He was sitting at the little desk in his hotel room, trying not to think about his mother’s call, her command that he come to Wynotte and wait for news about Davy. He could think of nothing he wanted to do less, and he had a valid excuse for not complying. People were expecting him elsewhere tomorrow, counting on him even. If there was real, actual news in Davy’s case—which was doubtful—then he would go home. Of course he would. Because that would make sense.
He used his fingers to drum out a rhythm on the desk’s surface and exhaled loudly into the room. He wished he didn’t have this dead day in the middle of the tour. It wasn’t good for him to be alone with his thoughts. He turned his attention back to The Pacific article he’d been sitting in front of for hours, typing nothing more than gibberish he hoped would magically morph into actual prose.
He was staring at the blinking cursor when his phone rang. Thaddeus picked it up and blinked at the number as he processed the identification displayed on the tiny screen. He answered immediately.
“Philly!” A smile filled his face as he said the name. “To what do I owe this honor?”
He heard that unmistakable laugh on the other end. His old buddy Phillip Laney calling him out of the blue. Man, how he’d worshiped the guy when they were kids. Wanted to be him. And what did that cost you? the voice inside his head asked. He ignored it, listening to Phillip’s laugh instead.
“Oh, I’ve been meaning to call ever since you became a famous author,” Phillip said. “Give you a hard time.”
“I’d expect nothing less,” Thaddeus said, still smiling.
“But then I had to call when I heard the news,” Phillip said, “about Davy.”
“Oh,” Thaddeus said, the smile instantly gone. Dread crept up the back of his neck, hot and cold at the same time.
He was going to have to go back and face all of this. If even Phillip knew about the discovery, it wasn’t just another incidental concern in the long, drawn-out story of the Famous Missing Boy, Davy Malcor. It must, Thaddeus accepted, be real.
“In the news they said they found a jacket. They described it.” A weighted pause filled the air. “It was the one he was wearing,” Phillip said, his voice strained, “that night.”
As unbidden images from that night—Phillip raising his beer can in a sloppy, slurred toast; the back of Davy’s head as he walked away; running through the dark field calling Davy’s name—raced through his mind, Thaddeus tried to find his voice. Not finding it, he grunted an affirmation and closed his eyes to will the images away.
“I can still picture him. You know, wearing it. He was hanging around, and you said—”
Thaddeus held the phone away from him so he couldn’t hear whatever Phillip was saying. He didn’t want to rehash that night. Didn’t anyone understand? Didn’t they grasp the theme of his memoir? He wanted to move on. He had written a “brave exposé of a family proceeding after crisis” (source: Library Journal). The key word was proceeding.
The point wasn’t that the Malcor family lost a child. It was that the family went on with their lives after that child went missing. This message, this hope Thaddeus peddled, was what gained him the bestseller status, the hotel suites with welcome baskets waiting, the women in his bed after his readings. It wasn’t because he sat around and cried over his poor lost brother; it was that he’d moved past the tragedy.
But did you really? the voice inside his head asked.
Thaddeus put the phone back to his ear. “You’re there right now?” he asked, interrupting Phillip. “In Wynotte?”
“Man, I’ve been back here for years,” Phillip said. “I came back after my uncle died.” He laughed. “I guess you and I need to catch up more often.”
“I’m sorry,” Thaddeus offered. “About your uncle.”
Phillip snorted. “Don’t be. The guy was a son of a bitch.”
“But he got us beer,” Thaddeus argued, sounding every bit of fifteen years old again. He’d been so jealous of Phillip back then with his cool uncle as the only authority in his life.
“Getting underage kids beer is not the sign of a stand-up guy,” Phillip responded. “Just take my word for it.”
“Oh. Man. I guess I should’ve—”
“Water under the bridge, my friend. Water under the bridge. I’ve moved on, built a life for myself apart from all that.” Phillip chuckled. “I sell insurance now.”
Thaddeus’s eyes widened at the image of Phillip wearing a suit, sitting behind a desk, pushing a pencil, and schmoozing clients. It was a far cry from how he remembered his old buddy, sporting a cocky smile, a mullet, and the Wayfarer sunglasses he bought because of the Don Henley song.
“Wow. Phillip Laney, insurance guy. Never thought I’d see that day.”
“Neither did I, buddy. Neither did I. But I’m married now. Kids. The whole nine. Gotta be responsible. Ya know?”
Thaddeus didn’t know. He’d tried and quit several jobs before he committed to writing the memoir and getting it published, managing to avoid marriage, kids, and responsibility along the way.
“Sure,” he said.
“So you’re headed home.” Phillip posed what should’ve been a question as a foregone conclusion.
His mom, he was realizing, wasn’t the only one who expected his return. He’d dismissed her suggestion as an emotional reaction from a woman who wanted company in her misery. If—and that was a big if based on the past—this thing proved to be something real? Well, that was a different story. But he wasn’t running home just because they found an old jacket.
In his mind Davy sprang to life, defiantly defending that jacket as they faced off in the driveway. Thaddeus blinked the memory away.
“Earth to TJ,” Phillip said. Thaddeus flinched at the use of his old nickname. He stared at the computer screen in front of him, at the inanity he’d been typing just before Phillip’s call. He put his finger on the Delete button and watched the words disappear one by one.
“Man, I can’t,” he said. “It’s just my schedule right now. I’ve got some events that would be hard to reschedule. Obligations. You know.” (Yes, he thought as he said it, that sounded reasonable. Didn’t Phillip just speak of responsibility, of growing up? As a father and a businessman now, surely he understood obligations.)
He quickly added, “But if things escalate back home, you can bet I’ll be on the first plane.” (This, too, he thought, sounded good. This was a temporary no, not a hard-and-fast one. He was reasonable.)
“I think you should be on the first flight you can find,” Phillip said, shooting down his intentions in one sentence.
Thaddeus gave a defeated sigh. Thirty long seconds of silence passed before he said simply, “I can’t.”
“You should come home,” Phillip said, his voice softer, more coaxing than demanding. “I feel like . . .” He went silent. Thaddeus waited for him to finish the sentence, but he didn’t.
“What?” Thaddeus’s voice was barely above a whisper.
Phillip exhaled. “I think . . .” He stopped, rephrased. “I feel like your family is gonna need you. Or maybe you’re gonna need them. Either way.”
Thaddeus started to argue, to offer more excuses and explanations. He could feel himself digging in his emotional heels. And yet, there was something in Phillip’s voice, something prescient, even though Phillip was the least intuitive person he knew. Maybe he’d matured. Maybe he, too, had changed in the years since that fateful night.
“Let me see what I can do.” Thaddeus exhaled into the phone.
He heard Phillip’s relieved smile through the phone. “Text me when you get home. I’ll buy you a beer.”
“I’m probably gonna need more than one,” Thaddeus said, and in spite of himself he smiled too.
“I’m counting on it,” Phillip said. And then with a click he was gone.
Thaddeus held the phone for a moment. In his mind a memory reel played—baseball in the yard with Davy. Larkin was there, watching from the picnic table in her yard. Kristy picked dandelions nearby, blowing on them, watching the seeds take flight.
“You can’t go home again,” he whispered. And yet, it seemed he had to. People would think badly of him if this did turn out to be something big and he wasn’t there for it.
Thanks to the book he’d written, people would expect him to show up now more than ever. That damn book. In some ways it had been a dream come true to see his name on the cover, to revel in the praise for his writing, his “courage to tell a tragic tale of navigating unspeakable loss” (source: Booklist). But he had underestimated how hard it would be to keep talking about his missing brother, about that night. Writing the book had been an attempt to exorcise his demons. But instead it had riled them.
With a sigh he pressed a few buttons on his BlackBerry and watched as the screen told him it was connecting him to his publicist.
“Hi,” Nicole said, answering on the first ring.
“I got your email,” he said. First, the apology he owed her for avoiding her calls and emails, then the real reason for his call. “And I’m sorry. For going AWOL.”
“It’s ok,” she said, even though it wasn’t. But there wasn’t time to get into that just now.
“I’m actually calling about something else, though,” he added quickly. “About Davy, about his case.”
“Yes,” she said, and he felt with that one word her agreement to put the other stuff to the side, at least for now. She had a good heart, an inherent kindness he admired. She was far too good for him. He’d known it even before the night he’d let alcohol loosen his lips, accidentally letting her in. As much as his recent silence had been about his own embarrassment, it was also an effort to save her from him, much the same as he’d tried and succeeded in saving Larkin all those years ago.
His answer came in a rush. “Something’s happened. They, um, found evidence. So, um, it looks like I’m going to have to reschedule some of the tour and—”
“Go home,” she finished for him.
He’d told her so much that night. Very nearly all of it, his words like toothpaste squeezed from the tube, impossible to stuff back in.
“Yes,” he said, his hand resting on his pocket, feeling the lump under the fabric. “So, um, I need a plane ticket, I guess. I guess I have to go home.”