The Neighbor - Lisa Gardner [14]
“Nope, nope, nope, nope, and nope.”
“Of course, there is that big, blue harbor.”
“Yep.”
D.D. sighed heavily. Tried one last theory: “Husband’s vehicle?”
“Pickup truck. He walked out with us to peer in the back. He refused, however, to open the doors of the front cab.”
“Cautious son of a bitch.”
“Cold,” Miller corrected. “Wife’s been missing for hours now, and he hasn’t even picked up the phone to call any family or friends.”
That decided the matter for her. “All right,” D.D. said. “Let’s go meet Mr. Jones.”
| CHAPTER FOUR |
When I was a little girl, I believed in God. My father would take me to church every Sunday. I would sit in Sunday school and listen to stories of His work. Afterward, we would gather in the churchyard for a potluck of fried chicken, broccoli casserole, and peach cobbler.
Then we would return home, where my mother would chase my father around the house with a meat cleaver, screaming, “I know what you’re up to, mister! Like those church hussies sit next to you just to share a hymnal!”
Round and round they would go, my parents racing around the house, myself curled up small in the front coat closet, where I could hear every word they said without having to see what would happen if my father ever lost his footing, missed a corner, tripped on a stair.
When I was a little girl, I believed in God. Every morning when I woke up and my father was still alive, I considered it a sign of His work. It wasn’t until I grew older that I started to truly understand Sunday mornings in my parents’ house. My father’s survival had nothing to do with God’s will, I came to see. It was a sign of my mama’s will. She never killed my father, because she didn’t want him to die.
No, my mama’s goal was to torture my father. To make every living moment of his life feel like an eternity in hell.
My father lived, because in my mama’s mind, death would’ve been too good for him.
“Did you find Mr. Smith?”
“Excuse me?”
“Did you find Mr. Smith? My cat. Mommy went to look for him this morning, but she hasn’t come back yet.”
D.D. blinked her eyes several times rapidly. She had just opened the door at the top of the basement steps, to find herself confronted by a very solemn, curly-headed four-year-old. Apparently, Clarissa Jones was now awake and running the investigation.
“I see.”
“Ree?” A male baritone broke through the silence. Ree obediently turned around, and D.D. glanced up to find Jason Jones standing in the foyer, studying both of them.
“I want Mr. Smith,” Ree said plaintively.
Jason held out his hand and his daughter crossed to him. He didn’t utter a word to D.D., simply vanished back into the family room, his daughter at his side.
D.D. and Miller followed suit, Miller giving a faint nod of his head to excuse the uniformed officer who’d been standing guard.
The family room was small. A tiny love seat, two wooden chairs, a hope chest covered in lace doilies, which served double duty as a coffee table. A modest TV was propped on a fake-oak microwave stand in the corner. The rest of the room was occupied by a child-sized craft table, and a row of bins that housed everything from a hundred crayons to two dozen Barbies. To judge by the toys, four-year-old Ree liked the color pink.
D.D. took her time. She surveyed the room, pausing at the grainy photos framed on the mantel, the picture of a newborn baby girl, that same baby girl in an annual procession of first food, first steps, first tricycle. No other family members in the photos. No obvious signs of grandmas, grandpas, aunts, uncles. Just Jason, Sandra, and Ree.
She noted a small shot of a toddler clutching a very tolerant orange cat, and supposed that must be the infamous Mr. Smith.
She worked her way to the toy cubbies, glancing at the table-top and noting a half-finished coloring project featuring Cinderella with two mice. Normal things, D.D. thought. Normal toys, normal items, normal furniture for a normal family in a normal South Boston home.
Except this family wasn’t normal, or she wouldn’t be here.
She passed by the cubbies