All the Way Home (11 page)

And the feeling has always intensified whenever she glances out her bedroom window to see the house next door. The house where Emily Anghardt lived.

“Looking for Sebastian again?” Michelle calls down from the window.

“Yup. Have you seen him?”

“No, but we’ve been inside since lunch. I’ll keep an eye out and let you know if he wanders onto our porch again.”

Sebastian apparently doesn’t share Rebecca’s wariness of the Randalls’ house. He’s been known to show up on their doorstep, mewing, until Michelle puts out a saucer of milk.

“I love cats,” she once told Rebecca. “But Lou’s allergic.”

Rebecca has already decided that when and if she ever gets married, it will have to be to someone who’s not allergic to cats. She would never part with Sebastian or Ralphi for anything or anyone. They love her unconditionally.

“How are you feeling?” Rebecca remembers to ask Michelle, who is expecting a baby later this summer.

“You really want to know?”

Rebecca smiles. “Sure.”

“Fat. Tired. Sick. Impatient. Aren’t you glad you asked?” Michelle grins and keeps a grip on a squirming Ozzie’s shoulders. “Oh, well. I’m almost there. Just a few more weeks. Then I’ll
really
have my hands full.”

“I guess so.” Rebecca wants to say that she’ll be glad to come over and help out after the baby comes, but she just can’t do it. She knows she’ll never bring herself to set foot in that house, no matter what.

She can’t believe Molly isn’t terrified of the place, though she suspects that her friend’s bravery is, at times, an act. Molly’s always been the kind of person who can’t stand to let people see her weakness. Not even her best friend.

How many times in all the years they’ve known each other has Rebecca asked Molly how her mother’s doing, only to be told, tersely, “She’s fine”?

Meanwhile, everyone in town knows that Mrs. Connolly is far from fine. She went off the deep end years ago, when Molly’s sister disappeared and then Mr. Connolly died.

Molly doesn’t like to talk about her mother, or what happened to her sister or her father. And she rarely mentions Rory, even now that she’s back in town. The only family member Molly has ever talked freely about is Kevin. She adores her older brother, and Rebecca is certain the sentiment is mutual. Kevin has never minded carting Molly and Rebecca around town, taking them to the mall and out for ice cream—stuff most older brothers would balk at doing.

“Isn’t he great?” Molly is always asking Rebecca. “Isn’t he the best?”

Then Kevin decided to go off to Europe, and Molly clammed up about him, too. Rebecca knows her friend is feeling abandoned in her brother’s absence, but Molly won’t talk about that.

No, these days Ryan Baker is the topic of all her conversations. For her friend’s sake, Rebecca hopes he really will fall in love with her. But in her opinion, Molly’s building him up to be some kind of god, when he’s merely a thirteen-year-old boy with freckles and a sunburned nose.

“It’s time for Ozzie’s nap, Rebecca. We’ll see you later,” Michelle calls down.

“See you later.” Rebecca waves, then scans the yards one more time for a sign of Sebastian.

Nothing.

With a sigh, she goes inside to get her knapsack and heads over to the Willeski house, telling herself the kitten is just out hunting mice in the woods, and will surely turn up by nightfall.

A
thumping sound startles Rory as she’s wearily dabbing the bristles of her paintbrush into the final hard-to-reach corner of the crown molding above the refrigerator.

She pauses and listens, at first thinking it’s coming from upstairs. Mom is hidden away in her room as usual, having refused to emerge even for the simple stir-fry Rory went out of her way to prepare amidst the paint mess. At least, Rory assumes she’s in her room—there was no reply when she knocked at the door to summon her mother to supper.

Molly wasn’t around, either, leaving Rory to scoop the mountain of rice and vegetables—minus her own small serving—into an old, warped Tupperware container and wedge it into the refrigerator that’s still crammed full from her shopping trip yesterday. Apparently, nobody eats much around here. Or talks much.

The only time Rory has spoken a word to anyone since early afternoon was when she called St. Lucretia’s in Buffalo to ask for Sister Theodosia. She had been told that her mother’s friend was out of town for a few days. Rather than leave a message, Rory had said she’d call back.

There’s another thumping sound, and this time, Rory realizes that it’s coming from the front hallway. Still grasping her paintbrush, she makes her way down from the counter she was standing on, nearly losing her balance in the process
.
To stop herself from toppling to the floor, she instinctively uses the hand clutching the paintbrush, leaving a long smear of white paint on the side of the refrigerator.

“Great,” she mutters, jutting her lower lip to blow the mass of damp bangs away from her forehead. “What a mess.”

Another thump from the front hallway sends her hurrying to see what’s going on. She almost stops short when she sees the outline of a person standing on the other side of the screen door and realizes what she heard was someone knocking. It’s a man, tall and broad-shouldered, his face obscured by the shadows of dusk.

In any of the places Rory has lived since leaving Lake Charlotte, an unexpected visitor wouldn’t faze her in the least. She’s always made friends quickly, the kind of friends who drop by and call at all hours.

But in the few days since she’s been home, she’s begun to grow accustomed to the silent, lonely house. Molly seems to have friends, but they don’t come over. And her mother, of course, is as isolated as ever.

Must be some kind of delivery, Rory tells herself as she walks more slowly toward the door. Maybe Federal Express or UPS. But she sees, glancing at the grandfather clock as she passes it, that it’s nearly nine o’clock at night, making that scenario unlikely.

She reaches the door. “Yes?” she asks, reaching for the old-fashioned switch on the wall. She presses the antique button and the porch is flooded with light.

“Hi,” says the man, and she sees that he’s a stranger.

A walking cliché—Tall, Dark, and Handsome. He’s got the required square jaw, full lips, long lashes fringing eyes whose color she can’t discern—and a nose that’s slightly on the big side, saving his face from male-model perfection.

“Hi,” she responds, suddenly conscious of her paint-covered clothes.

“Are you Rory Connolly?”

“Who wants to know?” she asks flippantly, feeling for all the world like she’s suddenly Molly’s age.

“I’m Barrett Maitland. I’m staying at the bed and breakfast down the street.”

“Mrs. Shilling’s?”

“That’s the one.”

“God, how is she? I keep meaning to get over there and say hello, but I haven’t had a chance. I’ve kind of been . . . busy.” She gestures at her clothes and the still-glistening, white-coated paintbrush in her hand.

“I’ll give her your regards,” says Barrett Maitland, whoever he is.

“Uh, can I help you with something?” Rory asks, eyeing him with interest that she hopes comes across as mild suspicion. No need to let him think she’s checking him out or anything.

“I’m a writer . . .”

“Uh-huh,” she prods, when he seems to hesitate.

She keeps her hand on the knob and glances down to see that the screen door’s latch is in place. Her mother must have done that when she came home from church this morning, since no one else has used the front door all day.

Good thing,
Rory thinks.
It wouldn’t be a good idea to leave the door open so that any handsome, bed-and-breakfast-dwelling writer can just walk in off the street. He seems harmless enough, but . . . you never know
.

“I’m working on a book, and I was wondering if I could talk to you.” Barrett Maitland speaks in a slow but straightforward manner, as though he’s rehearsed what he’s going to say.

“Talk to me?” Rory frowns. “Why do you need to talk to me?”

“I’m a true-crime writer, and—”

“Oh,” she says flatly.

Now I get it. You’re one of those ghouls wanting to rehash what happened to Carleen. What a waste of Tall, Dark, and Handsome
.

“Look,” he says quickly, “I know what you’re thinking.”

“You do?” She looks him in the eye. “What am I thinking?”

“Okay, maybe I don’t,” he concedes with candor, throwing his hands up in a gesture she can’t help but find appealing. “But let me say that I’m writing a book about what happened here ten years ago, and it’s not going to be one of those sensationalized, tabloid-style pieces of trash that make a ton of money and become a Movie of the Week.”

“Really? Then why are you writing it?”

“Because it’s been ten years since those four girls disappeared, and the crime hasn’t been solved. Maybe some new evidence will come to light that’ll—”

“So you’re not just a true-crime writer, you’re an amateur detective?”

He shrugs. “Listen, I know where you’re coming from, Rory.”

She’s taken aback—not just by his use of her first name, but by the apparently genuine expression of sympathy in his eyes. Hazel eyes, she notes, staring into them.

And yes, it’s sympathy there. Not pity.

She learned a decade ago that there’s a big difference between the two.

Still, he’s the enemy. Here to dredge up the horrors of the past. As if it isn’t hard enough to forget, without people like him meddling where they don’t belong.

“I’d rather not talk to you,” Rory says, her hand still on the knob.

“I know. And I don’t blame you. But what if there’s a chance that talking to me will trigger some crazy chain of events that will ultimately lead to solving the mystery?”

“You’ve obviously read too many detective novels.”

“Probably. Written a few, too. Horrible ones.”

Intrigued, she asks, “Were they published?”

“Nope. They’re under my bed back home.”

“Where’s that?” she asks, suddenly curious.

“What?”

“Your bed. Home.”

“New York City.”

Is it her imagination, or did he hesitate slightly before answering? She finds herself wondering if he’s telling the truth. Wondering if he has arbitrarily plucked New York City out of thin air.

But why would he lie about something like that?
she asks herself.
What difference does it make to me where he’s from? None. I’m not going to talk to him if he’s from New York City, and I’m not going to talk to him if he’s from Dubuque, Iowa
.

And anyway, hesitating before answering a question like that means nothing. I would hesitate, too, if someone asked where I’m from. Lake Charlotte? It’s my hometown, but I haven’t lived here in years. Miami? It’s the last place I lived, but it’s not home
.

Where is home?

Uncomfortable with the direction her thoughts are taking, Rory forces her attention back to Barrett Maitland. “So, you’re here in town just to write your book?” She notes that he looks like a tourist, in his white polo shirt, khaki shorts, and docksiders without socks.

“That’s right. It’s a great little town. I’m staying the summer, just like you.”

Her head snaps up. “How did you know I’m here for the summer?”

“Mrs. Shilling told me.”

“Oh.” Rory wonders what else her neighbor has told him. He certainly picked the right place to stay if he wants a direct line on the neighborhood gossip.

“So, I was wondering if we could talk.”

“About my sister?” she asks directly, clenching one hand on the knob and the other around the handle of her paintbrush.

“Does it bother you to discuss Carleen?”

“What do
you
think?”

“I think it must be painful. Especially after being away for so long. Coming back here must be extremely difficult. Everywhere you turn, there must be memories, especially in this old house. You must be torn between needing to remember the sister you loved and trying to forget what happened to her.”

“Eloquently stated,” she says tartly, needing to mask her surprise that this stranger has so aptly managed to put her muddled emotions into words. “You must be a good writer.”

“I am.” He rocks back on his heels, his hands in the pockets of his shorts. “Can I come in? I won’t stay long. I promise.”

“You can’t. I’m busy.” She waves the paintbrush at him, and for some reason, glances down to make sure the door is still locked. As if he’s going to force his way in.

Huh. As if.

There’s nothing threatening about this man. Still, she can’t help but feel apprehensive.

“What are you painting?” he asks.

“The kitchen. And, look, I’ve been at it all day and I just made a huge mess that I have to clean up,” she remembers, thinking of the brush mark on the refrigerator. “So I’m afraid I can’t help you.”