9:32 P.M.
Michael’s phone rang again, and again he ignored it. He saw Angela’s name coming up on the car’s display, and it took a fair amount of discipline and control not to answer.
But he had no desire to hold a conversation with his wife while Erica sat in the car next to him. He felt it was enough to keep an eye on Erica who had smoked what seemed like half a pack of cigarettes on their ride toward Trudeau, lighting a new one as soon as the previous one was finished. And Michael noticed the way she kept her jacket clutched tight to her body. It started to slide off her lap once, and she made a frantic lunge, grabbing it and then pulling it back against her. Michael decided to call Angela when they reached their destination. And he promised to stick to the plan. One stop. An hour there and an hour back. And then he’d let Erica go on and do whatever she wanted to do.
“We’re close, right?” he asked.
“Half a mile,” she said, looking at her phone, scrolling through with the hand that held the cigarette. “Turn left here.”
They entered a middle-class neighborhood, a postwar subdivision that, even in the disappearing light, looked good. Mostly ranches, the lawns well maintained, the homes lighted and bright. They passed a group of kids running through a yard, their squeals coming through Erica’s open window, their bodies indistinct blurs in the fading light. Michael stole a glance at her and thought he saw a look cross her face as though she’d felt a twinge of pain.
They’d lived in Trudeau together the year they were married. Michael worked for a startup, gaining experience before the expected move to his dad’s company. He’d been to a party in that neighborhood once, a holiday thing thrown by some business acquaintance. He and Erica went together, she in a red dress, he in a jacket and tie. To the outside world, they must have appeared to be the perfect young couple. Happy and in love, just starting their lives together.
“Left again,” she said, her voice lower. She pointed outside. “That party we went to was down that street. I don’t even remember the guy’s name.”
“I don’t either.”
“Erased by time, I guess.”
“What does Felicity like to do?” Michael asked. “You know, for fun. What is she interested in?”
“She loves the dog,” Erica said. “She’s into music and singing. That’s how she got to know this teacher so well. He runs a children’s choir in the summer, through the school. He heard her sing once, at an audition, and he really recruited her to join. She loves it.”
“Good,” Michael said.
“When she started getting into the singing, I thought of Lynn. Maybe she got that ability from her.”
“I know she didn’t get it from—” But Michael stopped himself before he said, I know she didn’t get it from me. He refused to give the impression he thought he was Felicity’s father. And he was trying not to be cold, given how much pain Erica must have been in.
“How is she?” Erica asked. “Lynn?”
“She’s good. She had a rough time when the band broke up. And then she had cervical cancer right after that.”
“She did?”
“Yeah, it was scary as hell. And then my dad dropped dead last year. But she’s coming up on five years cancer free.”
“Good. I’m glad to hear that.” After a moment, she said, “It’s weird to know people so well and then have them fall out of your life completely. Your parents weren’t that crazy about me, but Lynn was always nice. Maybe we shared some kind of rebellious kinship.”
“Clearly.”
“And she lives in Cottonsville too?” Erica asked. “Not LA or even Nashville?”
“Her home is in Cottonsville.”
“But both of you are there. That’s unexpected.”
Michael didn’t bite. “She’s happy there.”
“Okay,” she said. “I don’t want to talk about the past either. Right now, I’m more interested in finding Felicity than anything else. We can worry about the rest later. The house is on the right. That one.”
Michael eased the car to a stop in front of a modest ranch-style house. The porch light revealed two flower boxes anchored to the wrought-iron railing, and an American flag hung limply next to the door. From behind the large front window, soft light glowed, and Michael thought he saw the flickering images of a TV screen. It looked like someone was home.
“Does this guy live alone?” he asked. “And what’s his name again?”
“Wayne Tolliver. And he lives alone.”
“And you don’t want to just ask the cops to come by and talk to him again?”
Erica threw her latest cigarette out the window and into the man’s yard. She pushed the door open, pulling the coat along with her. “Let’s go.”
Michael went out on his side, hustling to keep up with Erica as she moved across the lawn. Above, the stars were appearing, tiny pinpricks of light, and a low moon rose behind the jagged roofline of the houses. The temperature remained warm, the air muggy and full of swirling insects.
Michael wanted to return the call to Angela, but Erica hurried across the lawn and bounded up the steps. She rang the doorbell several times in a row just as she had at his house, and then used the flat of her hand to pound. She took the jacket and slipped her arms into the sleeves, pulling it tight to her body.
“Hold on,” Michael said.
But he watched the door come open, revealing the figure of a slender, middle-aged man, blinking in the face of an intrusion on his peaceful night at home. Before Michael could reach her or stop her, Erica reached out with her right hand and shoved the man back, sending him tumbling into his house and out of Michael’s line of sight.
And Erica went through the door after him, her other hand, the one that hadn’t done the shoving, sliding toward the pocket of her coat.