Listen (32 page)

His heart jumped at the thought of Kay. She was supposed to go to work today. He took out his cell phone, dialing her number.

“Hello?”

“Hey, babe. Are you at the house?”

“No. I’m in town. Getting ready to show a house. Why?”

“I don’t want to scare you, but . . . just be careful. Watch your surroundings. Lock the doors when you’re home. And watch what you say.”

“What? Why?”

“Our conversation was recorded last night. At the table.”

A long stretch of silence. “What are you talking about?” Her voice was now a heavy whisper.

“I don’t know what’s going on. I’m trying to figure this thing out. But I’m somebody’s target, and I have to find out who’s trying to set me up. I want you to be vigilant, with yourself and with the kids.”

“Both the kids have something after school. Jenna’s got a class project she has to work on, and Hunter has to stay late to complete his science fair essay. I’ll pick him up at five.”

“Okay, that’s good. I don’t want to frighten them, and so far whoever is doing this doesn’t seem the violent type, but we can’t be too careful.”

“I’m scared.”

“I know. I am too. But we’re going to get through this. The truth will come out.”

“I want to call Reverend Caldwell. Tell him to pray for us.”

“I think that’s a good idea.”

“I love you.”

“I love you too.”

“Call me soon, okay?”

“I will.” Damien put the phone back in his pocket.

Think. Think
.

He sat back down at the computer, scrolling through the previous conversations that were recorded. He studied every word, every sentence, trying to get an idea of some kind of unobvious agenda.

“I’ve never liked the man.”

“Come on. We hardly know them.”

“You can sense weirdos, and he’s a weirdo.”

“You’ve never said a word about this guy.”

“Yes, well, that’s before he went nuts.”

“You have no proof that—”

“I don’t need proof. I can see it in the man’s eyes. Tell the kids not to talk to him. Or his wife. We’re going to stay the _____ away from him.”

“Do you really think she’s having an affair?”

“_____, yes.”

“I mean, I wouldn’t put it past her, but—”

“It’s written all over her. First of all, she’s late all the time.”

“But is it an affair? With a married man?”

“Of course it is.”

“How do you know?”

“Because I know her, and normally she’d be talking the thing to death.”

Something struck him. There were blanks where curse words should be. Without exception, every place a curse word looked like it should fit, a blank line was drawn. It had been like that from the beginning of the Web site.

Damien leaned forward, feeling like the ultimate sleuth. That had to mean something. He was certain it meant something to Frank, though Frank had never mentioned it. For Damien, it meant that whoever this was had an aversion to curse words. Which meant they were probably religious. Yes, so, it was the local nuns?

Or . . . Reverend Caldwell? The guy liked to pop up unexpectedly.

Damien filed the thought away and continued to scroll, looking to pick up more clues. It all seemed pretty random. Some conversations were more damning than others. There didn’t seem to be a pattern of trying to target one person over another. It seemed like this person was just a simple observer, reporting the facts.

Kind of like an investigative reporter.

Damien shook off the thought and continued to read but still didn’t find anything that stuck out to him.

He scrolled back to the top and decided to read the conversation about him. It hurt. He found himself blinking at every word, as if it were slapping him across the face. But he kept reading over and over. The more he read, the less painful it became, and he was able to read with a more critical eye.

And then . . .

Damien slammed himself backward in the chair. His heart hammered inside his chest. He shot to his feet, accidentally kicking the chair, then slapped his hands on the desk and put all his attention on the sheet of paper. He read. He reread. Again. And again.

“No,” he whispered. “I don’t understand. . . .”

He grabbed his keys and jacket and bolted up the stairs. He ran out of the house, not bothering to shut the front door.

32

Kay turned up the heat in the SUV. Exhaust filled the space behind the bumper. Even with the heater running, it still felt frigid. Her windows were fogging over too.

Normally she would let Hunter walk home but not today. Not after Damien’s phone call.

The parking lot looked fairly empty, and only a few cars had pulled to the curb. Hunter wouldn’t be happy seeing his mom’s SUV idling out front, but she didn’t care at this point. She just wanted him home safely.

She’d texted Jenna earlier and tried not to sound frightened. Instead she said,
Checking in. Doing okay?

Jenna’s response:
Doing fine
.

That was all she needed to hear.

Now she just needed to see her son walking out the front doors of the school.

She swiped her hand across the windshield and checked her watch. She knew she was on time. He’d been staying late for a few weeks working on his science fair project.

She got out of her SUV and stood on the curb, glancing back and forth to make sure she hadn’t accidentally missed him.

A few kids straggled out. She didn’t recognize them, though admittedly, she didn’t know many of Hunter’s friends. She’d been so consumed with the whole cheerleading scene she had let those kinds of details slip lately. But Hunter had never had trouble making friends, and usually they were the good kids.

She blew into her gloved hands and wiggled around in her coat, trying to keep herself warm.

Where was he?

A nervous chill managed to snake its way up her spine, colder than what this wind was causing.

She couldn’t have missed him. The kids always came out the front door to walk home. The back of the school was fenced in and there was no other way to go.

She took out her cell phone and called Reverend Caldwell. His voice mail picked up. “Hi, this is Kay Underwood. Our family is going through a lot right now, and I wanted to say thank you for your kindness. I’m so glad Gabby is okay. If you could just say a prayer for us. Thank you.” Kay shut her phone and thought that perhaps she could say a prayer herself. She hadn’t prayed in years besides the occasional blessing at the table on a religious holiday.

She wanted to pray, but she couldn’t get her mind off Hunter.

He was going to kill her, but at this point she was willing to take the risk, since she felt like she was going to die from a combination of fear and hypothermia.

“Don’t panic,” she said as she started toward the school. She realized she’d forgotten to turn off her SUV and take the keys out. Her purse was on the floorboard. She paused but couldn’t get herself to turn back. With brisk strides she swung open the heavy glass door of the school.

The halls were empty and dark. Her heels echoed dully against the laminate. A janitor swung his mop back and forth a few feet ahead. “Excuse me,” Kay said. “I’m looking for Mrs. Patterson’s room.”

“Straight that way, at the end. Room 110.”

“Thanks.”

Kay hustled forward, nearly in a run. She found the room and grabbed the handle, but it was locked. She peered through the small window on the door. Heavy shadows, long against the floor, clung to the last bits of light filtering through the outside window.

Kay turned, her back against the door, each breath hard to take. She hurried to the center of the building, where the office was and hopefully the teachers’ lounge.

She heard a few voices and followed them into a long room with tables, a sink, and a coffeemaker. She couldn’t even remember what Mrs. Patterson looked like.

A few teachers looked up as she cleared her throat. “Sorry to bother you. I’m looking for Mrs. Patterson?”

“Yes, that’s me,” said a slender woman with long, straight hair. She didn’t really fit the profile of a science teacher. “What can I do for you?” she asked, walking toward Kay.

Kay lowered her voice and tried a pleasant, calm smile. “I’m sorry. I’m just looking for my son, Hunter Underwood.”

“I haven’t seen him since school today.”

“He was staying late after school for that project.”

“What project?”

“For the big science project he’s been working on.”

Mrs. Patterson shook her head. “I don’t know what you mean.”

“He said there was some science project he was doing. He’s been staying late after school. Today he was working on the essay.”

“I’m sorry. You must be mistaken. I have assigned nothing like that, and nobody from the class has been staying afterward.”

***

Damien peeled into the driveway, punching his garage door opener. He sped into the garage and got out. The metal garage door rumbled closed. He unlocked the door that led into the laundry room, irritated it was locked although he’d been the one to suggest the extra precaution.

The house was dark and empty. Somewhere he thought he smelled a candle recently burned. Was it lavender? Damien stopped in the kitchen, trying to catch his breath. He had to get a grip. He had to try to think clearly, not panic, no matter what the outcome was.

He slipped off his coat and stuffed his gloves into the pockets, then threw his cell phone on the counter.

His legs felt as if he were walking on unstable ground, as if at any moment his feet might sink into an unseen hole. Both hands were flat against his chest as he made his way to the dining room.

There it was, still sitting on the table, closed up and ready for another family game night. He turned on the chandelier. Its sparkling light caressed the room, but there was nothing to calm Damien’s dread.

He pulled out a chair and sat down, then moved the box toward him, staring at it for a long time. It took several tugs, but he finally removed the box top. Inside, the game was put back nice and tidy, with all the money lined up in neat stacks. Kay must’ve done it.

He removed the game board, the pieces, and the money. He took a deep breath as he lifted out the pad of paper he’d doodled on the night before. He flipped it over to where he’d jotted down a line from the op-ed piece he’d been working on for the newspaper.

Listen to all that is said from everyone you know. Listen hard and you will have understanding beyond the words.

These sentences had been recorded in the conversation and posted on the Web site. Except Damien had written them down, not spoken them.

He had not spoken them.

Whoever recorded the conversation had to have been in the room, close enough to read it.

At the table.

Damien sat there, unable to react to the sobering realization of what was before him. His fingertips traced the letters of each word he’d written. His heart broke. He now had understanding beyond the words.

His fingers pressed against his lips to keep them from trembling, but he knew what he had to do. Shoving himself away from the table, he stood and walked to the stairway. He used the rail and took his time with each step. It didn’t seem real. It seemed impossibly unreal.

At the top he hesitated. What he might find could change his whole world in an instant and would prove everything wrong that he’d believed. It almost seemed as if he’d just been given news that he would die, and he had a few minutes to ponder it. There was nothing to do in a few minutes except to briefly reflect on what could have been.

He walked toward Hunter’s room. The door was shut. He turned the knob and opened it, almost expecting the young man to be diving toward or away from something.

But the room was quiet and peaceful. Neat, even. But odorous in a way only a teenager can manage. It felt awkward to be in here without Hunter. He couldn’t even remember the last time he’d been in his son’s room alone. It felt like trespassing.

There was no use just standing around and thinking about it. He first went through his desk, searching through a bunch of unorganized papers, spirals, and folders. Nothing.

Next he went to the closet, where he scooted clothing across the bar, digging behind boxes and junk, trying not to think of the implications of what would happen if he found what he was looking for.

He walked out of the closet empty-handed and glanced around the room. There wasn’t a great deal of hiding space in the room. He walked over to the bed and dropped to his knees. The floor was cold even with the rug.

He lay flat on his stomach and reached through the shadows, a little afraid of what might jump out and grab him. He groped around. A few papers. A couple of old toys.

Then his fingers touched something cold, firm, folderlike. Walking his fingers across it, he tried to scoot it across the rug. When it didn’t budge, he nudged his thumb underneath it and pulled.