DONNIE TURNER

It was hard to stay inside with nothing to do except watch the comings and goings of the detectives moving around the Court. He wanted to help search for Iris. He needed to check on Evelyn, who was wandering around the neighborhood with her leaflets. She had been so emotional recently, with all the talk about the state hospital, the plans to honor the ugly past with benches and gardens. Why couldn’t people just let the past go?

He had never entirely understood Evelyn’s obsession with the state hospital and with the guy who assaulted her. Sure, it was traumatic, horrible, but it was a long time ago. And now she had him, loving her and taking care of her.

Maybe he wasn’t being fair. Or maybe he just didn’t get it, because his decades-old memories of this place were mostly good ones. All the kid stuff that showed up as black and white images in his dreams. How strange was that, that most of his dreams were in color, but the ones from childhood—from growing up on Azalea Court, playing every day with Lexi—those were in black and white. Those scenes replayed frequently in his head, especially the ones where he and Lexi tried to rig up a way to cross the Mill River using the old cable. They never managed anything other than sending notes and small objects in a tin bucket, but they sure had big ideas about it. The adventure that never showed up in those mental newsreels was the time he and Lexi were about ten—how could that be fifty-five years ago?—and they tried to find an entrance to the underground tunnels rumored to link all the hospital buildings. He tried not to think about that night.

Sure, he had his own ghosts, but Evelyn was totally mental about the place. She considered not marrying him when she learned they would have to live on the Court. He wished they could move, but his salary from the hardware store wouldn’t buy a closet in the Northampton housing market. Evelyn had moved into the cottage when she was twenty-four and never grew comfortable living on the Court. But it got worse when her home care agency started to fail, and she was around all day. Maybe her business would pick up again, and they could look for a place to live in a less expensive town nearby.

The detectives weren’t in sight anymore. He wondered which house they were in. A stranger with a German Shepherd on a leash stood in the circle, looking around. Donnie grabbed his jacket and hurried outside.

“Is this where the missing woman lives?” the stranger asked.

Donnie pointed to Number Two.

“There was a notice and photo on Facebook,” the man said. “I think maybe I saw her.”

“Where? My wife posted that.”

“Sitting on the memorial bench at the top of the burial field. You know, the dog park?” He pointed vaguely west.

“Was she okay?” Donnie asked.

The man shrugged. “Guess so.” He hesitated. “Though I think she was talking to herself.”

“Let me find the detectives. They’ll want to interview you.”

The man shook his head. “I don’t want to get involved. Just tell them I saw her there.”

“Sure. But did you see anyone else around?” Donnie asked, channeling all the cop shows Evelyn liked to watch on television.

“Someone wearing a hooded sweatshirt was in the field,” the man said. “Not sure if it was a man or woman.”

“That could be important,” Donnie said. “I’ll find Detective McPhee for you.”

The man tugged the dog’s leash and turned to leave, muttering about not sticking his nose into other people’s business.

Donnie hurried to the policeman on the porch of Number Two. By the time he turned to point to the man and his dog, they were out of sight.

“Where are the detectives?” Donnie asked.

The patrolman pointed to Number One.

“I need to talk to them.”

“I’ll let Detective McPhee know,” the cop said. “Do you want to give me a message?”

Donnie hesitated. He would rather tell her himself, but time might be important. “Just tell her that a guy with a German Shepherd was here. He said he saw Iris at the burial ground just now and she was talking to herself. Lots of people do that, right? Otherwise she seemed fine. Oh, and that he saw a person with a hooded sweatshirt walking nearby, but no one else.”

“Thanks. I’ll tell her.”

“Um. One more thing,” Donnie said. “Since you guys don’t live on Azalea Court, you might not know that one of our neighbors always wears a hoodie. Aggie, from Number Six. Probably just a coincidence, but still.”