Where They Found Her: A Novel, Page 2

  “One of us has to be there, Justin,” I said with irrational force. I knew he couldn’t miss a class unless there was a true emergency, and despite how I was feeling, a kindergarten performance didn’t qualify. “I’ll have to stay at the bridge until I have what I need for the story. Assuming I can figure out what that is. This may be an all-day thing.”

  “I agree completely,” Justin said. “You need to go out there and report on this story to the best of your ability. This could be a real opportunity, Molly, and you need to seriously nail it. My guess is, Erik’s not big on second chances. Today, you chasing this story is more important than even The Very Hungry Caterpillar.”

  Because for me, this wasn’t just a story, of course. Everything I did these days was another plank in the bridge to a better me. I had become what I once would have despised: the living embodiment of a self-help book.

  “And what about Ella?” I felt panicky. I couldn’t help it. Letting her down again. Letting her down again. It was playing on a loop in my head.

  “Come on, she’ll survive.” Justin laughed, but not unkindly. “No offense, but this isn’t her Broadway debut. And how many shows have you been to this year? Ten?”

  I shrugged. “I haven’t been counting.”

  Justin pushed himself up in bed and swung his feet to the floor. “You know as well as I do that we’re not doing Ella any favors by giving her the impression that love means never being disappointed.”

  “I think she’s already been disappointed plenty, don’t you?”

  “Come on, Molly.” Justin stood and beckoned me into a hug. I shuffled over and wrapped my arms around his strong upper back. As he squeezed me tight, he smelled like the menthol he’d been massaging nightly into a torn right hamstring as he lamented the indignities of aging. “You’re a good mom,” he whispered into my ear. “You don’t have to keep trying to prove it.”

  But Justin—with his doting parents and idyllic childhood—could afford to live in a world of value judgments and calculated risks. It had been part of what attracted me to him. But it wasn’t easy to be someone’s mother when you’d never really had one of your own. Even before I was depressed, I’d always relied on a single surefire parenting strategy: trying to be perfect.

  “Okay, fine,” I said. Because Justin was right. I knew that intellectually, even if I didn’t feel it. “But you’ll explain it to Ella when she wakes up, right? Why I can’t be there? You’ll prepare her that neither of us will be?”

  “I’m on it, I promise,” Justin said, kissing me. “Now go kick some writerly ass.”

  It was barely light, the world a muted gray as I drove through the center of Ridgedale. Around the manicured green downtown, the trendy boutiques and expensive coffee shops were locked and dark. The sidewalks were empty, too, apart from an old man walking a tall spotted dog and two women in fluorescent tops and coordinating sneakers, jogging and chatting. To the right was the wide stretch of ivy-covered campus behind a tall iron fence, the sky burning orange at the horizon.

  It was all so beautiful in the half-light. It was hard to believe how much I’d resisted moving to town when Justin—whose specialty was nineteenth- and twentieth-century American literature—first mentioned the professorship at Ridgedale University. Twenty-five miles north and a little west of New York City, Ridgedale was a place we probably never would have considered living had it not been for the university. I’d been afraid that leaving the city would make me feel even more isolated and lonely. Not that Ridgedale was some remote farming village. There was a Michelin-starred farm-to-table restaurant and a dozen good ethnic ones, not to mention the world-class Stanton Theatre, an excellent university hospital, and two independent bookstores. The people in town were an eclectic mix, too, with students and faculty from around the world.

  Things hadn’t always been so sophisticated, or so I had been told. The Bristol-Myers executive offices, relocated from downtown Manhattan to right outside Ridgedale three years earlier, had notably increased the percentage of the town’s wealthy liberals. Some long-standing Ridgedale residents—in general, less affluent and more conservative—were still bristling at the proliferation of soy lattes and Pilates studios. They longed for the good old days when the university students could shop only at the campus store or Ramsey’s pharmacy and when the dining options in Ridgedale were limited to pizza, chicken wings, or all-night pancakes at Pat’s.

  It was a conflict that often played out in the spirited comments section of the newspaper’s online edition. These battles might have little to do with the article they were appended to, but nonetheless they routinely mutated into personal attacks on reporters. At least according to Elizabeth, who had cautioned me never to read the comments on any of my articles posted online, even those that seemed innocuous. It was the one piece of advice she’d given me, and I had listened. I might have been ready to try my hand at this journalism thing, but I wasn’t steady enough to weather being assaulted for it.

  I made a left and a quick right, heading past all that majestic stone on the leafy western edge of Ridgedale University. From there, it was a quick shot to the Essex Bridge, which was far enough away that I was surprised it was university property.

  When I came around the last bend, the sky had gone from gray to pale blue, the sun hidden behind the high hills in the distance. Even in the dimness, the patrol cars up ahead were impossible to miss. Three were sticking out into the road and a fourth was parked up against the trees, as if it had rolled to a stop there on its own. I had been preparing myself to arrive and find nothing, for it to have been a false alarm, as Erik had warned. But there were the police, and here was the bridge. And down below was Cedar Creek and, apparently, a body.

  There wasn’t a person in sight when I got out of the car, just the flashing of the blue and red lights between all those leafless trees. It was quiet, too, the only sound my feet on the pavement. It wasn’t until I’d walked up to the car at the front of the line that I heard some voices floating up from the woods. I paused, noticing for the first time that my fists were clenched.

  Tread lightly, like Erik had said, that was all I had to do. And yet that had seemed so much easier to execute before I’d gotten out of the car.

  Hello, I’m Molly Sanderson from the Ridgedale Reader. Would someone maybe have a minute to answer a couple questions?

  No, much too tentative. Not being obnoxiously overbearing made sense. Presenting my questions as though they were optional? Decidedly ill advised. I didn’t need to be a seasoned reporter to know that.

  Hello, I’m Molly Sanderson of the Ridgedale Reader. I’d like to verify some facts.

  Much better. A little pushy but not appalling. It was also accurate: I did have the fact of a body I wanted to confirm. Facts, plural, was a bit of an overstatement. But I knew from being a lawyer that feigning a position of strength could be a prerequisite to success.

  When I’d inched up close enough to see the water, I could tell right away what all those nervous weathermen had been worried about when they’d talked about late-winter snow followed by early-March rain. Flash flooding wasn’t something you really considered in New York City. They mentioned it, but big dirty puddles were usually how it manifested. As I looked at the creek, though—more like a river as it bounced dark and fast over stones and swept up broken branches—the potential for destruction was clear. Already, a big chunk of the near bank was gone, caved in like the ragged edge of a cliff.

  On the far side of the rushing water were half a dozen uniforms near the water’s edge. A handful of others fanned out in the woods beyond, searching for something, though their procedure didn’t seem particularly methodical. They were crisscrossing back and forth, kicking at leaves, poking with sticks, half seeming like they were merely pretending to be doing something useful.

  There was something blue on the far bank, too, a plastic tarp cordoned off with yellow police tape. My breath caught—all that nervous energy sucked into the ether. Because there it was, down in th
ose wet, rotting leaves, between all those skinny, leafless trees: the body. Somebody’s dead body.

  “If you ask me, they should flip the switch when they find the bastard,” came a voice next to me. “And I don’t even believe in the death penalty.”

  When I turned, I saw a young guy in a snug, bright yellow fleece and fitted black shorts. He had a radio strapped around his chest and a Campus Safety officer emblem on his shoulder. He smoothed a gloved hand over his fluffy blond hair and rested it on the back of his neck. He should have been good-looking. He had all the makings of it—cute face, muscular body. But he looked like an oversize child, as if he had gotten larger without actually maturing. It wasn’t the least bit appealing.

  “What happened?” I asked, opting not to identify myself, which probably violated all sorts of reporterly ethics. But then I wasn’t technically interviewing him. He was the one who’d started talking to me.

  He looked me up and down, eyes lingering on the expensive brand-new Sorel hiking boots I was wearing. A gift from Justin meant to get me excited for our new life in the “country.” They presented an inaccurate, outdoorsy picture of me, but one that might be helpful in context.

  Finally, the man looked back up, his eyes narrowed. “Who are you?”

  “Molly Sanderson.” I held out a hand. He hesitated before shaking it, squinted eyes locked on mine. “And you are?”

  “Deckler,” he said with annoying brevity. “You’re not with the Ridgedale Police. I’ve never seen you.”

  “I’m a writer.” It was more neutral than “reporter.” “Someone from the police department contacted us.”

  Shit, why had I said that? Erik’s contact was surely not public knowledge. It was probably the only thing more important than treading lightly: not exposing my boss’s critical confidential relationships.

  “Someone from the police department contacted you? To come here?”

  “Us, I should have said. I don’t personally know the details,” I said, hoping he’d drop it. “You found the body?”

  Deckler held up a hand and shook his head. “Don’t think so,” he said. “You want an official comment, you’ll have to talk to Steve.”

  “And Steve is?”

  “Down there.” Deckler nodded toward the water. Standing in the middle of the creek in thigh-high rubber fishing pants was a huge man in a sharply pressed shirt. He had his muscular arms crossed, strong square jaw set as he stared upstream, glaring at the current as if willing a suspect to float down his way. “It’s in his hands now.”

  “His hands?” I asked.

  “Ridgedale Chief of Police,” Deckler said, but with an edge. Like he didn’t think much of him. “Campus Safety’s here for support.”

  “They just come in and take over?” That had been his implication, and there was no telling what might pop out if I stirred the pot.

  His jaw tightened. “Only on something like this.” He exhaled in a puff of disgust. “Most campus crime stays on campus. There’s a whole disciplinary process, with hearings, evidence, all that. We handle it all ourselves, confidentially. You know, to protect the students.”

  “To protect the students, right,” I said, trying not to sound snide. Because all I could think was: or protect the perpetrators. “But not with something like this?”

  He shook his head and looked back out over the water. “No, I guess not.”

  “And what is ‘this,’ exactly?”

  Deckler shook his head and huffed again, seeming insulted that I’d asked the same question twice. “Like I said, you want details, you’ll have to talk to Steve.”

  “Okay.”

  I smiled as I took a step toward the creek, already imagining myself at the edge, waving like an idiot to get Steve’s attention. Even from this distance, he did not look like he’d appreciate that kind of thing.

  “Whoa, hold up!” Deckler barked before I’d gotten very far. “You can’t just go down there. I’ll have to call him up.”

  “Oh, no, that’s—”

  Before I could get my objection out, Deckler had whistled loudly through his fingers, right next to my ear, as if calling a dog. When Steve swiveled his head in our direction, he did not look happy.

  “Really, I can wait,” I offered meekly, though it was already too late.

  “Not here next to me, you can’t.”

  Steve looked even more aggravated as he stalked to the side of the river. Don’t you think we’ve got more important things to do than waste our time talking to reporters? I could already imagine him saying that as I watched him take the time to climb out of the water, put on his police hat, which he’d left on the bank for safekeeping, and start up the hill. It took an excruciatingly long time for Steve to climb in those boots that should have looked ridiculous on him but somehow didn’t. It helped that he moved with a slow, strong surety. Like he already knew how things were going to turn out.

  At the top of the hill, Steve nodded briskly in my direction before turning to Deckler. He was better-looking up close, the lines of his strong face offset enough to make his square features interesting instead of odd. Nothing like Justin’s fine bone structure, of course. Justin was the kind of man women openly ogled. Steve was the kind they counted on for a rescue.

  “There a problem, Officer Deckler?”

  “This is Molly Sanderson.” Deckler sounded pleased to be ratting me out. “She’s a writer. Someone from your department told her to come here.”

  “I’m with the Ridgedale Reader.” I reached out a hand and smiled at Steve, hoping we could breeze past the whole issue of who had called me. “I don’t want to take up your time. I’d just like to confirm some facts.” I motioned toward the tarp. “You found a body?”

  Steve shook my hand slowly, eyes boring into me. “The Reader, huh? Are you new? I know that other fella. Robert, is it?”

  “Richard,” I said, feeling stupidly satisfied that he’d gotten Richard’s name wrong.

  “Someone from my department called you?”

  “I don’t know the details. My boss told me to come down here. Actually, I’m just pinch-hitting. My usual beat is arts.” Little lost girl seemed as good a way to play it as any, especially when it didn’t feel that far from the truth. And from the way Steve’s face immediately softened, I could tell it had been the right call. “I really do apologize for intruding. You have a job to do, I understand that. But if you wouldn’t mind helping me do mine, then I can get right out of your way.”

  Steve stared at me for what felt like an inordinately long time. I had to strain not to look away. “Because you’re here and you’re local, I’ll tell you what I can,” he said at last, crossing his arms. “Shoot.”

  It took me a beat too long to realize that he was waiting for an actual question. “Have you identified the victim?” I asked, hustling to maintain my composure as my heart beat harder.

  But I could do this. I’d practiced the whole ride over. And being a reporter wasn’t that different from being a lawyer. Not that, as a policy analyst, I had done a lot of interrogating. I hadn’t really questioned anyone since mock trial in law school.

  “No,” Steve said, shaking his head as he turned to look at the water.

  Okay, not as wordy a response as I had hoped. But that was okay, I had other questions. “Any leads on who it might be?”

  “No.”

  “Male or female?”

  “Female.”

  I felt a little thrill: an actual answer. A female victim. It wasn’t much, but it was something. I was getting worried I’d have absolutely nothing when I went back to Erik. “Approximate age?”

  “I wouldn’t want to guess.” Steve’s eyes were back on mine but softer now. Sad, almost. “We’ll need confirmation from the medical examiner.”

  I could feel Deckler staring at the two of us. Judging, was what it felt like. You’re not falling for his macho crap, are you?

  “Two more questions,” Steve said. “Then you’re going to need to clear the scene so we can
get our job done.”

  “Did she die of natural causes?”

  “Unclear,” he said.

  “Unclear?” I couldn’t let him get away with that. “No indication?”

  “Nothing I’m going to comment on without an official ME report.”

  Just then the radio on Steve’s hip buzzed to life. “They’re going to need a smaller bag down here,” a crackly voice said. “You know, baby-size. Adult ones won’t work. ME wants us to go pick one up.”

  Steve snapped the radio off his waist, his jaw tightening. His eyes were locked on the creek as he brought the radio to his mouth. “Then send someone,” he answered through clenched teeth. “Now.” He switched the radio off entirely before sliding it back into his belt.

  He hadn’t looked back at me. And I was glad, because the air felt thin as I wrapped my arms around myself. A baby? A dead baby? I was afraid I might be sick, right there on the chief of police’s tall rubber boots.

  I thought about Ella. How hot and alive she’d been, wriggling against me when they’d laid her on my chest that first time. How surprised I’d been that my body had actually worked, that she’d made it out in one pink wailing piece. I thought, too, of the next time, when my body hadn’t worked the way it was supposed to. When I’d gone to the doctor for my routine thirty-six-week checkup and she couldn’t find a heartbeat. And the trauma of the agonizing labor and delivery that had followed, for a baby everyone already knew was dead. Everyone, that is, except me. I alone held out hope that my second daughter would gasp and cough her way to life once she was free of me.

  She did not. There had been only that awful clinical silence afterward, metal against metal, rubber gloves snatched off. And how she’d felt in my arms. Like she’d been emptied out and restuffed with wet tissue and sand.

  No. I should not be letting myself do this—think of it, of her. I would not. I closed my eyes and shook my head. I was not in that delivery room. That was almost two years ago. Right now I was there on the side of that creek with a job to do. And I needed to do it. As if my life depended on it.