“You think I’m making all this up.”

“No. I…”

Craig gave a half laugh that hurt her to hear. “I don’t even blame you. It’s crap. None of it explains a woman walking out on her kids without even saying goodbye.”

Robin felt a thrill of fear. “But…didn’t she?”

His expression changed. A mask seemed to close over his face. “Yeah. If you call what she told Brett saying goodbye.”

Robin didn’t know what Julie was supposed to have said; she’d heard rumors that Craig would have been arrested except for his son’s story.

He’d pulled back and now stood waiting, remote. “Will you call for Brett?”

“Oh. Yes, of course.” She passed him, but paused in the living-room doorway. Turning back to him, Robin said, “Craig, I…”

“Don’t lie. Don’t say you’re sorry.” His voice sounded heavy, slow, wary. “Don’t say anything.”

Dear Reader,

As a writer and reader, I am fascinated less by the big dramatic scenes than I am by the aftermath. Someone survives a childhood trauma and most bystanders assume that the story is over. But is that really the end? I want to know what comes next.

I’m also fascinated by mystery, although like most of you, I really like to feel secure. The unknown is terrifying. So what happens to a man and his children when they are faced with a dreadful unknown: the disappearance of a wife and mother?

Of course, I don’t write about the drama of the disappearance, or the following days. I take up the story a year and a half later, when they have lived with this awful unknown for seemingly endless months.

Think about it. Your husband, your daughter, your mother, disappears. No blood, no clues, no goodbye notes. Did he choose to walk away? Was she abducted? Is she dead or alive? How do you live a normal life as you search for answers that may not be found? And what if finally you get an answer, but it’s not one you’ll ever fully understand or be able to explain to your children?

Can you fall in love in the midst of this turmoil, this anguish, this guilt and anger?

I hope you’ll be fascinated by this story and these characters.

Best,

Janice Kay Johnson

Mommy Said Goodbye
Janice Kay Johnson

www.millsandboon.co.uk

Contents

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

CHAPTER ONE

A MAN SUSPECTED of murdering his wife can pretty well count on being left off guest lists.

Laughter, the clink of ice in glasses, the shouts of children and the smell of barbecued beef drifted over the fence from the next-door neighbor’s.

Craig Lofgren stood on his back deck, the lid of his Weber kettle grill in his hand. Just like that, he was hit by a fist of anger and loss so powerful, he reeled back a step.

“Daddy?” His daughter tugged at his free hand. “Daddy, what’s wrong?”

He swallowed and opened his eyes. His voice sounded hoarse to his ears. “Just taking a whiff. Smells good, doesn’t it?”

The anxiety on her face faded and she nodded. “You haven’t lit the charcoal yet.”

“I’m doing it, I’m doing it.” Somehow, he found a grin for her. “Hungry?”

Abby—who just turned nine—nodded, then gave a wistful look toward the fence. “They’re all there, aren’t they?”

There was no point in pretending. She knew as well as he did why they were excluded. “Sounds that way.”

Solemn, she nodded again. “I think I heard Brett putting his bike in the garage.”

“Yeah? Go ask him if the teacher lists were posted yet.”

The intense emotion had passed, leaving bitter resignation in its wake. He dumped charcoal in the kettle, making no effort to be quiet, poured on lighter fluid and flicked a match. To hell with it if he cast a pall on the block party. Let ’em whisper about him. Feel a tiny twinge of guilt, or at least pity, because they had made his innocent children pariahs with him.

Once he was sure the charcoal was burning, Craig went in the house and sought out his eleven-year-old son. Brett had ridden his bike to the school, where rumor had it the lists had been posted showing which classrooms kids would be in and who their teachers would be when school started next week. Abby was the one who’d worried all summer about whether she’d be in the same class with her friends. But Brett, who professed not to care about school at all, had been the one to leap on his bike the minute Abby said she’d heard the lists were up.

Craig headed upstairs when he heard his daughter’s squeal.

“Daddy!” She popped out into the hall from her brother’s bedroom. “I got Mrs. Jensen! She’s super nice!”

“Great.” He gave her a hug and went into Brett’s bedroom. As usual, it looked as if a burglar had ransacked it. “Who’d you get?”

Shoulders slumped, Brett sat on the edge of the bed. “Ms. McKinnon.”

Damn. Some of his earlier anger and tension gripped Craig again. He’d hoped for any other teacher for Brett.

Carefully, he said, “She’s supposed to be good.”

Brett nodded without looking up.

Craig hesitated, then stepped over piles of clothes, a soccer ball and God knew what else so that he could reach the bed and sit down, too, right next to Brett. Abby stood in the doorway and watched, her jubilation gone and her face pinched, as it so often was these days.

“What’s the deal?” Craig asked.

He hadn’t expressed any of his concerns and hadn’t realized Brett had his own. The truth was, Robin McKinnon was said to be the best sixth grade teacher in the district. Right now, Brett needed someone who might be able to inspire him, energize him, discipline him.

Craig just wasn’t sure Robin would even try. She’d been a friend of Julie’s, which meant, in this town, that she would believe heart and soul that Craig had murdered his wife and hidden the body. Or ground it up into bits and fed it to some farmer’s pigs. Who the hell knew? Craig understood there were a dozen or more theories. Every one of them involved him as a crazed killer, a man who couldn’t stand the thought that his wife wanted to leave him. Nobody had considered the theory that maybe Julie Lofgren had just up and walked out on her family. Or that a stranger had abducted her.

If the police had had one grain of proof… But they hadn’t then, a year and a half ago when Julie disappeared, and they didn’t have one now.

Which hadn’t changed a single mind. The community had closed ranks against him. His lovely, innocent wife! they cried. A devoted mother and president of the parent-teacher organization two years running, she was well-known in Klickitat. Craig had never been anything but Julie’s often-absent husband, Brett’s dad who came to games when he could, Abby’s father who had missed her second grade parent-teacher conference because he was flying to Juneau.

Now, every single person in Klickitat knew who he was. He couldn’t go to the grocery store or get gas without feeling eyes on him, without knowing he was being judged.

He’d hoped that Brett would get the man just hired to teach sixth grade. Someone would have told him Brett’s sad story, of course, but at least he might not share the fervor of the people who’d known Julie.

No such luck.

After a long silence, Brett muttered, “Ms. McKinnon used to come to games and stuff.”

“She was a friend of your mom’s.”

Brett didn’t say anything.

“Her boy—what was his name?—was a friend of yours, wasn’t he?” Craig remembered.

“Malcolm.”

“You know, she’s not going to treat you any differently because your mom disappeared.”

“Yeah?” Fury blazed on Brett’s face when he lifted his head. “Everyone does! They either feel sorry for me,” he spat out, “or else they’re wondering if I saw anything. You can see what they’re thinking!”

Yeah. You could.

“Robin knows you.”

“So?”

Craig groped for an answer to the unanswerable. So she’d known Brett, known Julie, even, casually known Craig. She, too, had shunned the entire family after police cars with flashing lights were seen in front of the Lofgren home. She hadn’t called to find out why Brett quit the Little League team. Malcolm hadn’t called to invite Brett over to hang at his house.

Brett bowed his head again, but tension still ran through him. “She’ll think you killed Mom.”

“I’m not the one in her class,” Craig said. “Brett.” He waited until his son met his eyes. “I can ask for a change of teacher if you want.” No response. “Otherwise, we’ll give Ms. McKinnon a try. If you’re not happy, then I’ll have you changed to a different room.”

“Why can’t we move?” his thin, dark-haired son cried. “Where no one knows us?”

Because this is purgatory, Craig thought, and we’ve been consigned to it.

“You know why.” He wrapped an arm around Brett’s shoulders and squeezed. “We’re outta here the minute the police find out what happened to your mom.”

“But they think you killed her.” Brett searched his face. “Don’t they? So, are they even looking for Mom?”

“Sure they are.” Craig hated his falsely hearty voice, never mind the fact that he was lying to his kids despite his vows never to do so. No, the cops weren’t looking for Julie, because they were sure she was dead. Fish bait. What they were doing was waiting for him to screw up. Head out furtively some Tuesday afternoon for that storage space, rented under another name, where he’d hidden the bloodstained tarps. Or maybe even the body. The cops were probably listening to this conversation. Craig was willing to bet the house was wiretapped. He was the suspect, and the cops were dogging his every footstep.

Abby, still in the doorway, let out a sniff. “I miss Mommy.”

Craig held out his hand to her and lied yet again. “Me, too, Punkin. Come here.”

She plopped onto the bed on his other side and wept a few tears onto his T-shirt. Brett continued to sit stiffly, saying nothing.

“Daddy?” Abby said after a moment. “Did you light the coals?”

“Light the…” He swore and leaped up. “I forgot all about them.”

They’d burned down to fiery embers, perfect for barbecuing. Abby brought him the plate of steaks, which he laid on the grill. Juice sizzled as it hit the coals. Soon, the scent of their meat cooking mingled in the air with the smells from across the fence.

And finally, he and his children ate, near to the laughter and conversation in the next yard but not part of it, isolated as they always were now.

Because one day Julie had vanished, leaving behind her car keys and purse. Who would befriend even the children of a man who must have murdered his wife?

ROBIN MCKINNON sat in her classroom and waited for the bell that would bring students rushing in. Hands flat on her desk, she took one last survey of her newly hung decorations, the welcome she’d written on the blackboard, the arrangement of the desks, the names she’d stenciled onto cards and taped below each wooden cubby where her sixth-graders would park their backpacks and lunches.

Her gaze paused halfway, on one name: Brett Lofgren. She both dreaded and anticipated seeing him walk in the door. Notes from Brett’s fourth grade and fifth grade teachers made it clear that he had become a troubled boy since Robin had known him. And no wonder! How horrifying for him, to be torn between fear that his mother had abandoned him and his sister and the more frightening possibility that his father had killed his mother.

The Tribune had reported that Brett claimed his mother had said goodbye to him; his story was one of the major reasons Craig Lofgren hadn’t been arrested. But what if he’d made up that story to protect his father? Imagine as the weeks and months went by and his mother wasn’t found. Would he start wondering if his father had murdered her?

She shivered, thinking about it, remembering Julie Lofgren. Robin had met Julie through circumstance, just…oh, two mothers who often sat together at sporting events, rooting for each other’s kid, talking in that idle way you did when a Little League game dragged on for hours. After several years, she’d have sworn she knew Julie, the bubbly, pretty woman with dimples and an irresistibly childish delight in the triumphs of her children. Robin had talked about her husband, then their marital troubles and finally the divorce. Just before Julie disappeared, a year after Robin’s divorce—when she and Glenn had become embroiled in an ugly custody battle because Glenn was trying to impress his new girlfriend—Julie had listened sympathetically.

In turn, she had confessed to problems in her own marriage, nebulous but enough to make her lower her voice and to cause the light that imbued her to dim. She had never once suggested that Craig was abusive or that she was afraid of him, but she was never quite specific about what was wrong at home, either.

Robin felt guilty that she hadn’t stayed in touch with Brett. He and Malcolm were more soccer buddies than close friends, rather like their mothers, but Mal would have been okay with inviting Brett over. She just hadn’t thought to suggest it, even though she’d read all the newspapers with her friend’s face constantly in her mind, wondering at her fate, first thinking about Craig as a distraught, loving husband, then as a violent man who wouldn’t take rejection. She and Malcolm had had their own turmoil about the same time, thanks to Glenn…. But that was just an excuse. Robin prayed that Brett’s closer friends had been more faithful.

The bell rang, its shrill clamor making her start. Feet thundered in the hall and two boys jostled to be the first into the classroom. Other children pressed behind them.

“Children” was still the right word, although they wouldn’t like to hear it. This was her favorite age, these boys and girls on the brink of so much more: of physical maturity, of making decisions that would direct their lives, of being genuinely cool, of “going together” meaning more than the words. You could mistake a sixth-grader for a sophomore in high school one minute, a fourth-grader the next. Like the boys’ voices, cracking and squeaking and booming, these eleven-year-olds wavered between childhood and adolescence. She liked to think she could still have an effect on them that she might not be able to in another year or two.

She smiled as they poured in. “Take a seat. Any desk is fine today.”

A few she knew well, because of extracurricular activities or because they were younger siblings of former students. Others were familiar faces, because she’d seen them in the halls every year. A few were new to the district.

As always, she marveled at how much less mature the boys were than the girls—a sad fact that had the girls longing for middle school. A curvy brunette sauntered in, flipping her hair and eyeing the boys sidelong. Pants darn near as low and tight as Christina Aguilera’s hugged her hips; her baby tee, snug over a buxom chest, announced that she was a “princess.” Slipping quietly into a front seat was another girl, slight as a fourth grader, who would undoubtedly pretend with friends that she was interested in boys, even though she still played with Barbies at home.

Boys punched each other, rocked their desks, guffawed and shouted at friends passing in the hall. Most were shorter than the girls, just beginning a growth spurt that would have them looking like men in only a few years.

Unless he had changed extraordinarily, Brett Lofgren hadn’t yet made an appearance. Robin scanned faces yet again. The second bell rang, making a few kids clap hands over their ears. She started toward the door with the intention of shutting it.

A tall, handsome boy with his father’s dark hair and gray eyes ambled in. She’d have been fooled by Brett’s air of nonchalance, by his sneer, if she hadn’t seen how fixed his gaze was. He walked right by her and sat down without meeting anybody’s eyes or speaking to a soul.

It might have been her imagination, but there seemed to be a brief hitch in the noise level, a moment when others snatched a surreptitious look, then ostentatiously turned back to their friends and began chattering again. Brett slumped in his chair and began tapping his fingers on the desk.

Robin closed the door and cleared her throat. Quiet spread slowly.

“Good morning. Welcome to sixth grade, and your last year at Roosevelt Elementary School.” She smiled in acknowledgment of the cheers. “I’m Robin McKinnon, and I look forward to getting to know all of you.”

She called roll. Most said, “Hey!” or “That’s me.” Brett flicked a hand in the air and didn’t look up. They talked about seating and agreed to start the year wherever they liked.

“After the first few weeks, once I get to know you, I’m going to start assigning seats.”

Groans.

She smiled. “It’s important for you to learn to work with people who aren’t your best friends. There are rewards, too, in getting to know kids who aren’t in your circle, who maybe have different interests. And finally, I know you’ll concentrate better when you can’t whisper with your best friend.”

Brett, it appeared as the day went on, had no best friend, at least not in this classroom. He spoke to no one. Some of the girls made tentative efforts to flirt with him, not at all to Robin’s surprise; Brett was not only good-looking, but his sulky expression gave him a James Dean air. The other boys were downright wholesome in comparison.

She handed out paperwork for them to go over with their parents concerning her expectations, both for behavior and quality of work. They reviewed math, so she got a sense of where they were, she distributed texts and talked about her requirement for reading: a report a month, each written after reading a book from a different category on a list she gave them. She wanted them to read widely; one sports book was okay, for example, but not nine. The kids always grumbled early on, but her experience was that they found their interests broadening when they dipped into a biography or a play or science fiction or a classic.

At morning recess and lunch, Brett waited until last to slouch out of the classroom door. Robin peeked to see what he did on the playground and saw him shooting baskets by himself. He moved as if he did this often. He’d feint, dribble, shoot and rebound like a pro. As good as he was, no other boy went to join him.

Oh, dear, she thought. Usually she arranged desks in clusters of four once she started assigning seats. Brett was going to be a dark cloud over every group stuck with him if his attitude didn’t improve.

It didn’t.

Although there were no incidents, he stayed sullen through that first three-day week.

On the following Monday, Robin saw another boy poke him as they waited in line to go to P.E., and heard Brett snarl a startling—and forbidden—obscenity.

“Brett!” she snapped. “You will not use that word at school again. Is that clear?”

Eyes filled with dark, churning emotion, he stared at her for a long moment. Then he gave a curt nod.

“Please apologize to Trevor.”

This pause was even longer. Finally he mumbled something that she suspected was as unintelligible to Trevor as it was to her, but she decided not to make an issue of it.

Oh, dear, she thought again.

Tuesday, Amanda Whitney, she of the baby tees and tight jeans, sat down beside him and began tossing her hair and giggling as she tried to coax him to talk.

Brett leveled a cold stare at her and said, “Will you just leave me alone?”

From the other side of the classroom came a boy’s voice. “Jeez, Mandy! Stay away from him. He’s probably a killer like his dad.”

Brett erupted from his desk, sending the chair flying. Shoving aside other desks and kids, he lunged toward a cluster of boys. He crashed into Ryan Durney and the two went down.

Robin yelled, “Stop, now!” and grabbed Brett’s arm before he could punch Ryan.

Ryan scrambled away, his eyes wild. The rest of the kids had gathered in a semicircle, looking scared.

“Back to your seats!”

They went.

Gentling her voice, Robin asked, “Ryan, are you all right?”

He gave a jerky nod.

“Please take your seat, too. I’ll talk to you in a minute.”

She marched an unresisting Brett out onto the small, railed porch of the portable building. Mercifully, the porch of the next portable and the covered breezeway into the main building were deserted. When she released him, he put his back to the railing and waited, head bowed and lank hair hanging over his eyes.

“What were you thinking?” Robin asked.

After a minute, he shrugged.

Her heartbeat was slowing at last, but she still felt shaken by the violence of his reaction. Sixth-grade fights were usually…clumsier. She had never seen an attack so purposeful. Given another ten seconds, he would have hurt Ryan.

“I should send you to the principal’s office,” she said. “I won’t hesitate to do so if you ever, ever, start a fight again. Is that clear?”

He nodded.

“What Ryan said was unkind. It was also spoken out of ignorance.”

Brett’s head shot up. He said hotly, “My dad would never—”

Robin held up a hand. “But that isn’t the point. You cannot go through life attacking every single person who thinks something you don’t like.”

“I should just let people call my dad a murderer.”

“I didn’t say you couldn’t correct them, or even argue. When,” she added sternly, “the setting is appropriate to do so.”

His face set in stubborn lines.

“Have you ever said to Ryan, ‘My mom left my dad. Just because the cops can’t find her doesn’t mean she’s dead’?”

“Nobody will believe me. The cops don’t.”

He had a point. She gave up on reason and said, “If another kid taunts you, I want you to come to me. I’ll talk to him or her, just as I’m going to talk to Ryan. But violence will only convince them that they’re right.”

Anger simmered in his eyes. “Dad didn’t—”

Interrupting, Robin said, “Right now, I neither know nor care. He’s not in my classroom. You are. He isn’t the issue here, any more than are the parents that I know don’t encourage their children to do their homework or who don’t care enough to come to parent conferences. You are responsible for your own behavior, for how you handle your problems. Parents might be part of the problem, but your response is yours alone.” She waited a moment. “Do you understand?”

Jaw still clenched, he jerked his head once.

“Fine.” She touched his rigid arm. “You may return to your desk.”

Stepping into the classroom, she gestured to Ryan, who took a circuitous route to avoid going anywhere near Brett. Robin steered the other boy outside the classroom door.

“I’m glad you weren’t hurt.”

“Jeez! He was like an animal!”

“You said something deeply hurtful.”

His face became wary.

“Tell me, Ryan, do you know anything about Brett’s parents for a fact?” She waited, then continued, “Or have you been listening to gossip that is no more informed than you were a few minutes ago?”

“Everybody says…”

“Has Brett’s father been arrested? Tried?”

He hesitated, then shook his head.

“Don’t you think the police would have arrested Mr. Lofgren if they had any evidence whatsoever to suggest that he killed his wife?”

“But…”

She overrode him. “In this country, we believe people are innocent until proven guilty. Mr. Lofgren is nowhere near being proven guilty. Perhaps more to the point, in this school, and especially in my classroom, nobody deliberately attempts to hurt another person’s feelings. Am I making myself clear?”

Looking both mulish and sheepish—speaking of animals, she thought with a certain wryness—Ryan nodded again.

“Then this incident is forgotten. You may go back to your desk.”

Of course, she was lying. The incident was not forgotten by either boy, or even by her.

Wednesday, she had her students begin journals, which they would leave in their desks every night.

“I’ll read them from time to time.” She wandered among desks, touching a shoulder here, smiling there. “Not to correct them. I want you to write freely about your experiences, your thoughts, your feelings. I’m checking only to be sure that you are in fact using your time to write. Still, be aware that I may read any particular passage, so in a sense you are writing for my eyes.”

She gave them twenty minutes to open their spiral notebooks and—for the most part—stare into space. Each day it would come easier, until the majority of students actually enjoyed this time, took up where they left off, explored contradictory emotions, forgot that they were writing for anyone but themselves.

On Thursday she interrupted a shouting match between Brett and a pair of boys from April Nyholt’s class. They said, “I’m sorry, Ms. McKinnon,” and retired from the battlefield looking smug. Brett smoldered.

Robin wished he could see that his attitude was most of the problem. Other kids in this school had had notorious parents. Students had buzzed a couple of years ago when a sixth-grader’s mother left her father for another woman. But the girl had had the sense to say, “She’s my mom and I love her, but…it is so-o freaky!” Everybody had sympathized and quickly forgotten. Brett didn’t let anybody forget.

Robin didn’t look at her students’ journals until Friday. She asked that they be left out on the desks. When the room was empty, she walked from desk to desk, flipping open the journals.

Some had only a few lines.

I’m going to my dad’s tonight. I hate going! It is so boring!

Robin smiled at the multiple underlines beneath “so,” even though she felt sad at how many children were shuttled between divorced parents’ houses with no regard for where they preferred to be.

One boy wrote in some detail about a Seahawks game to which his uncle had taken him. The excitement shone through, and that provoked another smile. Several kids couldn’t spell, and she made a mental note of their names. Ryan wrote about “that Lofgren kid” trying to beat the crap out of him. “All I said was…” Robin sighed. Her little lecture had apparently not had much impact.

Perhaps deliberately, her route brought her to Brett’s desk last. She opened his journal, started reading and made a small sound of shock.

Oh, dear, was no longer an adequate response.

CHAPTER TWO

CRAIG DID NOT expect to hear from his son’s teacher on a Friday evening. In fact, he didn’t expect to hear from her at all. Last year’s teacher had never once called him in for a conference, even though Brett’s grades sank throughout the year and the principal did summon Craig several times. When Craig showed up for the traditional November parent conferences, Ms. Hayes had appeared uncomfortable and kept their talk as short as she could manage without outright rudeness.

Last week, when he’d asked how the first day of school went, Abby’s face had brightened. “I really like Mrs. Jensen. She’s letting Summer and me sit together.”

Brett shrugged.

Craig had tried a couple of times in the intervening week and a half to talk to his son, but Brett always mumbled, “It’s okay.”

Don’t borrow trouble, Craig warned himself. He didn’t want to assume Brett would do poorly this year. Time was supposed to heal, wasn’t it?

Craig had been gone the past couple of days. He’d flown the polar route to Frankfurt and back. As usual, his father stayed with the kids.

Dad had already fed them when Craig got home at seven-thirty that evening. Waving off Craig’s thanks, he said, “See you Tuesday,” and left.

As he did every single time, Craig wondered what he’d do without his father, who’d retired nearby a few years back. Who else would stay in this house? Something told him that motherly types would not line up outside his door if he ran an ad in the weekly paper asking for live-in help for half the week.

Weary, Craig said hi to Abby, engrossed in a favorite TV show, and to Brett who was hunched over the computer playing Snood. In one way, he was stung by their lack of interest in his arrival home. In another, he was pleased. Abby had clung to him after her mother disappeared. Every time Craig had to leave, she’d sobbed and begged him not to go. Brett had hidden his feelings better, but Craig could feel his anxiety, too. He’d considered quitting his job, maybe seeing if he could fly for a local carrier like Horizon, so that he could be home every night. But just recently, he’d seen an improvement. The kids were beginning to have faith that their Dad would always come home.

On his way to the kitchen, he gave something approaching a laugh. Faith? Hell, maybe they just liked Grandad better. Craig knew damn well that his father wasn’t as demanding as he was. Abby and Brett had manipulating Grandad down to a fine art.

Without interest, Craig gazed into the refrigerator. His father had left a covered plate. Craig lifted the tin foil, saw leftover spaghetti, and stuck it in the microwave to warm even though he wasn’t very hungry. He had to eat.

The microwave was still humming when the phone rang. Craig started. The telephone in this house didn’t ring often.

He lifted the receiver and said cautiously, “Hello?”

A woman’s voice, sounding tentative, said, “May I speak to Mr. Lofgren?”

“This is Craig Lofgren.”

The microwave beeped. He ignored it.

“Oh. This is Robin McKinnon. Brett’s teacher.”

His heart sank. So much for his foolish hope that Brett’s notoriety would wear off and that he might start joining the pack again, so to speak. It seemed Abby was, even if none of her friends were ever able to come home with her to play.

“Yes?”

“I’d like to set up a conference with you, Mr. Lofgren. To discuss Brett.”

“What’s he done?”

There was a moment of silence. “It’s not so much what he’s done as how…unhappy he seems. He’s very isolated, you know.” In this pause, Craig sensed she was searching for words. “He’s angry.”

Angry. That meant Brett was still starting fights. Rubbing the back of his neck, Craig said, “Is Monday too soon? I’m an airline pilot and I fly out again Tuesday.”

“Can you come right after school on Monday? At two-thirty?”

He agreed. “Should I be speaking to Brett about something specific in the meantime?”

“No-o.” She seemed to draw the word out. “I’d rather talk to you first.”

“Is he doing his work?”

“In a perfunctory way.”

Damn it, Brett was a smart kid. He’d been a topnotch student until… Craig grunted. Until his world fell apart.

“Did you say something?” the teacher asked.

“No. I’ll see you Monday.”

He replaced the receiver, then stood frowning into space for a long minute before remembering the spaghetti. He ate without tasting it, dumping half into the garbage. What was Brett doing? Beating the crap out of every kid who said, “Hey, did your dad bury your mom in the backyard?”

Yeah. Probably. Craig could even understand the temptation. There were days he was angry, too. When he sure as hell wanted to punch somebody. He was angry that he couldn’t grocery shop locally without mothers shooing their kids out of his path or all conversation dying around him. He was angry at “friends” who hadn’t known him at all. And sometimes, on really bad days, he hated the cops, and especially Sergeant Michael Caldwell, the investigating officer who had made up his mind from the get-go that Craig had killed his wife and had hounded Craig for the next year.

A week ago, he’d felt sick to realize that he was happy to see in the newspaper that Michael Caldwell had died in a car accident. An easygoing man, Craig had never truly hated before.

And he was lucky enough to be able to escape the miasma of suspicion and judgment when he went to work. Co-pilots and crew came from all over the country. Some didn’t even know about Julie. Others had never met her and had forgotten the notoriety. In the air, he was just Captain Lofgren.

Besides, he had a lifetime of lessons in self-restraint to draw on. Brett was at a tough age anyway. What scared Craig was the long-term effect of all this anger on Brett. Hormones were putting him through the wringer already. He was supposed to be slamming doors and sulking. He wasn’t supposed to have discovered that theoretically decent people seemed to need to have a leper in their midst whom they could despise and fear. He wasn’t supposed to have discovered already what it was like to be that leper.

Craig tucked Abby in and heard about her week. Summer’s mother, thank God, had allowed her daughter’s friendship with Abby to continue. Summer didn’t come over here, but Craig could live with that. Abby had asked a few times, Summer—or her mother—had made excuses, and Abby had quit asking. But they had her over often and kids her age had been oblivious to the police investigation. Some of them had probably heard now—mothers must give some explanation why little Bridget or Annie couldn’t play at Abby’s house—but even in fourth grade they were too young to care, apparently, about grown-up stuff they didn’t really understand.

“Can I go tomorrow?” she asked, as he pulled the covers up and smoothed them.

He realized he’d missed something. “Go where?”

She rolled her eyes in a good imitation of her brother. “To Mt. Rainier.”

“Just for the day?”

“We’re taking a picnic and stuff. Summer’s brother is bringing his yucky friend, so she needs me.”

“Of course you can go. Maybe I’ll take Brett fishing.”

Her nose scrunched. “If you catch something, I don’t have to eat it, do I?”

Craig laughed. “No, you don’t. Your loss.”

“Uh-huh.”

Still laughing, he kissed her good-night and turned out the light.

He didn’t suggest bedtime for Brett for another couple of hours. Then he wandered in to say good-night and stopped in his tracks.

“Hey! Your bedroom’s clean.”

“Grandad made me.”

Hmm. Maybe his father wasn’t quite the pushover Craig had feared.

“Good. Did he also make you wash a few loads, or is it all piled up in the laundry room waiting for me?”

“Uh… I started a load. Tuesday night.” Then Brett grinned, for a second looking like the cheerful kid he’d once been. “Just kidding. I washed three loads. And folded them.”

Which meant Craig’s dress shirts were probably wadded in a stack on his bureau rather than hanging in the closet, but Craig wasn’t about to quibble.

“Thank you,” he said, and meant it.

“Did you know that Grandad doesn’t throw his socks away when they get holes in them? He says he doesn’t mind a little ventilation.”

“He grew up without much money. Even though he’s got enough now, he thinks before he buys anything.”

Brett puzzled over that. “Oh. But…socks?”

“Maybe we should buy him some for his birthday.”

The boy’s expression made plain what he thought of socks as a birthday present.

Casually, Craig said, “Your teacher called tonight.”

A flare of something very like fear was dampened in a heartbeat. Brett’s face went blank. “Ms. McKinnon?”

“Uh-huh.”

His son tried to hold out, but couldn’t. “What did she want?”

“A conference.” Craig waited for a deliberate moment. “Do you know what it’s about?”

Brett shrugged. Craig’s least favorite response.

“We’ll see,” he said.

Brett turned his face away on the pillow.

“Do you want to go fishing tomorrow?” Craig asked.

He looked back at his father. “Really?”

“Yeah, why not?”

“Does Abby have to come?”

“Nope. She’s going somewhere with Summer.”

“Cool! Yeah!”

THEY HAD A GOOD DAY, taking their poles to a small lake where they rented a rowboat and trolled. With Labor Day weekend past, the lake was uncrowded, a few powerboats crisscrossing, one water skier making half a dozen laps before taking a spectacular fall.

The sun was warm, the blue surface of the lake dazzling, the occasional excitement of hauling in a trout of legal length all they needed to save them from boredom. Trees grew down to the shores of the lake, interrupted by summer cabins and docks.

Craig made no effort to direct the desultory conversation, just let it drift along with the boat.

Only once did the subject of Brett’s mom come up.

After one of the many long, contented pauses, the eleven-year-old said, “That policeman is dead, right?”

Craig nodded. “His funeral was last week.”

“What will they do now?”

“I don’t know.” Craig flexed his pole and cranked the reel a few times. “It may not make any difference that he’s gone.”

His son gave him a look older than his years. “He thought you killed Mom.”

Craig considered denying it, but dismissed the notion. He wasn’t a believer in telling his kids lies.

“Yeah, that’s the impression he gave.”

“Maybe the other cops don’t.” Hope was scrabbling here. “Maybe they’ll find Mom.”

“You know, even if they did, I don’t think she’ll be coming home.”

Brett nodded. “Unless she’s, like, being held captive somewhere. I read about this guy who kidnapped women and kept them for, like, six months at a time. Or she could have amnesia or something.”

“Almost anything’s possible.” Craig made his voice gentle. “But the chances are she’s either dead or she left because she wanted to.”

“Yeah,” his son said despondently. “I know. But…hey!” His pole bowed. “Wow, this feels like a big one!”

That was it. Excited about his catch, Brett didn’t seem interested in talking about his mother anymore.

Sunday was catch-up day: clean the house, mow the lawn, buy groceries for the week. Brett was even quieter than usual but helpful, Abby as chatty as always.

Monday Craig did errands: the bank, the dry cleaners, the post office. He usually drove to Tacoma to do them, just so he didn’t have to endure the stares.

Coward, he accused himself. Or maybe he was paranoid; maybe some of the stares were imagined. Could be that he and Brett both were being egotistical in believing the whole world gave a flying leap about their personal drama.

He still went to Tacoma.

Abby and Brett both took the bus home from school. They’d be okay without him for an hour. Craig parked in front of the elementary school administration building and waited until the buses pulled out and the majority of the parents picking up children had left the parking lot.

While he waited, he tried to remember a woman he’d met a few times but probably hadn’t exchanged ten words with. She was pretty, he seemed to recall, but not in Julie’s class. He remembered her as too thin, tense. Always nice, but looking wired, as if she didn’t sleep. Brett had hung out with her kid and seemed to like her. For some reason, Julie and Robin McKinnon had clicked, which was the part that worried Craig.

Finally he made himself get out of the car and walk in. This was the kind of place he hated most to go, where he was especially unwelcome. A sign on the door read Visitors MUST Check In At Office. The secretary looked up with a smile that froze when she saw him.

“May I help you?”

“Just checking in to see my son’s teacher. Ms. McKinnon is expecting me.”

He signed in and she handed him a pass that he was supposed to clip to his shirt pocket.

“I’ll let her know you’re on your way.” The secretary turned away.

Striding down the hall, careful not to turn his head to look into classrooms or to make eye contact with passing adults or kids, Craig imagined that she was summoning reinforcements to be sure that Robin McKinnon didn’t risk life and limb by being alone with him.

More paranoia.

Turned out that Brett’s classroom was in a portable just outside the double doors at the far end of the wing. If he’d known, he would have parked in the back and gone straight to her classroom without walking the gauntlet. The hell with their rules.

Not a good attitude for the parent of two young kids.

He went up a ramp, knocked and went in.

As Robin McKinnon turned from the blackboard, an eraser in her hand, his first thought was that she was prettier than he’d remembered.

She’d put on weight, but in a good way. It made him realize that what he’d seen back then was worry. Something wrong in her life. He remembered something about a divorce, but that had been a while back, hadn’t it? But divorce did bring consequences: money problems, or her boy had reacted badly to his dad moving out.

Now she had a round, gentle face, big brown eyes and light brown hair pulled loosely into a ponytail on the crown of her head. It was beautiful hair: thick, straight, shiny. Heavy silk.

She wore a batik-print skirt in brown and cream and a cream-colored T-shirt. Quite a bit taller than his petite wife, Robin McKinnon was five-seven or -eight, slim but curvy in the right places.

“Mr. Lofgren. Thank you for coming.”

She didn’t smile. Blocking his awareness of her as a woman, he nodded curtly.

“Please. Come and sit down.” She led the way to her desk. When she sat behind it, he followed suit in a creaky old armchair of that yellowed oak being retired from all public institutions.

She looked nervous, but her eyes met his. “We’ve met before.”

“I remember.”

“I was very sorry to hear about Julie’s disappearance.” She said it carefully. Had rehearsed it, he guessed. “I liked her.”

He nodded again, keeping his face expressionless.

“This must have been a very difficult year and a half for you.”

Craig had lost patience with pretence. “Is there a point to this?”

Her expression told him he’d been rude. “I was going to add that it must have been a difficult time for Brett as well.”

He sighed. “I’m sorry. Yes. Of course it has been. As you said, he’s angry.”

“And sad,” she prompted, as if he’d forgotten something important.

Craig grimaced. “That goes without saying. Does he miss his mom? Of course he does. But that’s not at the root of his problems. It’s the whispers, the friends who turned their backs, the cops coming over and over again to interview his father.” He heard how harsh his voice had become. “It’s the fact that we might as well live in a zoo, with people peering into our cage with morbid interest and fear.” He made himself stop. “Does that give you some insight into Brett, Ms. McKinnon?”

She gaped, and Craig realized that he had been leaning toward her, trying with body language to strengthen his description of a life he hoped would horrify her. Would truly let her understand his son.

Letting out a long breath, he leaned back. The chair groaned. Silence swelled.

Her tongue touched her lips. “I’m sorry,” she whispered, voice cracking. “I didn’t realize…”

“Why should you? Unless you hurried your son to the other side of the street because you saw Brett coming.”

There was a fearlessness in her eyes that he hadn’t noticed before. And something else—shame.

“No,” she said, still in that low, husky voice. “I wouldn’t have done that. But I should have encouraged Malcolm to stay in touch with Brett. I let Brett slip from my radar. For that…I really am sorry.”

To his astonishment, he believed her. All he could do was nod. His throat seemed to have closed. He met kindness so damn rarely.

Clearing his throat, he nodded at the folder and spiral binder she had squared on the desk blotter in front of her. “Maybe you’d better tell me what’s going on.”

Blinking, she looked down, then gave her head a small shake. “Yes. Of course.” She bit her lip, then lifted her head to meet his eyes again. “From the first day, Brett’s been…sullen. He stays to himself. He has no friends that I can see.”

“He never did make friends as easily as my younger, Abby. But he had a couple of good friends. One moved away right before…” His jaws tightened. “The other kid pretty much turned his back on Brett. I don’t know if it was by choice, or on his parents’ orders. Or if Brett’s turmoil drove him away.”

“Oh, no,” she murmured. When he said nothing more, Ms. McKinnon seemed to gather herself. “He…attacked another boy one day this week.”

“He was in fights a few times last year.”

“Yes. But this seemed different from the usual elementary school fights. Mrs. Hayes didn’t say anything in her notes about Brett to make me think she’d been alarmed by the incidents last year, beyond the fact that they’re a symptom. But this time…” Her eyes were unfocused as she frowned, apparently searching for words. “He…erupted. I could see such rage on his face. I think, if I hadn’t been here, he’d have really hurt the other boy.”

“But you broke it up.”

“Well, of course!” She glanced down at the spiral binder that lay between her hands, planted palm-down on the desk. “I’ve had concerns from the first day, but I wouldn’t have called you yet, I would have let Brett settle in and seen how it went, except for this.”

Her touch ginger, as if the garden-variety spiral notebook held directions for building a nuclear bomb, she lifted it, turned it around and held it out to him.

Uncomprehending, he took the notebook.

“In my class, everyone has to write a journal. They make entries every day. I do warn them that I’ll be glancing through their journals, mostly just to be sure they’re writing. Sometimes I read more than other times, particularly if I’m concerned about a student. Sometimes they write quite a bit about their home lives.”

What in hell?

Craig looked down at it, strangely reluctant to open the cover. Something had shaken a woman who’d been teaching sixth grade for a number of years. He’d have thought she would have seen—and read—it all by now.

With an abrupt movement, he flipped open the notebook and saw his son’s nearly illegible scrawl filling the page.

Lots of people deserve to die. Not my mom—she’s not dead anyway—but lots of other people. That cop. I want to go, like, burn a cross on his grave. Or something. So people know he’s a son of a bitch.

Actually, “son of a bitch” was preceded by some horrific obscenities. Words Craig hadn’t realized his son knew, far less used.

Heart drumming, he continued to decipher the scrawl.

Like Ryan Durney. I wanted to kill him! I still want to kill him!!! Maybe I will. He says I’m like my dad. He thinks I’m a murderer, so maybe I’ll be one. I’ll just punch him and keep punching…

Feeling sick, Craig read to the bitter end. The appalling stream of consciousness broke off midsentence. Apparently journal-writing time had ended. Hands shaking, he closed the notebook and sat with his head down.

Oh God, oh God. How could this rage, this rot have been filling his son’s head without him knowing?

Craig had read about the stunning tragedies at schools like Columbine without understanding how it could have happened without the parents seeing that their children had turned into monsters.

Now…now he knew.

Eyes burning, he looked up. “I had no idea.”

Voice soft, Robin McKinnon said, “I assumed you didn’t.”

“He says I’m ‘like my dad,’” Craig quoted. He scrubbed a hand over his face. “Does Brett think…” His throat closed.

With clear compassion, his son’s teacher said, “I don’t know. He did defend you to me, but…what a child says isn’t always what he believes, deep in his heart.”

Pushing the spiral notebook away with revulsion, Craig asked, “Have you ever seen anything like this?”

“Not…quite. Hints of it.” She nibbled on her lip. “These kids have all seen slasher movies, you know. Really grisly stuff. So imagining themselves in that world, if you will, isn’t the stretch for them it might have been for us when we were kids.”

He nodded numbly, wanting to believe that Brett didn’t mean any of this, but unable to.

“This, though…” She, too, gazed at Brett’s journal. “It shocked me.”

Craig shook his head. “He must have known you’d read it.”

“Yes, and that’s what gives me hope. I think he must want an adult to know what he’s thinking and feeling.”

“He could have told me.”

“Maybe,” she said, “he wants to be strong for you.”

Maybe he did. Craig remembered the clean bedroom, the folded laundry, the help raking the lawn and vacuuming the living room. Brett didn’t even ask about his mother often, he went on as if, on the surface, nothing had changed.

“I suggested counseling. Six or eight months ago. After he started picking fights.” He had to breathe deeply a couple of times. “He said no. He was okay.” His mouth worked. “He’s not okay.”

“No. He’s not.”

“Thank you, Ms. McKinnon.” Craig blundered to his feet. “You undoubtedly want him out of your classroom and this school. I don’t blame you.”

She shook her head and said firmly, “Please sit down. I don’t want Brett to go anywhere.”

Craig stared at her now determined face.

“This,” she nodded again at the notebook, “suggests he is quite troubled. But he’s only eleven years old. He has plenty of reason to be angry. What he’s feeling isn’t irrational. The other children do stare and whisper, in part because his attitude invites it. But, in fairness to Brett, that’s not the whole story. Ryan Durney did suggest that—” Here she faltered.

“I’m a murderer.”

“Um…” Her gaze shied. “Something like that. Ryan warned a girl away from Brett, suggesting that…”

“He’s just like me.” Craig swore under his breath.

“The sad thing is that Ryan isn’t an unusually cruel boy. They taunt each other at this age, the boys in particular. They…hunt for weaknesses, in themselves as much as in the others. I really believe if Brett had fought back in a different way, if from the beginning he’d said, ‘Jeez, I know my mom took off. I don’t know what that cop’s problem is,’ the other boys would have dropped it.”

“But they smelled blood.”

“Exactly.”

He sat in silence, feeling defeated.

“I strongly recommend counseling,” Ms. McKinnon said.

Craig nodded. “Do I tell him you showed me this?”

“Why not? I warned the students that what they wrote wouldn’t be private. If he doesn’t know how inappropriate his thoughts and fantasies are, it’s time he finds out.”

“Damn straight,” Craig muttered.

Voice tentative, she said, “I assume there’s a reason you haven’t moved to a community where you can make a fresh start.”

“We’ve been strongly encouraged to stay put.” He made sure she heard the irony.

“I see.”

Weirdly, in the midst of his turmoil, Craig was distracted by the swing of her ponytail when she nodded, the way light from the overhead fluorescent fixture shimmered from it. He realized he was staring and made himself look away, at the blackboard.

“I talked to the administration in Salmon Creek about moving Brett, but they turned me down.”

“They’re desperate to pass a bond issue, and classrooms are bulging. I’m not surprised.”

His impression had been that they hadn’t wanted Brett and his problems. But he kept that to himself. “I even looked into the Christian school here in town, but they let me know that they thought Brett’s presence would be disruptive.” If he’d been a member of their church, it might have been different, they’d implied. He didn’t buy that.

His son’s teacher asked, “How is your relationship with Brett?”

“Actually…” He cleared his throat. “Actually, it’s pretty good. We went fishing Saturday. He helped me around the house yesterday.”

“Is he involved in any activities with kids his age outside school? At church? Does he still play sports?”

Craig shook his head. “Everything just went by the wayside….”

She nibbled on her lip in a way that distracted him as much as her glorious, shining hair. “Can you encourage him to take up an activity again? Or is that impossible because of your job?”

“My father would chauffeur Brett.” His voice scraped. “But who would have him?”

Her startled expression told him she still didn’t get it.

“Try to imagine.” Baring himself like this was humiliating, but he didn’t see any choice. “I call a Boy Scout leader and say, ‘Hi, I’m under investigation for murdering my wife, but I’m hoping you’ll welcome my son into your troop. By the way, he’s having fantasies about murdering everyone he doesn’t like, but I know he’ll have a great time learning to tie knots.’”

Robin McKinnon stared at him for a long time, not saying a word. He shifted uncomfortably.

Then, briskly, she said, “I don’t see why he wouldn’t be welcome on his old soccer team. Will you bring him?”

Craig blinked. “The season’s already started.”

“I remember him being quite talented. We could use another goalie.”

“But…”

“I’ll speak to the coach and call you.”

He still seemed to be stuttering.

“The team practices five days a week. Games every Saturday and we’ll probably enter tournaments into November. I really do believe it would be good for Brett.”

“If Brett’s forced on the other boys…”

“Remember, most of the boys are from Salmon Creek, not Klickitat. Since Brett and Abby don’t go to school there, I suspect most people will have forgotten all the talk.” Because the Lofgrens actually lived on the outskirts of the school district, the playfields for the Salmon Creek team had been closer. “I know Malcolm will be pleased to see Brett again.” Her tone said he’d darn well better. “The others will follow his example.”

“Just like that.”

“Just like that,” she agreed.

Shaking his head at her astounding blend of naiveté and kindness, Craig stood. “If he’s welcome, I’ll bring him.” His voice hardened. “If he’s not, please don’t set him up for another fall.”

She rose to her feet, too. “I understand.”

“Thank you, Ms. McKinnon. I’m grateful that you got in touch. And—” the words seemed to snag in his throat “—that you are willing to give him a chance.”

She smiled at him for the first time, momentarily becoming beautiful. “I never give up on my students, Mr. Lofgren. As you will find.”

Was that a promise? he wondered, walking back through the school halls. Or a warning?

CHAPTER THREE

“DAD, I GOT PROMOTED to Homicide today.”

Ann Caldwell stood beside her father’s grave. She hadn’t brought flowers, which were allowed only on specific holidays. Instead, she stood straight, as if awaiting inspection, feet braced and hands clasped behind her back. The hot September sun baked her.

Today had been the last day she needed to wear her uniform to work, a thought that brought both pride and a fluttery sense of anxiety. Her uniform defined her in ways she knew to be unhealthy. But she had badly wanted this promotion, so that she could finish her father’s work.

Make him proud.

“I’m opening the Lofgren file tomorrow. He won’t get away with murdering his wife. I promise.”

Hearing footsteps and the low murmur of voices, she bowed her head and stayed silent until a middle-aged couple passed, holding hands. She felt their curious glances, and knew it was the uniform that drew them. The uniform that she wore because she had followed in her father’s footsteps.

When she heard car doors open and slam shut, she focused again on the velvet green sod, laid like a carpet since this earth had been opened only ten days ago to receive her father’s body. If she searched, she could find the seam where roots had not yet entangled with other roots. But as she’d approached the grave earlier, she had felt a massive sense of disorientation. The ground should be raw. Dad was barely gone! Instead, he might have lain here for a year, or ten years. He might never have seen her receive her badge, or the commendations that she had believed—oh, with her whole heart!—would make him smile and say, “You’re a chip off the old block.” Or, “You made me proud today, girl.”

“I asked to take over your cases, Dad,” she told the green swale interrupted only by the brass plaque. “I can finish what you started. I won’t be working with Reggie. He’s going to be taking a desk job. Can you believe it? Big Reggie Roarke pushing paper? But he says he has high blood pressure and he figures this is the time. I’ve been assigned to Diaz.”

A man eight or ten years older than her, Juan Diaz had looked her up and down with critical dark eyes and then shrugged. “Here’s hoping you’ve got half your old man’s goods.”

She had felt a tremor inside, a moment of doubt she rarely allowed herself. Then she’d given him a steady gaze. “We’ll see, won’t we?”

She’d show him. He couldn’t be half as hard to please as her father had been.

“Well.” Ann took a deep breath. “That’s all I came to say. Someday I’ll be back to tell you I’ve arrested Craig Lofgren. I’ll put him away.”

This one had mattered a whole lot to her father. More than she’d ever quite understood, except that he’d boiled at what he’d called “rich boy crime.”

“They think they’re above the law,” he’d ranted. “They dress good and they hire fancy lawyers and somehow they walk. They don’t look like criminals. I could see in this bastard’s eyes that he didn’t even think I’d suspect him. After all, he’d called us, hadn’t he? Full of concern. Where could she be? But he knew. By God I could feel it. He knew the whole time.”

Dad knew, too. Julie Lofgren was dead, slain by her husband’s hand. But proving what he knew was another matter. He had to find her body. Even some blood. A witness. Something.

It ate at him, that good-looking airline pilot who must make $200,000 a year but wouldn’t let his wife go. Didn’t want to pay alimony, or maybe his pride was just stung. Could be he was one of those men who refused to lose anything that had once been his. Didn’t much matter why he’d killed her rather than grant her request for a divorce.

What did matter was his cocky attitude. In every way but words he let the cops know they couldn’t touch him.

Ann had seen pictures of him, handsome and smug. Tomorrow she was going to open the fat manila folder that held photos, reports and her dad’s notes. As soon as possible, she’d visit Pilot Craig Lofgren and let him know that someone was still watching, still waiting. Maybe she could shake him up a little.

Aloud she said, “Julie Lofgren deserves a grave, too. When she has one, I’ll put flowers on it for you.”

Then, having finished what she came to say, Ann walked back across the grass to her car. She felt stronger for having put into words what she meant to do.

Solving the mystery of Julie Lofgren’s disappearance would end any doubts—other people’s and her own—about whether she was anywhere near the cop her father had been. Even Dad would have had to concede that if she could accomplish what he couldn’t, she’d have earned her badge and more.

After unlocking her car door, Ann took one last look at the curving slope of old trees and new graves.

Even Dad, she thought one more time, would see that a woman could do this job, and do it well.

THAT VERY SAME EVENING after she’d talked with him at school, Robin called Craig Lofgren. She dialed the minute she hung up the phone from talking to Ralph.

The soccer coach had been doubtful but willing. “Yeah, yeah, the kid was good,” he’d said. “But if he makes trouble, he’s off the team.”

“Deal,” she had agreed.

In the middle of the second ring, someone picked up the phone. “Hello?” said a high girl’s voice.

“May I speak to your father?”

“Who is calling, please?”

Robin smiled at the child’s by-rote manners. “Robin McKinnon. Brett’s teacher.”

“Ohh! Is Brett in trouble? I’ll get Daddy.”

He came on a minute later, sounding guarded. “Ms. McKinnon?”

“Please, call me Robin.” Alarm flared in her chest. What? She was trying to get friendly with a man who might have killed his wife? She cleared her throat. “Um, I spoke to the coach. He says it’s fine if Brett wants to rejoin the team.”

“Really?” Craig Lofgren sounded stunned.

“You didn’t think he’d agree,” she realized. Or did he not think she’d even bother to ask?

After a moment, he said, “No. I didn’t.”

Something in his voice gave her pause: a kind of grief, perhaps, that she had never heard before. The truth was, he didn’t expect anyone to give his kids a fair shake. The understanding made her sad and even more determined.

“Will you talk to Brett? The sooner he starts practice, the better. He’s already missed two games.” She hesitated. “The coach doesn’t promise a lot of playing time. Since he’s so late starting.”

“Brett will understand. The others have earned their positions.” He was quiet for a minute. “I talked to Brett about his journal. He claims to have been venting.”

“I showed it to the principal,” Robin told him. “I had to, you know.”

“Is he going to expel Brett?”

“No. I persuaded him to let me handle the situation, for now. He does insist on a psychological evaluation.”

Craig swore.

Robin clutched the phone. “I’m sorry.”

“No.” His voice was deep, raw. “You’re going out of your way to help. I shouldn’t have said that.” He paused. “He may even be right.”

She hated to concede that Brett could be so troubled. Robin feared her own guilt was manipulating her in uncomfortable ways. She had failed him, so now she had to make him better. But if he wasn’t really disturbed, that meant what she had or hadn’t done wasn’t very important. For entirely selfish reasons, she needed this one sullen boy to be okay.

And she hated to admit even to herself that her motives were at least partly self-centered.

She told the boy’s father which field practice would be held on and what time they started. “Will you be able to bring him tomorrow?”

“I fly out in the morning. My father stays with the kids. I’ll ask him.”

“Good. I’ll look for Brett.”

“Thank you,” Craig said, with a depth of emotion impossible not to hear.

“It wasn’t any huge effort. I’m just…nudging.” That was how she often thought of her job: tiny prods, scarcely noticed, that gradually steered kids in a different direction, or made their parents react differently. She couldn’t demand, couldn’t order, couldn’t produce revelations that would change people’s lives. What she could do was nudge. “But you’re welcome,” she added.

“Will you let me know how the week goes?”

“Of course I will.” She had a thought. “In fact, I’ll e-mail you, if you like. Brett supplied your address for school records. I don’t know if you check it when you’re out of town…”

“I do, when I can.”

“Then I’ll give you an objective view of how the first practice goes.”

“Great. Thank you,” he said again.

At school the next day, Brett was quiet and withdrawn, but he did get a 90% on a pop spelling quiz. She smiled at him when she handed the graded quizzes out after lunch. Robin thought she saw a quick flush of pleasure on his face.

She’d already talked to her son about Brett, but she repeated herself on the way to practice that afternoon.

“Brett may not want to come back if he feels ignored.”

“Mom…”

She frowned at a red light. They couldn’t be late today. Not today! They just had to be at the field ahead of Brett and his grandfather. “You’ll kind of stick with him, right? Make sure he’s not sitting off by himself?”

“Mom…”

The light finally—finally!—turned green and she rocketed forward, ignoring her son’s exaggerated grip on the armrest. “His soccer skills may be rusty. Maybe you could give him tips. Not obviously. Make it casual, so he’s not embarrassed, but…”

“Mom!”

“What?” Startled, she shot a glance at her lanky, almost-twelve-year-old son, who was tugging wildly at his brown hair.

“I heard you the first time! Brett’s cool. Okay? Nobody’s going to ignore him. Jeez, Mom. It’s not like we stand around. We’ll be doing drills or running laps. Okay?”

She took a deep breath. “Okay. I’m sorry. I’m just kind of nervous about this. Since I set it up.”

“I can tell,” he said with heavy irony.

Robin grinned at him. “Have I mentioned lately that I love you?”

He rolled his eyes. “Yeah, like, ten times a day.”

“I love you.”

“Don’t say that in front of anybody.”

“I’m not a complete idiot.”

They both laughed. He trusted her; she trusted him.

They turned into the gravel parking lot and crunched their way to the far end, closest to today’s field. Malcolm leaped out, freed his soccer ball from its net bag and tossed it to the grass. Turning back, he grabbed his water bottle.

Robin popped the trunk and pulled out her lawn chair and the tote bag in which she carried a book and a can of soda. Just as she slammed the trunk, a red Honda van pulled into the next slot.

A dizzying sense of déjà vu swept over her. Julie would leap out, calling out, “We made it! Hold up, and we can walk over together.”

Julie had loved her van for everything she could pack into it and for its shiny strawberry-red color. She’d always been willing to drive to any activity, to run anybody’s kid home, to whisk across town for someone’s forgotten shin guards or jersey. She was every team mother, every room mother.

Robin felt a painful squeeze in her chest, as if only at this moment did she understand that her cheerful, generous friend was truly gone.

How? Why? she begged incoherently, knowing there would be no answers. And then, I’m trying to take care of him. She tried to tell Julie, hoping she could somehow hear, know.

Out of the driver’s side climbed an older man who looked a great deal like his son. Robin remembered seeing him at games, although he’d tended to be down on the sideline rather than sitting in the bleachers with her and Julie. With dark hair cut short and an erect carriage, he had the air of retired military. Wearing a polo shirt and shorts, he glanced around, his expression wary when he met Robin’s gaze.

“Mr. Lofgren?”

“Yes?”

She smiled. “I know we’ve met before. I’m Robin McKinnon. Brett’s teacher this year. This…” she turned in search of him, “is my son, Malcolm, who has grown about a foot since you last saw him.”

Brett’s grandfather, too, smiled, his face relaxing. “Robin. Malcolm. I remember you.” He nodded at the lawn chair. “Do you watch practice?”

“Yes, usually, unless I have quick errands to run.”

“Ah. I wondered if I should stay.”

Brett and a pretty, younger girl had gotten out, the girl looking around curiously, Brett pretending he hadn’t noticed anybody else’s presence.

“Hey!” Malcolm said. “It’s great you’re joining the team. We missed you.”

Bless him, Robin thought. The speech was unusually loquacious for an eleven-year-old boy. They seemed to communicate mainly in grunts and raucous laughs. Malcolm had been listening to her.

Brett pretended to look surprised to see her son. “Hey,” he said in response.

“Come on.” Mal jerked his head. “You know how Coach feels about us being late.”

Brett grimaced. “Yeah, I remember.”

Kicking their soccer balls before them, the two boys struck off across the field. They were a handsome pair, both tall and athletic in their shorts, shin guards and loose-fitting T’s.

Beside her, Brett’s grandfather said, “This was nice of you.”

“I hope it works out,” she worried.

“Your boy looks like a nice kid.”

Now she smiled. “He is.” She surveyed the little girl, who waited gravely to one side. “Wow, you’ve grown, Abby.”

The girl grinned. “I’m in fourth grade this year.”

As they started walking after the boys, Robin said, “I hear you have Mrs. Jensen.”

“She’s really nice.”

“You’re lucky. Just between you and me, I think she’s the best fourth grade teacher in the building.”

“My best friend’s in her class, too.”

They continued chatting, Abby telling her artlessly about Summer, whose mom said maybe they could go to the water slides at Wild Waves next weekend and if they did Abby could come for sure. Abby got a little shy when she saw other younger siblings playing under the trees at one end of the giant soccer field. A couple of the ones close to her age were hanging from a low, well-worn limb on the sycamore.

Her grandfather said, “Why don’t you go see what they’re up to. Unless you want to watch Brett.”

She wrinkled her nose, hesitated, then sidled over to the trees. Robin saw that she was quickly absorbed by the small crowd of kids ranging from four- or five-year-olds up to a ten-year-old sister who bossed the rest around.

On seeing the new arrivals, Coach Pearce slapped Brett on the back and said, “Hope you’ve been staying active,” and ordered the whole team to take two laps of the field.

Brett loped beside Malcolm, the two finishing near the head of the string of boys.

Robin set up her lawn chair near the picnic table and several other mothers. Brett’s grandfather shook hands all around. The others seemed momentarily startled, turned to look at Brett, but smiled and included the boy’s grandfather in their idle conversation.

Robin paid more attention to Brett’s play than she did to her son’s. Brett wasn’t as rusty as she would have expected. He must at least have been kicking the ball around. He couldn’t have tossed it in a closet and left it there, or he wouldn’t have been dribbling the ball deftly between cones, heading it to other players, passing with fair accuracy when he and another player raced down the field exchanging the ball.

He acquitted himself well when they scrimmaged, too. By the end of practice, he was as sweaty as the rest of the boys and was in the midst of them when they grabbed water bottles and drained them, listening while Coach mentioned a few weaknesses and said, “We’re playing Puyallup Saturday and they went undefeated last year. Let’s make sure they don’t repeat that feat this year, shall we?”

“Yeah!” The boys high fived.

“Good practice,” the coach finished briskly. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

The cluster broke up into twos and threes that started toward the parents on the sideline and the parking lot where others would be pulling in to pick up offspring.

“Brett,” Coach added, “I want to talk to you before you go.”

In the act of folding her chair, Robin froze. Oh, no! Had Brett not done as well as she’d thought? She saw the boy’s face go expressionless in a way she’d seen every day in school and come to dread.

“Sure,” he said, shrugging as if he didn’t care.

Malcolm hung back, too.

Stacking cones, the Coach said, “I’d like to try you out at goalie tomorrow. You still interested in playing the position?”

“Yeah! Sure. That’s cool!” His back was to Robin, but she heard the animation in his voice, saw the way his shoulders relaxed.

She relaxed, too, and smiled at his grandfather who had also been listening. “He did great today.”

She repeated the compliment to Brett as the two families walked back to the parking lot together.

Mal scoffed, “Nah, he was so slow I could have stolen the ball from him any time I wanted.” His foot shot out.

Brett turned his body, blocking the steal and then going for Malcolm’s ball. After roughhousing the entire way, the two boys were grinning when they reached the cars.

“See you tomorrow!” her son called as they separated.

“Yeah.” Brett picked up his ball. “Tomorrow.”

There was hope in the way he said the word, and a little bit of surprise. As if he hadn’t anticipated tomorrow in a long while.

Robin had to blink some moisture from her eyes before she could unlock the car.

That night, after Malcolm had gone to bed, she sat at her computer and typed an e-mail, deleting and correcting half a dozen times, as if she were writing the cover letter for a grant application.

Dear Craig.

She frowned at the salutation, changed “Craig” to “Mr. Lofgren,” then questioned the “Dear.” Finally she deleted the whole dang thing. It was too formal anyway.

In the end, she was left with a few bare sentences.

Just wanted you to know that soccer practice went really well today. Brett hasn’t lost any skill, and he seemed to have fun. He’s to try playing goalie tomorrow. Oh, and he got a 90% on a spelling quiz today!

She added and deleted comments on how nice Craig’s father was, how much Abby had grown, how she hoped his flight was turbulence free.

Honestly! They weren’t pen pals.

The next night, she had a return e-mail from him.

Thanks for the report. I was hoping Brett would e-mail, too—he has his own Hotmail account—but no. He’s probably not wanting to make too much of this. Thank you, Robin.

Nothing chatty. Although he had used her first name. She was glad she hadn’t said, “Dear Mr. Lofgren.”

She hit Reply and typed,

No more thanks, please. Another good day. Brett was dynamite as goalie! I suppose he felt he had to prove something, but he made some spectacular stops. Josh, who is the team’s regular goalie, seemed especially determined to crack him. But after Brett skidded ten feet across the turf, stopping a hard drive to the far corner, Josh ran over and congratulated him. Well, he whacked him on the back and then they exchanged high fives. Preteen male congrats.

After a moment, she signed “Robin” and hit Send.

The next night, he had replied again.

I wish I’d been there! I did get an e-mail from Brett today, who said, “Soccer is okay. I need new shoes. Mine are too tight.” I should have thought of that. We can stop somewhere on the way to practice Friday, or Saturday morning before the game. If not for your e-mails, I’d be trying to decide how okay “okay” is. It’s just okay? He’s not having fun but is determined to give it a chance? He’s having the time of his life? So, once again…no. You said no more gratitude. Can I at least thank you for helping me stay connected? Tokyo feels like a world away, not just a few time zones. Craig

Robin didn’t hit Reply this time, although she felt a pang of regret. She’d been rather enjoying their exchanges. Tomorrow, he’d be home to see his son play.

She hoped he wouldn’t be disappointed if Brett didn’t see much action Saturday. Although as well as Brett was playing, the coach might put him in. Without a good backup goalie, Josh had been playing both halves in a mask and pads, but he was a heck of a forward, too.

Robin had no trouble picturing Craig on the sidelines at the game. She’d always noticed when he showed up for the occasional practice and every game when he wasn’t working. She’d tried to reconcile the husband Julie talked about so casually, and increasingly grumbled about that last year, with the handsome man who paced the sidelines yelling encouragement, who ruffled his son’s hair and said, “Don’t worry about it. That was a heck of a shot on goal you took earlier,” when Brett had made a mistake and was slumped despondently on the ice chest after being pulled from the game.

The two people—the tall, athletic man with unruly dark hair and the demanding but indifferent husband—never quite lined up and clicked into place in Robin’s mind, and she knew why. Face it, she’d thought. You think he’s sexy and can’t imagine what she’d been grumbling about.

But even then she had known that the exterior was often deceptive. Then, she’d reminded herself that beauty was only skin deep, etc., etc.

Now she reminded herself that some of the most famous serial killers were both handsome and charming, à la Ted Bundy. Some wife-killers looked like every woman’s dream husband.

Craig Lofgren could have murdered his wife and still be a caring father. In fact, he might have killed her for that very reason: he didn’t want to lose his children.

So don’t be an idiot, Robin told herself when her heart gave a faint flutter at the idea of seeing him. Concentrate on helping Brett.

THE NEXT DAY, the team had already begun running laps when Robin glanced idly over her shoulder—not that she was looking for anyone!—and saw Brett tearing across the grass from the parking lot, kicking his soccer ball before him.

When he reached the sideline, panting, he dropped his water bottle, spoke briefly to Coach and took off after the other boys.

Robin was careful not to look over her shoulder again. As a result, her start was genuine when a slow, deep voice said from just beside her, “Did you see the totally cool new soccer shoes?”

She pressed a hand to her chest. “You scared me!” Then she laughed. “Yes, I did. You had to buy top of the line to make all the other boys jealous?”

It was the first time she’d seen him smile since before…well, before. This one was slightly abashed. “He begged. I succumbed.”

“You were glad he was excited about something.”

His gray eyes met hers. “Read minds, do you?”

“My stock in trade. How else do you think I maintain control of a classroom full of eleven- and twelve-year-olds? I have to scare ’em somehow.”

He laughed, showing a flash of teeth, his dark face heart-stoppingly handsome. A lock of hair flopped over his forehead, and his throat was tanned and bare with his sports shirt unbuttoned at the top. When her heart gave an uncomfortable squeeze, Robin lowered her gaze.

Which didn’t help, as he had his shirtsleeves rolled up and she’d always been susceptible to strong brown forearms and big, capable-looking hands.

Sounding only a little breathless, she asked, “How was Tokyo?”

“It was my third visit this month.” His gaze following his son, Craig said, “Prices there make Seattle look cheap. I mostly read in my hotel room. Went out for dinner and drinks with my crew.” He yawned. “But they’re a hard-drinking bunch. I’m not.”

“I thought pilots couldn’t drink the night before a flight.”

“Our layover lasted two nights.”

Out of the corner of her eye, she could see that other mothers were watching them. Two whispered to each other. Most of them had known Julie, too, and had seen Craig at games. This team had been together for several years. Once they’d seen Brett, they had begun buzzing about whether his father would show up, but conversations had tended to die when Robin drew near. Everyone knew she was instrumental in bringing Brett back, and that he was in her class this year.

Craig ignored the others. Robin tried to think what to do, but couldn’t decide. Introduce him as though none of them had ever met him? Say cheerily, “Remember Brett’s dad?” The one who is under suspicion for murdering Brett’s mom?

She didn’t think the other women would snub him, but she couldn’t be sure. In the end, she let him handle meeting other parents—or not—as he chose. She not only wasn’t his pen pal, she wasn’t the team social director.

After drills, Brett suited up to play goalie. He flubbed a couple of attempts to stop balls and looked dark as a thundercloud. Robin saw him steal a glance at his father on the sideline. Craig gave him a thumbs-up.

Jaw setting, Brett turned his attention back to the action heading his way. Josh passed to Malcolm, who thundered a kick at goal. Brett threw himself horizontally through the air and came down clutching the ball.

Applause erupted from parents on the sideline and his teammates. Robin heard a quiet, “Yes!” from the boy’s father.

When the practice ended, Brett and Malcolm, dirty, sweating, dark hair plastered to their heads, walked together toward their parents as if their friendship had never been interrupted.

Robin said, “Craig, you probably don’t remember Malcolm.”

Craig held out his hand. “Well, you’ve changed.”

Mal shook the hand of Brett’s father with no more self-consciousness than he would have shown with any adult.

“Great save!” one of the other mothers said as she passed.

“Thanks.” Brett blushed as several others echoed her.

The two boys headed for the cars, leaving Craig, Robin and Abby, who parted from her new friends and ran to her father, to follow.

“Good practice,” Robin said, to fill the silence.

“Yeah.” Gazing at his son, Craig said in a low voice, “I can’t believe I didn’t think of this. Didn’t see how much he missed it.”

“It hasn’t been that long…”

“A year and a half? That’s forever to a kid this age.” He made a sound in the back of his throat. “I’ve been trying to protect them. Believe it or not.”

“I believe you.” But when he turned his head, she evaded his gaze, because she wasn’t sure exactly how far he had gone to “protect” his kids and she didn’t want him to see that doubt in her eyes.

“Thank you for that.” He waited until she did look at him. “And for everything else.”

“I said no more…”

He grinned. “Tough. Right, Punkin?” He swung his daughter in an arc above the ground.

She giggled in delight.

Robin laughed, said, “See you tomorrow,” and dug in her purse for her car keys.

“Mom?” Malcolm stopped with his door open, looking over the roof of the car at her. “Can Brett come home with us tomorrow? Spend the night?”

She didn’t hesitate. She’d hoped—hadn’t she?—that Malcolm and Brett would become friends again.

“Sure, I don’t have any problem with it.”

“Hey, Brett!” Mal hollered. “You want to come home with me after the game tomorrow? Mom says you can spend the night.”

The stunned expression on Brett’s face quashed Robin’s doubts. He turned to his father, who nodded. Brett sounded hoarse when he said, “Yeah. Sure. Uh…see you.” He hopped quickly into the van.

Robin didn’t let herself look at Craig. Brett was the one who mattered. She could not let herself feel even sympathy for the boy’s father. The police must have good reason for believing he was responsible for his wife’s disappearance. Mustn’t they?

She backed out, raising the usual cloud of dust, and drove away without a glance in the rearview mirror.

CHAPTER FOUR

THE FIRST HALF of Saturday’s game, Brett got in for maybe five minutes. Craig hoped Brett meant it when he said he was cool with not playing much.

“I mean, I missed a season.” He’d shrugged.

Julie had disappeared in April. The kids had needed to go to school. But sports hadn’t seemed important. And, with every damn thing he did, Craig’d had to consider how it would look. Would an innocent man hurry to put his kids back in regular activities? Supposing he’d killed Julie, what choices would he make? Craig had to try to make the opposite ones. He’d second-guessed himself so often, he’d been like a dog chasing its tail. What was right for his kids or himself got lost in worries about what everyone else would think.

From the sidelines, Brett called a few words of encouragement, groaning when the other team scored and did a high five with another benchwarmer when Robin’s son kicked a bullet into the goal. When the coach did send him in, Brett played defense just long enough to give the starter a rest. He did fine, but didn’t have a chance to shine. When he was tagged to come out, he trotted back to the sideline without apparent disappointment.

At halftime Brett drank from his water bottle and sucked on orange halves like the other boys, part of the crowd. Craig, standing apart from the clot of parents, felt an uncomfortable squeezing in his chest. Brett had lost so much.

Robin McKinnon had been the one handing out oranges. Craig had done his damndest not to look toward her after the friendly nod they’d exchanged earlier. He couldn’t help himself now. She had her head cocked as she listened to another mother talk, but as if she felt his gaze, her eyes met his in a silent moment of communication. She was reading his mind again. Pain gripped his chest tighter.

He couldn’t afford to become aware of her as a woman. God help him, he was a murder suspect.

He was also married.

Craig suspected he and Julie would have been divorced by now if she hadn’t disappeared. But she had. As Brett had said, what if she’d been abducted and held for a year and a half? What if she escaped to find he’d divorced her? What if her body was found, and he’d divorced his murdered wife for desertion?

He couldn’t go on with his life in any meaningful way until the mystery of Julie’s disappearance was solved.

Swallowing, Craig looked again at his son. What he would and could do was be sure his kids moved on.

It was time.

Brett was to start seeing a counselor Tuesday evening. That should have happened a year ago. The school psychologist’s evaluation hadn’t been as dire as Craig had feared, but Brett obviously needed help working through his anger.

Water bottles set aside, the team huddled with the coach, separating after a cheer. With mixed feelings, Craig saw Brett putting on goalie equipment. Was he ready when he’d only started practice this week?

But Brett was grinning and joking with teammates as he ran onto the field, enveloped in an oversize neon green shirt, his hands in gloves.

“He’ll do fine.”

Craig started.

Robin smiled at him. “Sorry. Did I scare you?”

Yeah. She scared him. But not for the reason she was asking.

“I was worrying,” he admitted. “What if he doesn’t play well? Will he want to quit?”

She watched his son take up position in front of the goal. “I bet his self-esteem is higher than you think. He knows he’s rusty. So do the other boys. But he really has a knack for playing goalie, you know.”

“I remember.” Brett was fearless. Skinned elbows, scraped knees, bruises mottling his cheek…none of that worried him. He had a good eye for the line the ball would take and instincts that helped him intercept it. Craig let out a ragged breath. “It’s just that…”

“He looks happy, and you want him to stay that way.”

Craig shook his head. “How do you do it?”

She turned a surprised face to him. “Do what?”

“Know what I’m thinking.”

She was the one to sigh this time. “Because I’m worried, too. I got him into this.”

Craig didn’t say anything. He’s not your responsibility didn’t seem appropriate. Sure, she’d gone above and beyond to help Brett. But in doing so, she’d accepted a level of responsibility. She must realize that.

The two teams lined up. One of the Puyallup boys made a powerful kick and the action was on. When it came close to Brett’s goal, Craig watched intensely. The rest of the time, he watched Robin.

She wore a loose-fitting royal blue T-shirt tucked into the waist of jean shorts that showed off long, tanned legs. Her glossy hair was trying to slip out of her usual ponytail. Craig had to shove his hands into the pockets of his khaki shorts to resist the urge to tuck a strand behind her ear.

Her face was so animated, he could tell how the game was going without looking at the field. It brightened, fell dramatically or became taut with suspense. Her mouth formed an O as she gasped in disappointment. A moment later, she would laugh in relief or delight at a great steal or stop. Craig wondered if her students appreciated how easy she was to read.

When her head swung toward the Salmon Creek goal, he focused on the game again. The Puyallup boys had a fast break going. Running with them, the ref was watching for an offside violation, his whistle in his mouth. Defenders scrambled to get into position, but they weren’t going to make it. Brett advanced out of the goal.

“Too far,” Craig muttered.

“Maybe not.”

The coach was yelling, “Get back!”

Brett never turned his head, never wavered. Light on his feet, he crouched waiting for the shot.

Parents on the other sideline screamed encouragement. Craig’s heart drummed. This wasn’t just a game. For Brett, more rode on it. Way more.

The player pulled back his foot as if he were going to boot the ball, then deftly tapped it to a teammate who had come up at a run. A huge, booming kick rocketed toward the corner of the goal.

Brett flung himself sideways. The ball deflected off his fingertips and fell to the ground in front of the goal. Players from both sides scrambled for it. Brett, in another headlong dive, came up with it.

Groans from the other side mingled with exultant cheers from the Salmon Creek rooting section.

“Yes!” Craig said, under his breath.

Robin laughed up at him, her face alight. “He was brilliant!”

Bemused, Craig saw his son nonchalantly kick the ball, which soared over the heads of the other boys and rolled nearly to the other goal. “He was, wasn’t he?”

Salmon Creek won, 2–1. The boys lined up to slap hands with the opposing players, then ran off, grimy and triumphant. Brett paused by his dad to exchange high fives, then joined the others to grab juice and brownies.

Robin had melted away, Craig realized. He saw her helping distribute brownies, congratulating boys and talking to other parents.

Nobody spoke to Craig as small family groups broke away and headed for the parking lot, but almost every parent called, “Great stop!” or “You did a heck of a job,” to Brett. Craig was satisfied.

Brett joined him, water bottle in his hand and soccer ball at his feet. “Wow, I didn’t think I was going to be able to stop that one!”

“I never had a doubt,” Craig lied, then grinned when Brett made a rude face. “Yeah, okay. Maybe one or two.”

“I mean, they had me. It was just luck.”

Craig stopped walking. “Not luck,” he said seriously. “You were good. I saw your focus.”

“I really like playing goal.” Brett’s expression and voice were both eager in a way Craig hadn’t seen in a long while. “I mean, it’s cool to score goals, but I like the pressure of it all coming down to you. The ball’s coming at you, and you’ve got, like, this tunnel vision. What a trip!”

Craig had felt that way about flying when he discovered it. He remembered his early flights, that sense of being in a bubble, in which nothing existed but him, the controls, the clouds streaming past, the checkerboard landscape below. It all came down to him. There was an adrenaline rush you didn’t get in everyday life.

He slapped his son on the back. “I know what you mean.”

When they reached the car, Craig asked, “Are you still planning to go home with Malcolm?”

“Yeah.” Brett tried to sound as if it was no big deal, but he failed to hide his pleasure. “I’m just going to grab my stuff.”

“Do I need to pick you up tomorrow?”

“I don’t know.” Brett tossed his soccer ball and the bottle on the floor and reached for his duffel bag. “I guess I’ll call you. Okay?”

“Sure.”

A horn beeped, and Craig turned to see Robin’s car stopped behind his. Malcolm jumped out and jogged over to thrust a scrap of paper at Craig. “Mom says to give you our phone number.”

“Thanks.” Craig smiled at the boy, then waved toward Robin.

A hand waved back from inside the car.

“See ya, Dad.” Brett loped off next to his new buddy.

Craig got in his car, but didn’t reach immediately to put the key in the ignition. He was alone. It was the strangest feeling. Both kids were off with friends, both spending the night. He hadn’t spent a night alone at home since the early days after Julie’s disappearance, when the cops were putting intense heat on him and his father had taken the kids a few times to spare them.

Here was the chance single parents rarely had, and he was going to let it go to waste. Well, not entirely—maybe he’d rent a DVD on the way home, something he wouldn’t let the kids watch. After all, the TV would be all his for a change.

He grunted in wry amusement. That was sad.

Craig stopped at the grocery store in Salmon Creek and picked up the makings for a meal neither Brett nor Abby liked. Another small pleasure, which was the best life had to offer these days. The bigger pleasures—here, he tried hard not to picture Robin McKinnon—were not for him.

His decent mood suffered a jolt when he was half a block from home. A blue sedan sat at the curb in front of his house. No rack of lights or insignia on the door, but he knew a police car when he saw one. Two people sat in this one.

Waiting.

Craig drove past them without turning his head. He went straight into the garage and closed the door behind him, popped the trunk and unloaded his groceries. He was grimly putting them away when the doorbell rang.

He knew better than to ignore it. An innocent man cooperated. Welcomed an investigation.

On the doorstep were a man and a woman he didn’t know. The man looked Hispanic, with dark hair and the age-old eyes cops sometimes had. Craig’s fleeting impression of the woman was that she had to be a good deal younger. Short and big-breasted, she wore dark hair in a bun so severe she’d never need Botox. Not flattering. Neither was a mannish outfit of blazer, slacks and white button-down shirt that made her look stocky.

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