The Night Strangers - Chris Bohjalian [115]
“So what does that mean?”
“It means the case is closed. The twelve-year-old’s death was ruled a suicide years ago; there was never any suggestion there may have been foul play. And New Hampshire law allows for burial on private property. Why the parents wanted the world to think they buried their boy in the cemetery—and how the mortician was or wasn’t involved—is anyone’s guess. But they’re all dead, and no laws were broken.”
“So we’re done?” she asked.
“More or less. I will tell you this: The medical examiner’s office said some of the bones are still somewhere in your basement—in that homemade vault. They couldn’t build a whole skeleton. So, you might want to discourage your little girls from playing down there. I know I wouldn’t want my little boy digging around that cellar.”
“Thank you.”
“You’re very welcome, ma’am,” he said, and then he gave her his number in case she ever had any more questions. She, in turn, murmured her gratitude and hung up. When she went back upstairs to Hallie’s bedroom, both girls were sulking—clearly they had bickered while she had been gone—and neither wanted to discuss the pros and cons of leaving Bethel.
You hang up the kitchen phone only after both Emily and Sergeant Holcomb have hung up their receivers. You make sure that there is no one on the line to hear your click. Then you lean against the counter beside the oven. You glance down. The knife that Tansy left you is still underneath it. One time Desdemona pawed at a dust bunny there and Emily watched the cat while she was chopping an onion, but otherwise you have had little fear that someone will notice it there. Nevertheless, you are relieved the sergeant didn’t ask about it—that he didn’t ask Emily whether it had turned up. He might have. He might have said something as simple as We’ll get that crowbar and that ax back to you soon enough. They weren’t murder weapons, so we don’t need them. Or, Did you or your husband ever find that knife? Just curious. And then Emily would have asked you where the knife was, since clearly it wasn’t with the State Police. Yes, you were lucky. She might not have trusted you after that.
You hear a noise in the den and stroll there. As you expected, Ashley is playing with your daughters’ dolls, while Ethan watches. He glances at you and then back at his little girl. He tries not to share with her his utter contempt for you. But he is relentless, his judgment unforgiving and harsh. Why is it that the presence of this other father and daughter causes you such intense physical pain? It is not merely sympathy for all they have endured and all they have lost. For their unspeakable loneliness. It is the racking pain in your head, your abdomen, and lower back that causes you to close your eyes and breathe in deeply and slowly until the Advil kicks in and takes the edge off.
Ashley looks up at you and then drops the doll in the Civil War–era smock near the brick hearth for the woodstove. She looks a little disgusted, a little sad.
She deserves friends. She does. Yes. She does …
Clary Hardin switched on the dining room light in her home and heard the loud pop. She knew instantly that one of the bulbs had burned out and hoped it wasn’t the smiling cherub. They had absolutely no smiling cherubs left. When she surveyed the chandelier, however, she saw that it was indeed one of those bulbs that had blown. They’d have to replace it with one of their two remaining faces of despair.
“Another bulb go?” her husband asked, when he saw her standing underneath the chandelier, staring, her hands on her hips. He stood behind her and wrapped his hands around her waist, and she allowed her arms to fall to her sides.
“Yes,” she said. “We have got to get back to Paris.”
“Honey, you know that store closed in 1941. It was never going to survive the occupation. It was never going to survive the war.”
“Nevertheless: We have got to get back to Paris.”
“I know.” They had gone