Holly Weaver and her father were half-watching the evening news, which was broadcasting live from the road outside the Grundy Quarry, police and forensic vehicles congregating in the background just as they had for the discovery of Karis.
“Christ,” said Holly, but the word held no real sense of shock, and suggested only a general disgust at the willingness of human beings to inflict suffering on one another. The news was also little more than a distraction for Owen Weaver, who was sitting in an adjacent armchair, drinking a beer. The body at the quarry was someone else’s problem. They had their own to deal with.
His daughter continued to procrastinate about meeting in person with the lawyer Castin. He couldn’t blame her. Sitting down with Castin would set in motion a train of events that might well conclude with her losing Daniel, temporarily if not permanently, and one or both of the adults ending up in jail. But Holly was also angry with her father. He’d shared with her exactly what he’d said to the lawyer, and her response had been that he’d told Castin too much. He’d revealed Karis’s name, and the sex of her child, and that wasn’t what they’d agreed. Owen had to admit he might have become a bit confused when talking with Castin, and maybe he should have guarded his tongue more, but like most sensible people he’d spent a lifetime trying to avoid lawyers. Dealing with one of them directly, even over the phone, had given him a bad case of the jitters.
Holly turned away from the television.
“I’ve changed my mind,” she said.
“You can’t change it, not now.”
“I can, and I have. If we come forward, they’ll take Daniel away. If we stay quiet, there’s still a good chance that no one will ever find out the truth. It’ll all die down soon because the police have bigger worries, like finding the men who killed that trooper, and now the body dumped at the quarry. How much longer are they going to spend looking for a child?”
“But Castin knows.”
“What does he know? A name, and that Karis gave birth to a boy. That’s all.”
“If I don’t call back, he’ll go to the police.”
“Let him.”
“What about the private investigator?”
“What can he do: force the parents of every five-year-old boy in the state to take a DNA test? If he shows up, I’ll give him the name of every man I ever slept with. Hell, I’ll even make up a few more to bring it into double figures, and he can take a guess at which one I decided not to add to the birth certificate.”
Her father winced. Like every man with a daughter, there was a small part of him that wished to embrace the concept of a virgin birth.
“Holly—”
“Daniel’s mine. It’s my decision. I’ve made it, so we’re done talking.”
She stomped to the kitchen, where he heard her crashing about, pulling out pots for dinner. He wasn’t about to try and argue with her further, not for the present. He’d endured conversations like this with her late mother, after whom Holly took in so many ways, and a man learned when to retreat. And it might even have been that Holly was right: the advantages of confessing were only marginal, and perhaps it would all blow over, the whole business ultimately being consigned to a file in a basement somewhere in Augusta.
The doorbell rang. Daniel was on a play date with one of his buddies, and was due to be dropped home right about now, but when Owen opened the door Sheila Barham was standing on the doorstep. The Barhams owned the property to the east of the Weavers’, and both families enjoyed good relations, although the Barhams were closer in age to Owen than Holly, and their kids had long since left home to make kids of their own. Daniel sometimes stayed with the Barhams if Holly had to work late and Owen was away, although Daniel complained about the kind of TV the Barhams watched—mostly old game shows and religious programming—and the fact that every meal came with broccoli.
Owen invited Sheila to step inside, and Holly greeted her from the kitchen.
“Everything okay?” Owen asked.
“Kinda sorta,” said Sheila. “Look, it may be nothing, but I saw someone snooping around your place earlier today.”
“What kind of someone?” Owen asked.
“Well, it was a woman. I saw her from the kitchen. She looked dirty, and I don’t think she was wearing any shoes. I guess it might have been some homeless person. She seemed to be trying the windows, probably hoping to climb through and steal something. I called Henry and told him to send her on her way, because who knows how long the police might have taken to get here.”
Henry Barham was a big man, and a Vietnam veteran. Owen wouldn’t have fucked with Henry Barham for a bucketful of silver dollars.
Holly joined them.
“What happened?”
“Sheila says a woman might have tried to break into the house earlier.”
“She was gone by the time Henry got here,” Sheila continued. “He didn’t think she’d managed to get inside, but we have a key so he checked, just in case. He did the same for your place, Owen. I hope you don’t mind.”
Owen had gone to the bank that afternoon, which was the only reason he hadn’t been around.
“No,” said Owen, “not at all.”
“We’re grateful to you both for your care,” said Holly.
“We thought we’d leave it up to you if you wanted to report it to the police. We’re always around anyway. You know Henry: he don’t like to leave the house much, except to go to church.”
“I don’t think we’ll bother the police with it,” said Holly, carefully avoiding her father’s eye. “We’ll make sure the alarms are set, and the doors and windows are locked. Don’t mention it to Daniel, though. I wouldn’t want to worry him.”
Sheila agreed that keeping it between themselves would probably be for the best. They thanked her again, and she went on her way.
“Odd, huh?” said Holly.
“No police?” said Owen. “You sure?”
“You want me to get it tattooed on my forehead? We’re not talking to the police, not about anything.”
“I think I can remember that.” Owen took his coat from the rack, and a flashlight from the drawer beneath. “Maybe I’ll take a look outside, just for the fresh air.”
He made circuits of the two houses. The only signs of any attempted intrusion were by Daniel’s window, where the flashlight picked up muddy streaks on the wood and glass, the kind dirty fingers might have left in an effort to open it. Owen used the sleeve of his coat to wipe them away.
Like Holly said, no point in frightening the boy.