The truth of it sat in my chest like a cold stone. On the afternoon my three-year-old boy vanished from the gravel shoulder of Route Nine, the sheriff’s personal cruiser had been parked close enough to be caught in the background of the photograph.
“He told me he was in Harrisburg that afternoon,” I said. “He told me he didn’t get the radio call until six in the evening.”
“He lied, Margaret,” Evelyn said.
I stood up, the metal legs of the chair scraping against the concrete floor.
“I am going to that house on Elm Lane,” I said.
Evelyn reached out and took my arm, her fingers surprisingly strong. “Thomas warned you to stay away from the highway. If he sees your car near his brother’s old place, he will know you didn’t believe him.”
“Let him know,” I said.
I took my car keys from my pocket, the brass ring cold in my hand.
“I am driving out there now,” I said.
The streetlights were just beginning to flicker on as I stepped out into the autumn air.
The gravel at the Route 9 rest stop crunched under my soles as I walked toward the concrete picnic tables. The damp smell of pine needles hung heavy in the morning air, mixing with the distant hum of truck traffic from the interstate. Yellow police tape from some long-forgotten highway incident fluttered on a low pine branch near the guardrail, its plastic faded to a pale, brittle cream.
Raymond was already there, sitting on a weathered bench with his collar turned up against the autumn chill. His hands, stained with grease from his days as a mechanic, wiped down the thighs of his trousers in a steady, rhythmic motion. He did not look up when my shadow fell across the concrete.
“You shouldn’t have parked so close to the road,” Raymond said, his voice raspy and thin.
I paused before answering, my fingers searching for the bare skin where my wedding ring used to sit. “The Buick needs an oil leak looked at anyway. And a new tire is going to cost me one hundred and eighty dollars if I don’t get the alignment sorted out.”
“It isn’t the oil they are looking at,” he said, squinting toward the highway. “There was a gray sedan idling near the overpass when you pulled in. It followed you from the township line.”
I looked back toward the entrance ramp, but only a bread truck rumbled past, its metal sides rattling in the wind.
“They are watching who you talk to,” Raymond muttered, his palms dragging across his faded denim again. “Especially after you started asking about that house on Elm Lane.”
“The old gray one?” I asked.
“That’s the one,” he said. “People in this town have long memories when it comes to properties that don’t belong to them.”
“Who owned it back then, Raymond?” I asked.
He stopped wiping his hands for a fraction of a second, his knuckles white against the blue fabric of his trousers. “You don’t want to get Walter involved in this, Margaret. He is a good kid, but he doesn’t have the stomach for what is in those old files.”
“I already have an appointment with him,” I said.
Raymond stood up slowly, his joints making a dry, cracking sound in the quiet of the morning. “Just get your copy of the deed and keep your head down. Some people don’t want the dust stirred up.”
He turned and walked toward the thick line of hemlocks bordering the asphalt, his shoulders hunched against the wind.
As I backed the Buick out of the gravel slot, I noticed a shape positioned behind the trunk of a massive oak near the tree line, watching the road. The tattered brown sleeve of a work coat showed against the dark bark, still as a stone, though I assumed it was just another traveler waiting for the bus.
The county records office was located in the basement of the Oakhaven courthouse, a windowless room smelling of vinegar and old bond paper. Walter, the records clerk, stood behind the high counter with a yellow pencil clutched in his hand. The fluorescent lights overhead hummed with a low, irritating buzz that seemed to vibrate through the floorboards.
