In Close

May 13: Tried again to get an audience with Joe Kenyon. Refused to speak to me. Prick.

David’s log went on for several pages. Figuring she’d read the rest at home, Claire switched to the other side of the folder and skimmed several interviews originally done by Sheriff Meade.

Carly wasn’t the only one who believed there was something going on between Joe Kenyon and Alana. Joe’s twin brother, Peter, thought they were involved. He insisted that he’d heard his brother take a call from Alana while they were at work one day. He said he couldn’t hear what was being said, but he could tell by the tone of Joe’s voice that it wasn’t a simple request for tree-trimming services.

Cringing, Claire dropped her flashlight in her lap. Did she really want to continue reading? This was making her sick, making her wonder if she’d really known her mother. Had Alana been leading a double life?

Claire didn’t want to suspect her, but…how much more about Joe, about Alana and Joe, could she endure?

That depended on how strongly she believed in Alana, didn’t it? Maybe Leanne had been a daddy’s girl from the moment Tug had come into their lives, during Leanne’s first year, but Claire had always preferred Alana. She trusted her mother more than to accept, on circumstantial evidence alone, that Alana was an adulteress.

Breathing in through her nose and out through her mouth, Claire picked up the flashlight. “We’ll show them, Mom,” she promised. “We’ll show them all.”

Beneath the log, she ran across a list of typed “inconsistencies.” These didn’t appear to be written by David, but she was willing to bet he was the one who’d highlighted various passages. According to the date at the top, the list was Sheriff King’s summary after taking over from Sheriff Meade.

Tug said he was at work until he received Claire’s call. Concerned that Alana’s car was still in the drive and yet she was nowhere to be found, he left immediately.

The next part was highlighted.

Why would he be instantly worried? There’s never been a kidnapping or a murder in Pineview.

There’d been one murder since—Pat Stueben, the town Realtor—but that hadn’t yet occurred when this was written.

Unless she kept it to herself, Alana had never been threatened and wasn’t having problems with anyone. For all Tug knew, she’d walked down the block to talk to a neighbor and would be back any minute.

Was his reaction a bit too fast? There was always the threat of bears. They came around if people left out food. But no one in town, other than Isaac Morgan, who tracked and filmed wild animals for a living, had ever been attacked.

Claire’s arms and legs tingled with apprehension. Tug was normally the last person to assume the worst. Why had he reacted so quickly?

She tried to remember every word of the conversation that had passed between them when she’d called that day.

What do you mean she’s gone? she’d asked the minute she told him.

I’ve searched the whole house.

Did you check the bathrooms?

Of course.

She didn’t leave a note?

Not that I can find. You haven’t heard from her?

No. Stay there. I’m on my way.

At that point, it hadn’t occurred to Claire that her mother could be in danger. She’d expected him to say something like, “Don’t worry. I’m sure she’ll be home soon.” But he hadn’t. And once he reached the house, he’d acted so tense, the same fear began to percolate through Claire. That was the first inkling she’d had that they were facing a major tragedy, and she’d taken her cue from her stepfather.

Had he already known what was wrong? Had he and Alana argued earlier, maybe when he came home for lunch? Possibly about Joe Kenyon? And had that argument gotten out of hand?

As much as she didn’t want to believe it, she knew things like that happened....

Chilled by the thought, she ran her free hand over the goose bumps on her arm. But it didn’t help because she found Sheriff King’s next point equally disturbing.

On the day Alana disappeared, she picked Leanne up at school at 11:15 a.m. for reason of “illness,” but someone who didn’t come to the office took her back shortly before two. The sign-in/sign-out log in the attendance office reflects this partial absence but Leanne has never mentioned that she was home for a portion of the day. And she has never said whether or not her mother was with her during that time.

“Impossible,” Claire muttered. After all the years of searching and questioning, how was it that Leanne had never spoken of missing school? Why would she keep it to herself?

There had to be a reason. Hoping it might become apparent, Claire kept reading.

If she was sick, how did she recuperate so fast?

Exactly!

At 2:00 p.m. she brought a note to the office excusing her absence and signed herself in. The attendance lady didn’t keep the note and doesn’t remember who wrote it—mother or father—but she stands by her log. When asked if she could’ve gotten the date wrong, she insists it would be almost impossible. “If that’s wrong, all the dates before it would have to be wrong, as well as the dates after.”

Another highlighted part.

All the days are accounted for and run Monday through Friday, as they should.

Stunned, Claire sat staring at the yellow circle her flashlight created on the page. What did this mean? Why had the sheriff or his deputies even thought to check with the school? At sixteen, she could be considered a suspect. Everyone close to the missing person had to be ruled out. But Leanne? She hadn’t yet had the sledding accident that broke her back, but she’d only been thirteen. What could she have done to Alana?

The discomfort of the hard floor and the scrabbling of some rodent in the corner began to bother Claire. It was too difficult to read for an extended period sitting in such an unfriendly spot, holding a heavy flashlight and trying to ignore the pack rats.

It was time to take the files home, where she could scour every interview, every note, at her leisure. No doubt David had been trying to find her mother for her. He was that kind of man. He probably hadn’t told her in case he didn’t come any closer than anyone else. He wouldn’t want to raise her hopes, only to see them dashed. Probably a smart move. He certainly seemed to have run into more questions than answers. But she loved him for making the attempt.

Relieved to be going, she closed the files. But just as she slid them into the accordion folder, a noise from below brought her head up.

What was that?

Movement? If so, whoever or whatever made that noise was definitely bigger than a rat.

She’d thought she heard footsteps when she first arrived—and there’d been no one here.

Irritated that she kept spooking herself, she climbed down the ladder. She’d just set foot on the stairs heading to the ground floor when a draft of cool air, smelling distinctly of smoke from the fireworks, swept up to meet her.

Fresh air. From outside…

“Hello?” she called.

No answer. No corresponding rustle, either.

She angled her flashlight in every direction to illuminate the dark recesses below, but the beam would only reach so far. “Anybody there?”

Silence.

Her mind conjured up the gruesome images that sometimes came to her in nightmares, images of her mother being tortured and strangled by some crazed psychopath. Most people were killed by someone in their circle of family and friends. But not all. Murders committed by strangers were among the most difficult to solve.

Was that why no one could figure out what had happened? Was her mother’s killer lurking in the shadows, waiting for her to move closer?