes. He never came back around.”
I eagerly click my pen. “Okay, so you asked her out, and she said no. Keep going.”
“After a few more weeks of nos, she said yes. She insisted we keep it casual and light. She was quite reserved, always playing hard to get. She said she wasn’t looking to get married again anytime soon, but I could see sparks flying all over the place whenever our eyes met or I made her laugh. She was falling hard for me, even if she wouldn’t admit it. We dated for three and a half months, until she met Connor.” Lane pauses, and I feel tension.
“How did they meet?” I prompt as I jot down more notes.
“He was the contractor for her mom’s home renovation. That jerk snatched her away from me right under my nose. The guy had no respect for our relationship from the get-go.”
Lane’s fists grow white as he tightens them. “He’s been front and center on Knox Mag’s Best in Business edition for years. Everyone thinks he’s such a great, stand-up guy. But I can tell you that he isn’t!”
I nod, fearful of disagreeing, and lean backward as his spit spews my way. He seems nerdy but passionate, and he’s probably harmless underneath, but he is definitely overaggressive and dramatic when it comes to Connor. I need more time with him, but he’s clearly overheated right now.
Lane seems to catch himself losing his cool and glances at his watch while he adjusts his glasses. “I’m sorry. We’ll have to continue this later.”
Maybe if I goad him, he won’t be able to help divulging more information. “So you two weren’t serious, but you felt like maybe you could have been, eventually. If given enough time?” I try to sound supportive, although he now has stage-five clinger written all over his pink face.
Lane picks up his bags and smooths his vest down as his mood reverts to breezy and charming. “I’m sorry. Like I said, I really do have to run now.”
I dig in my bag and pull out a business card. “My work information is obviously different now, but my cell is still the same. Call me, and we’ll pick up where we left off,” I say as if I don’t secretly consider him suspect number one.
He shoots me another dreamy grin and takes my card. “Sounds good. I’d be happy to chat with you again. Maybe we could do it over dinner?”
The thought of leading him on creates a sinking feeling in my stomach, but I do need to get to the bottom of their relationship. And it’s called a business card for a reason. “That would be fine. A business dinner, that is,” I clarify.
“Of course.” Lane nods as we part in the hallway, likely ignoring the part about it being a business dinner.
I step toward the school’s entrance, and he heads toward the back parking lot. I have the distinct feeling I’m being watched, so I turn to check, and there he is—walking backward, beaming at me. Oh dear God, this poor guy thinks we’ve just hit it off. I wave goodbye, and he throws up a finger gun and winks. I turn around and cover my mouth to conceal my laughter, then I frown, knowing exactly what Marcus would say if he were here. “This dude is cheesier than Mr. Rogers eating Velveeta.”
Allegra and Lane appear to have been polar opposites. I guess she needed a little pick-me-up in her life, and Lane is nothing if not entertaining. He was obviously under the impression they would end up in a serious relationship one day. I’m not certain, but it seems like he was a quirky way for Allegra to pass the time on her journey toward Mr. Right, whether she intended it to be that way or not.
I arrive home that evening with a plain cheese pizza for Graham and grilled-chicken salads for Mom and me. I got salads for us so that when we graze off Graham’s uneaten pizza slices later, we’ll consume only a few hundred calories for dinner as opposed to a few thousand.
Graham tugs on his pizza with his teeth, and the cheese stretches at least eight inches. “Hey, Mom. Tanner is having his birthday party at his dad’s house. Can I please go?”
I stare at the elongating cheese, and my willpower goes right out the window. I grab a slice and eat it over my untouched salad. “I don’t know where Tanner’s dad lives, baby. Is it close to where his momma lives?”
“Um, no. His dad has a place on the water,” Graham mumbles as he chews with his mouth open.
I quickly swallow a chunk of pizza. Vivid images of Douglas Lake and its splashing water fill my mind. “On the water? Are you sure, baby?”
Graham swallows. “Yeah, at the lake. They have a boat and everything, Momma.”
I drop my pizza slice on the table as Mom’s wide eyes try to warn Graham to stop talking. “Absolutely not!” My voice rises, and I feel powerless to stop it. It’s not Graham’s fault his friend invited him to a party on the lake, but I’m certainly not going to let him go. The thought of my baby so close to the water, with so many people there and no one watching him, sends me overboard.
“But why?” Graham whines with his arms crossed.
“Because I said so. That’s why!” I take a swig of water and wipe my brow as I stand up from the table. I hate getting upset at my sweet boy, but my heart races with pure fear.
“That’s not fair. Everyone else gets to go. You’re being mean!” Graham picks up his cup of milk, takes a gulp, and slams it on the kitchen table.
Mom pats Graham’s leg to quiet him. I slam my hand down on the table next to his milk and can’t stop the words from coming out of my mouth, even while I hate myself for crushing his heart. “For the last time, I said no. Stepping foot in that water is the dumbest, most dangerous, selfish, and irresponsible thing a person can do, and I’m not having it.”
Graham’s face scrunches into a ball of confusion as I make my way to the kitchen sink. “Huh?”
“Never mind!” I yell, knowing I’ve made no sense to him. “You’re not going.”
Tears of anger build behind my eyes, and I smear them away with a splash of water, recognizing that Dr. Davenport could be right about my PTSD returning. I take a deep breath. “I need a minute,” I tell Mom as tears start to fall from Graham’s eyes as well. She of all people knows why this is so important to me. I head toward my bedroom, where I gaze into my dresser mirror. I throw my dampened hair into a ponytail and take another deep but shaky breath at the sight of my splotchy neck.
The top drawer of my jewelry box catches my eye; I haven’t allowed myself to open it for months. I give the drawer a tug and reach toward the back, where I grasp the two metal circles, still soldered together. I clutch them in my palm, close my eyes, and remember the day I buried Clay in his matching ring. The lake—the same damn water Graham wants to go to—took Clay from me far too soon. But instead of focusing on the dark day my life was forever changed, I force myself to remember the time Clayton gave me my ring.
I had sported a perfect replica of the “Rachel” haircut at my second cousin’s wedding, which was held at the convention center downtown. Snowflakes floated from the white sky, the bride and groom had just departed for their honeymoon in New York City, and the DJ was still spinning music for the rest of the guests. All the songs were upbeat, and everyone was dancing their velvet-wearing butts off when the DJ suddenly switched to a soft ballad, “I’ll Be” by Edwin McCain. Clayton gave me a sly grin, revealing his dimples, pulled away from me, dropped to one knee, and pulled out the ring.
The DJ had given him a second microphone before the song began. Clayton had hidden it in his back pocket, and in front of God and everyone, he pulled out his mic and clicked it on. “Madeleine Barton and random people who I don’t know, I realize the success rate for high school sweethearts who get married at twenty years old is probably staggeringly low. But what most of those marriages don’t have, and I luckily do, is God at the center of them and you by my side. I know we’re young, and many will say we don’t even know who we are yet. That may be true, but what I do know is that I want to find out who we both are together. Mad, my li’l Mad Hatter, will you marry me and grow up and grow old with me?”
My hands fluttered to cover my mouth, and happy tears filled my eyes. He’d won over the crowd, most of whom we didn’t know from Adam, and they all stopped and held their breath. He’d already stolen my heart, but that night, he captured my soul as well. My love for him always scared me, because I knew if I ever lost it, it would cost me everything. And it would have if it weren’t for the surprise he left me—a piece of himself growing inside me.
And that was Graham. I had to take special care of him because his survival depended solely on me taking care of myself. I didn’t have the liberty or luxury of giving up simply because Clay was gone—I couldn’t let him down like that.
That same little boy now owns the pieces of my heart and soul that were left after Clayton died, and I have the same worries and fears about him that I had about his father. The last thing I’m going to do is permit Graham to set foot in that lake.
***
I KISS GRAHAM GOOD night. I know he’s forgiven my outburst by the way he hugs my neck. “I love you, Mommy, even if you hate the lake.”
I chuckle at the simplicity of his conclusion. “Baby, it’s not that I hate the lake, it’s just...” I sigh. I can’t expect him to understand the fear, guilt, or pain I feel when I picture him near the water, especially without me. “It’s complicated, baby.”
Later, after Mom’s left and Graham’s asleep, I throw on an old, oversized tee of Clayton’s that always calms me down and hop into bed. I throw my phone on the charger, and it lights up with a new text message notification. After I read it, I gasp and leap out of bed.
He loved you too—a source.
Loved. As in past tense? I wonder how this person could know that I was thinking about Clayton or that he loved me too. I spin around, suddenly sick at the thought of someone watching me in my bedroom as I held my rings earlier and when I just now put Clayton’s shirt on. My mind races through the possibilities, like someone spying through my window or taking photos with a secret camera. I wonder what else this person has seen me do. Or, I think to myself with a slight laugh, maybe I’m being haunted. Right, a ghost who can text message.
For protection, I grab the flashlight in my nightstand and the letter opener in my desk drawer. I tiptoe to my closet door as the letter opener wobbles in my sweaty right palm. In one fell swoop, I thrust the door open. My heart skips a beat as I rifle through my wardrobe, finding nothing that shouldn’t be there.
I take a few deep breaths and continue to look behind every picture frame, lamp, and drawer for any recording device or camera. Still nothing. I make my way to the living room and kitchen area, where I step on a rogue Lego that Graham neglected to put away during bedtime cleanup. I jump, and my whimper scares me half to death. The floor of hell is sure to be lined with these microscopic toys. I flip all the lights on in my apartment, and tears fill my exhausted eyes. Three more times, I search every spot—minus Graham’s room since he’s sound asleep—with the letter opener before me.
The thought of my bed brings zero comfort, so I leave every light on and cuddle up on the couch with a few blankets. At two o’clock, my eyes are still wide open. The silence makes me anticipate something alarming even more, so I turn on the TV for background noise and allow my eyes to finally close.
The TV helps, but it can’t drown out the endless questions filling my mind. Who is “a source”? Are they just trying to drive me crazy? If so, it’s working. I don’t feel safe in my own home anymore, but I feel stupid calling the police and don’t know what I would say. “Hi. A mysterious text says my dead husband loves me.” The police would definitely think I’m crazy then. As I stare into the darkness, I wonder how this “source” knows so much, how they have so much access to me, and whether they could’ve killed Allegra or Marcus.