My hair, too, had begun to fall out. Not in clumps, but in strands, as if decaying slowly but steadily, like termites ravaging a home. There would be strands on my pillow when I woke, and when I brushed my hair, I would have to use my fingers to clear the bristles before I finished or the brush would slide without catching. I would flush the hair down the toilet, watching it swirl downward, and once it was gone, I would flush again for no other reason than to postpone the reality of my life.
That night, as I was climbing through a hole in the fence, I cut my palm on a jagged nail. It hurt and it bled, but instead of turning around, I simply squeezed my hand into a fist and felt the blood seeping between my fingers, thick and sticky. I did not care about the pain that night, just as I do not care about the scar today.
I had to go. In the last week, I had gone to the site of Missy's accident and had also visited Missy's grave. At the grave, I remember, the headstone had been placed and there were still remnants of fresh earth, where the grass had yet to grow, almost like a small hole. It bothered me for a reason I couldn't quite explain, and that was where I set the flowers. Then, not knowing what else to do, I sat down and simply stared at the granite. The cemetery was mostly empty; in the distance, I could see a few people here and there, tending to their own business. I turned away, not caring if they saw me.
In the moonlight, I opened my hand. The blood was black and shone like oil. I closed my eyes, remembering Missy, then moved forward again. It took half an hour to get there. Mosquitoes buzzed around my face. Toward the end of my trek, I had to cut across yards to stay off the road. The yards here are wide, the houses set far from the road, and it was easier going. My eyes were locked on my destination, and as I approached, I slowed down, careful not to make any sound. I could see light streaming from the windows. I saw a car parked in the driveway.
I knew where they'd lived; everyone did. This was a small town, after all. I had seen their house in the daytime, too; like the scene of the accident and Missy's grave, I'd been there before, though I'd never been this close. My breathing slowed as I reached the side of the house. I could smell the scent of freshly mowed grass.
I stopped, my hand pressed against the brick. I listened for squeaky floorboards, a movement toward the door, shadows flickering over the porch. No one seemed to realize I was there.
I inched my way to the living room window, then crept onto the porch, where I wedged myself into a corner, my body hidden from those who might pass on the road by an ivy-covered trellis. In the distance, I heard a dog begin to bark, then pause, then finally bark again to see if anything would stir. Curiously, I peeked in.
I saw nothing.
But I was unable to turn away. This is how they lived, I thought. Missy and Miles sat on that couch, they set their cups on that end table. Those are their pictures on the wall. Those are their books. As I looked around, I noticed that the television was on, the sounds of conversation running together. The room was tidy, uncluttered, and for some reason, that made me feel better.
It was then that I saw Jonah enter the living room. I held my breath as he approached the television, since he was nearing me as well, but he never looked my way. Instead he sat, crossing his legs, and stared at the program without moving, as if hypnotized.
I pressed a little closer against the glass to see him better. He had grown in the past two months, not much, but noticeable. Though it was late, he was still in jeans and his shirt, not in his pajamas. I heard him laugh, and my heart nearly burst in my chest.
That was when Miles came into the room. I pulled back into the shadows, but still I watched him. He stood there for a long moment, watching his son, saying nothing. His expression was void, unreadable . . . hypnotized. He held a manila file in his hands, and a moment later, I saw him glance at his watch. His hair on one side was puffed out, as if he'd been running his hands through it.
I knew what would happen next, and I waited. He'd start talking to his son. He'd ask what Jonah was watching. Or, because it was a school night, he'd say something about Jonah having to go to bed or putting his pajamas on. He'd ask if he wanted a cup of milk or a snack.
But he didn't.
Instead, Miles simply passed through the living room and vanished into a darkened hallway, almost as if he'd never been there at all.
A minute later I crept away.
I didn't sleep the rest of the night.
Chapter 24
Miles made it home at the same time Charlie was pulling up at Hailey State Prison, and the first thing he did was head to his bedroom.
Not to sleep. Instead, from the closet where he'd hidden it, he retrieved the manila file.
There, he spent the next few hours flipping and turning the pages, studying the information. There was nothing new, nothing he'd overlooked in the past, but still, he found it impossible to put down.
Now, he knew what to look for.
Sometime later, he heard the phone ring; he didn't answer it. It rang again twenty minutes later, with the same result. At his usual time, Jonah got off the bus, and seeing his father's car, he went home instead of to Mrs. Knowlson's. He scrambled into the bedroom excitedly because he hadn't expected to see his father until later and thought they could do something together before he went out with Mark. But he saw the file and knew immediately what that meant. Though they talked for a few moments, Jonah sensed his father's need to be alone and didn't bother asking for anything. He wandered back to the living room and turned on the television.
The afternoon sun began to sink; at dusk, Christmas lights throughout the neighborhood began twinkling. Jonah checked on his father, even spoke from the doorway, but Miles never looked up.
Jonah had a bowl of cereal for dinner.
Still, Miles scoured the file. He jotted questions and notes in the margins, beginning with Sims and Earl and the need to get them to testify. Then he turned to the pages that dealt with the investigation of Otis Timson, wishing he'd been there in the first place. More questions, more notes. Did they check every car on the property for damage--even the junked ones? Could he have borrowed one, and from where? Would someone at an auto parts shop remember if Otis ever bought an emergency kit? Where would they have disposed of the car if it had been damaged? Call other departments--see if any illegal chop shops had been closed down within the last couple of years. Interview, if possible. Cut a deal if they can recall something.
A little before eight o'clock, Jonah came back into the bedroom, dressed and ready to go to the movies with Mark. Miles had forgotten about the outing completely. Jonah kissed him goodbye and headed out; Miles went straight back to the file without asking when he'd be back.
He didn't hear Sarah come in until she called his name from the living room.
"Hello?... Miles? Are you here?"
A moment later she appeared in the doorway, and Miles suddenly remembered that they were supposed to have a date.
"Didn't you hear me knock?" she asked. "I was freezing out there, waiting for you to answer, and I finally just gave up. Did you forget that I was coming over?"
When he looked up, she saw the distracted, distant look in his eyes. His hair looked as if he'd been running his hand through it for hours.
"Are you okay?" she asked.
Miles started shuffling the papers back together. "Yeah...I'm fine. I've just been working...I'm sorry...I lost track of time."
She recognized the file and her brow arched up. "What's going on?" she asked.
Seeing Sarah made him realize how exhausted he felt. His neck and back were stiff, and he felt as if he were coated in a thin layer of dust. He closed the file and set it aside, his mind still on the contents. He rubbed his face with both hands, then looked at her over his fingers.
"Otis Timson was arrested today," he said.
"Otis? What for?"
Before she'd finished her question, she suddenly realized the answer, and she inhaled sharply.
"Oh... Miles," she said, moving toward him instinctively. Miles, ac
hing everywhere, stood up and she slipped her arms around him. "Are you sure you're okay?" she whispered, holding him tight.
As he embraced her, everything he'd felt during the day came rushing back. The mixture of disbelief, anger, frustration, rage, fear, and exhaustion magnified the renewed feelings of loss, and for the first time that day, Miles gave in to them all. Standing in the room with Sarah's arms around him, Miles broke down, the tears coming as though he'd never cried before.
Madge was waiting for Charlie when he got back to the station. Normally off at five, she stayed for an extra hour and a half waiting for him. She was standing in the parking lot, her arms crossed, hugging her long wool jacket against her.
Charlie stepped out of the car and brushed the crumbs from his pants. He'd grabbed a burger and fries on the way home, washing it all down with a cup of coffee.
"Madge? What are you still doing here?"
"Waiting for you," she answered. "I saw you pull up and I wanted to talk to you out of earshot."
Charlie reached into the car and grabbed his hat. In the chill, he needed one. He didn't have enough hair anymore to keep his head warm.
"So what's up?"
Before she answered, a deputy pushed through the door and Madge looked over her shoulder. Buying time, she said simply, "Brenda called."
"Is she okay?" Charlie asked, playing along.
"Fine, as far as I can tell. She wants you to give her a call, though."
The deputy nodded at Charlie as he strode past. Once he was near his car, Madge moved a little closer.
"I think there's a problem," Madge said quietly.
"With what?"
She motioned over her shoulder. "Thurman Jones is waiting for you inside. So is Harvey Wellman."
Charlie looked at her, knowing there was more.
"They both want to talk to you," she said.
"And?"
Again she looked around, making sure they were alone. "They're here together, Charlie. They want to talk to you together."
Charlie simply stared at her, trying to anticipate what she was going to say, knowing he wouldn't like it. Prosecutors and defense attorneys got together only under the most dire circumstances.
"It's about Miles," she said. "I think he might have done something out there. Something that he shouldn't have."