Behind the Lie, page 14
Three children plus guest children make for a challenging dilemma, but over the years Holly and Oliver had developed coping strategies so ingrained they seemed choreographed. Quietly, kicking off their shoes, they crept to the tree fort built far enough from the house that no window light, nor streetlight, nor moonlight reached it, and slid through the opening. They kept their clothes on, mostly, and they moved against each other with a needy desperation born of suspicion, distrust, and supplication.
They were back in the house before any of the kids noted their absence, silence descending on them again.
Once the children were asleep, Oliver sat outside and smoked. Holly caught the unfamiliar scent as she came downstairs with the laundry basket and stopped, blood pumping through her veins with such force she grew dizzy. The last time Oliver smoked was in high school; his coach told him quit the death sticks or quit the team.
Her entire being, every cell, pulled her toward the deck door, toward this man who had watched over her during the worst year of her life, who had always been there for her, who waited until she was old enough and then scooped her up within his love, cocooning her. But she didn’t go to him. She couldn’t.
Instead, she put the laundry on the cold wood floor, ran to the bathroom, locked the door, and threw up yellow bile and brown espresso martini into the porcelain bowl.
CHAPTER
25
July: Laney
THE AFTERNOON HAD grown hotter and muggier, and Laney’s ancient Toyota barely kept up with the air conditioning. She drove along the winding driveway onto Sunny River’s grounds and parked under an extravagant willow, happy for the shade. The air here, though heavy, had a whiff of freshness to it, either due to the density of surrounding trees or the expansive garden erupting turbulently behind the buildings.
The cottages were more decrepit than the website suggested—the paint dull and peeling, grass overgrown, moss on the roof shingles. The property languished at the end of a mile-long downtown, most shops closed, FOR RENT signs, sidewalks cracked and uneven, the only action near a barbershop and a deli, and that action being three men smoking and chatting idly in the afternoon’s blaze.
With her phone, Laney snapped pictures of the shaggy grounds and structures. Walking around to the back of the main building, she saw a young woman sitting on a set of concrete steps, smoking. She wore skinny jeans with a loose green top and flip-flops. A lanyard ID tangled with a thin gold chain around her neck.
“Hello,” Laney said.
“Can I help you?” The woman held her cigarette suspended, caught midtoke. Early twenties, chipped green-apple nail polish, dark circles under her eyes.
“I was interested in some of your outpatient programs,” Laney said. “My name is Elaine.” She extended her hand.
The woman hesitated, but it takes restraint to refuse someone’s hand; most people will shake out of habit. She did, enveloping Laney’s fingers in a quick, damp embrace. “Jo,” she said. “Is it for you?”
“No,” Laney said, and in a moment of inspiration cut with guilt, “For my son.”
Jo took a deep drag of her cigarette. “How old is he?”
“Fifteen.”
“Oh.” Jo shrugged. “We have some programs, sure. Go inside and I’ll give you brochures when I’m off my break.” She tapped ash into a shrub. “The kids can be a handful, but they’re great, really.” She squinted at Laney. “To be fair, though? I wouldn’t put my kid here.”
Laney sat next to her. “Oh?” she asked.
“There’s no money. I’m being honest. And frankly, if you want to go and tell them I said this, I don’t care. I’m thinking of quitting anyway.” She ground out the stub and turned so she was looking directly at Laney. “We’re understaffed. We can’t do even a third for these kids what we should be doing.”
Laney waited, but the girl grew gloomy and stayed quiet.
“Do you work with teens?” Laney asked.
“I’m the administrative assistant.” Jo shook another cigarette out of the box and lit it. “You’re not looking for a program for your kid,” she said.
“No? Why, what am I doing?”
“You’re either with a newspaper or you’re a cop. Parents don’t come here to check us out unless their kid is ordered here by court.”
Laney smiled. She had underestimated this girl. Lesson learned. Chipped nail polish did not mean sloppy mind. “Why would a newspaper or a cop be interested in Sunny River?”
“Which are you?”
Laney handed her business card to the woman. “Investigator. Bubba Gardner’s mother is my client.”
Jo shook her head.
Gently, almost in a whisper, Laney asked, “Do you know what happened to him?”
The girl continued smoking in silence as her cheeks and forehead grew splotchy and her nose dripped. She drew the back of her hand over it, then used the hem of her top to wipe her eyes and face. Laney handed her a packet of tissues she always carried in her bag for exactly these kinds of situations. Making someone feel understood went a long way toward getting them to share.
Jo looked as though she’d break her teeth if she clamped her mouth any tighter.
“Jo? What’s going on here?”
The back door opened, nearly missing Laney’s shoulder, and a woman peered out from the darkened hallway. Her eyes settled on Laney, then took in Jo’s reddened face.
“What’s up?” the woman asked.
Jo shrugged, switching to sullen mode. “Just taking my break.”
The woman checked her phone. “Five more minutes, then you need to go in.” Next, directed at Laney, “Unauthorized personnel are not allowed back here.”
Laney rose to her feet. “Of course.” She smiled. “I’ll be going.”
Unauthorized, bullshit. The back courtyard had no fence, no signs. It was no more unauthorized than the front.
She walked to her car, her neck crawling with the knowledge she was being watched. Sure enough, once she’d buckled in and faced the front door again, she saw the older woman in the doorway, her arms folded across her chest, her face neutral.
Laney waved, and the woman lowered her arms and walked back inside, closing the door behind her.
Once home, Laney documented the meager notes for her outing to Sunny River and logged into Facebook. But there were more than a dozen profiles with Jo’s name, and who knew if the girl would respond to her from behind the safe wall of social media. Her only other option being a second visit, Laney dialed the Sunny River number and asked to speak with Jo.
Silence on the other end, as of someone holding their breath.
“Jo? Is that you?”
“Yes.” The tone cautious, giving nothing away.
“Look,” Laney said. “Bubba has a mother who loves him. If there’s something you can tell me, it would mean everything—” Her voice broke, surprising her. Dammit. Sometimes it was possible to be too close to a case, and these runaway teens ripped her soul to shreds. “I know you can help. Please help us.”
The woman hung up.
Laney tossed her phone on the table. Fine. She’d have to do her due diligence some other way. Surveillance. Maybe find a different employee. Maybe speak to another kid.
She was grilling hamburgers for dinner when her phone pinged with a message from an unknown number.
I couldn’t talk before. I can’t give you names, but it’s not just Bubba, the text said.
Laney wiped her hands on her shorts and sat down. What can you tell me?
14 girls disappeared since Jan.
Laney stared at her phone, her hand uncertain over the keyboard.
The next text came in before she decided what to say. Disappeared like they walked down the road and hopped on the bus to the city to meet up with their pimps.
Laney’s eyebrows climbed to her hairline. What the hell?
The three incoming dots waved for a full five minutes before a long text pinged into view. They told us not to talk to anybody about it but fuck it. Everyone here—all the nurses and therapists, everyone is great. We all just want to help these children. But the bosses don’t give a fuck. They only care about the money and they count everything, every tampon, every french fry, every dose. The kids don’t get their meds if the cash flow slows for the month.
Laney pulled on her lower lip, trying to sort this out. One case at a time, though. And Bubba? she asked.
The burgers began to smoke, and she scampered to flip them onto a plate. It’s a good thing Alfie liked his meat well done.
By then another text waited for her. Many of these kids don’t have anyone who cares. The stories they tell will keep you from sleeping for years if you let them get to you. I was so happy when Bubba’s parents came and took him. He said they were moving to Florida.
Laney didn’t have to think long for her next question. Jo, what did they look like?
The dots took a while this time as well. Young. I thought really young to have a teenager, but some people start early and have good genes. She was pretty. You know, long dark hair. I couldn’t tell you what he looked like, except he had short hair and creepy eyes. I gave Bubba a hug before he left.
Another pause.
Then, I really thought he would be happy. Crying emoji, angry emoji, curse word emoji. Followed by, What a fuckshow.
Laney tapped her fingers on the table. Typed, What do you think is going on at Sunny River?
Nothing.
Jo?
Nothing.
Do you think they’re trafficking the kids?
Sure sounds like it now, don’t it?
Laney typed, It’s not your fault. You’re a smart girl, Jo. You did good to message me. Can I call you? If I have any more questions?
Nothing. Then, Are you going to call the police?
Yes, I have to if what you’re saying is true. If you’re talking about prostitution, of course. But I’m not sure if the police can do anything.
Laney sighed. What most people didn’t know was that teenagers walked away and disappeared all the time. It wasn’t a crime. The cases would go to a missing persons file, and that would be that. If the girls at Sunny River were being sex-trafficked, that was different, but even so, finding them might be impossible.
You wouldn’t have any pictures of the people who took Bubba, would you?
It was unlikely she might, but the question was worth asking.
Jo didn’t answer, and Laney, her mind at split attention, assembled a dinner even she had trouble choking down. Alfie, quiet and as cautious around her as she was around him, ate it dutifully and volunteered to clean up afterward.
Hours later, as Laney was getting ready for bed, her phone lit up with a text. The photograph filling her screen sent blood roaring in her ears. Vera Volkin with her arm around Bubba, standing next to Step’s blue pickup truck, Step at the wheel, and to the side, smiling widely at the boy, Mona Powell.
Realization hit her hard, a punch to the stomach, as she recognized that the green camp counselor shirt Mona wore was not a camp uniform but that of Sunny River, because right there, over her right breast, was the half-moon orange sun with the blue logotype above it. And along with the recognition came a memory. She opened her closet, reached for the tote she’d taken to the Volkins’ house the other night, and dumped the contents onto the floor. There. The youth home’s brochures, three of them, damp from humidity, their ink already wearing away.
CHAPTER
26
June: Holly
AMAZINGLY, THE ROUTINES of everyday life lurched along as spring dissolved into flamboyant summer. Holly rose every morning at six, walked and fed Buster, roused her children, made sure the youngest dressed appropriately for school, fed them, nestled lunch boxes into their backpacks, waited at the corner for the bus, waved them off. Then it was tidying up the house, an errand or two, a couple hours of unproductive staring at her manuscript, back to the corner for the bus.
The massive block party was five days away, and there were still tents to procure and bounce houses to rent.
Holly hadn’t seen the Volkins in a couple of weeks. Her brother Adam seemed better, the warmer weather and sunnier days having improved his temperament, given him energy. Her brother Roger was staying sober. She was paying her bills, and a little extra money in the bank was a comfort. She could put the past few months behind her, learn how to be herself again.
And yet the tension she’d lived with for so long lingered. It hadn’t lifted but only shifted slightly so that she could breathe and eat, though not yet sleep. That was something, wasn’t it?
The morning she found the letter in her mailbox, she understood her life was never returning to what it had been.
The envelope contained a printout of three more compounds and a deadline—the Monday after the block party. Relief scraped away her silly belief in the possibility of salvation. It was freeing to face her new, forever reality without striving for false reassurance.
Feeling reckless, Holly grabbed a red crayon from the kitchen table and scrawled a NO on the paper, put it back into the envelope, and walked it down the hill. She slipped it into the Volkins’ mailbox with relish. A dare.
She understood now that she would never work for them again. Not for money. Not even to save herself. She couldn’t. She couldn’t. She just couldn’t. The guilt alone burned her from the inside. If she’d gotten away with the theft, well, the guilt would lessen with time. But with every fresh visit to the lab, the risk of capture multiplied. Her heart couldn’t survive that anxiety day in and day out.
The texts began an hour later and continued to erupt from her phone for hours until she turned it off. She took her daughter along when Buster needed a walk so she’d never be outside alone. The next morning, she dawdled at the bus stop chatting, then texted Laney to see if she wanted a coffee. But no, her friend was at work (surveillance for an insurance claim, she texted), rain check for the afternoon or evening at the latest.
No sooner had Holly locked her front door than the doorbell rang. She opened her pantry/writing space and sat down, shutting the latch. The doorbell rang again, and the texts began. Let me in, let me in, you’re being an idiot, nothing good will come of this behavior.
Holly put her head on her desk and pressed her palms against her ears. Then she sat up, got to her feet, opened the pantry door, walked to her front door, and opened that.
Vera stood there, smooth and clean, a pleasant smile on her neat face and eyes hidden behind sunglasses. She walked in, nearly knocking Holly off-balance. Before Holly could say a word, Vera shoved the door closed with her foot and said, “We’ll make sure you go to prison.”
Holly said, “I—”
“We’ll poison your brothers and children. We’ll leave you and Oliver alive so you can live with this knowledge. In prison. He’ll never work as a scientist again. In prison.”
Holly sat down. The living room wavered before her eyes and her stomach heaved, sending bile into her throat. She pressed her fist over her mouth and shut her eyes.
After a moment, Vera sat next to her. “What’s all this?” she asked. “Why the rebellion all of a sudden?” She pried Holly’s hand away from her mouth and stroked her fingers. “I was going to tell you later, but we’re leaving next week. The work is nearly done. Endure for a little longer, okay?”
Holly nodded. She had no choice.
“Look at me,” Vera said, and when Holly didn’t, she tapped Holly’s chin to turn her head. “Good. Now, don’t annoy us, okay?”
Holly nodded again.
The next morning, as the school bus disappeared around the corner, Holly said her good-byes to the other moms, declined an invitation to lunch, and retreated to her front porch. The kids had roasted marshmallows at a neighbor’s open fire pit the night before and had run through the house with chocolaty, marshmallow-coated fingers, leaving thick smudges of it on walls and couch cushions. But instead of pulling out a bucket and a bottle of Mr. Clean, Holly perched on her front steps and turned her attention to the unassuming house at the bottom of the hill where Step Volkin’s blue pickup truck stood under the pines.
That was so typical of them, to park like that, where sap would drip onto the paint and solidify. Who did that? Holly wondered, not for the first time, if she could ask Laney Bird to cast her investigative eye on the strange Volkins, but then, as always, dismissed the idea. What if Laney found something that tied Holly to them? Would she be duty bound to report her? Laney was a straight arrow, one of the most honest people Holly had ever met. What was it like to be so genuine? Holly didn’t know. In her entire adult life, she’d never tried it.
She waited as Step and then Vera left their house, locked their door, and slid into Vera’s gray Honda. They backed out and sped around the bend, heading away from town.
After a few minutes she stood, brushed the dirt from her behind, and walked toward their house. A neighbor rounded the corner walking her labradoodle, and Holly stopped to chat, because that was the normal thing to do, and she’d act normal if it killed her.
Then she strolled to the small house under the pines, looked around to make sure nobody else was walking dogs or jogging or taking a morning constitutional, and slunk to the backyard. The back door was locked, as were the basement windows, the den windows, and the patio sliding door. Holly leaned against the stucco foundation and shut her eyes, centered herself. Abigail used to sneak out of their house all the time, even though their father locked it up tight every evening. Holly glanced at the second floor and her heart fluttered. One of the bedroom windows gaped partially open.
Great. All she needed was a ladder. But the Volkins, who still had no living room furniture, could hardly be expected to have a ladder lying about. After a cursory check of the shed and the house perimeter, Holly confirmed that no, they did not have one. She’d have to get hers and somehow carry it down the street without piquing anyone’s curiosity.
