He had loved his mother all his life, but love and understanding were not the same thing. Diane Walker had a soft voice, kind hands, and a permanent wariness around loud men. She had a way of apologizing before anyone blamed her. As a boy, Gabe thought that was simply her nature. As he got older, he began to suspect nature had little to do with it.
When his father finally went out to the porch with another beer and the TV muttering baseball highlights behind him, Gabe found Diane standing at the sink staring out the dark window.
“Mom.”
She did not turn. “You should eat something.”
“I’m not hungry.”
Neither was she. The chicken on the stove had gone dry under foil.
He stepped closer. “Why did you never tell me?”
Her shoulders tightened. “Tell you what?”
“That you knew Ellie didn’t run away.”
She shut her eyes.
“I didn’t know,” she said. “Not for certain.”
“That’s not an answer.”
She gripped the edge of the sink until her knuckles blanched. “Your grandfather was a hard man.”
“Hard men don’t keep their missing granddaughter’s underwear under a mattress.”
“Lower your voice.”
“No.”
At that, she turned. Fear flashed across her face so quickly and so deeply that it silenced him more than any rebuke could have.
“Mom,” he said, softer now. “He’s dead.”
For a moment it seemed she hadn’t heard him. Then, very slowly, she looked toward the window, toward the dark beyond it, like some part of her still believed Arnold Walker might appear on the porch if anyone spoke too plainly.
When she faced Gabe again, her eyes were wet.
“He used to come into my room when I was thirteen,” she said.
The words entered the kitchen and changed the air in it.
Gabe did not move. He was suddenly aware of the refrigerator humming, of a moth beating itself against the porch light outside, of his own pulse in his throat.
“What?” he whispered.
She let out a sound that was not quite a laugh and not quite a sob.
“See?” she said. “Even now it sounds impossible. Because he was so respectable. Because he carried a Bible. Because he knew every deacon in three counties.” Her face crumpled. “Because monsters are never ugly in the beginning.”
Gabe gripped the back of a chair to keep steady.
“How long?” he asked.
She looked down. “Until I married your father.”
He felt nauseous. “Did Dad know?”
“He knew enough to know I didn’t want to be alone with him. He never asked why.”
On the porch, Ray’s chair scraped. Neither of them moved.
Diane went on in the same low voice. “When Ellie turned fifteen, I started seeing the way your grandfather looked at her. The excuses to keep her behind after Sunday lunch. The sudden anger when she wore shorts in summer. She noticed too. She started fighting with him all the time.”
“Did she tell you?”
Diane nodded once. “A week before she vanished.”
Gabe closed his eyes.
“She came into my room after midnight. She was shaking. She said he’d cornered her in the laundry room that evening and that if I didn’t stop him she’d go to the sheriff herself.” Diane pressed both hands over her mouth, then lowered them again. “I told her we’d leave. I said we’d go to my sister’s in Dallas. I said just give me one day to figure out money.”
“And then?”
“It was the Fourth of July picnic at his house. Your father was grilling. Your grandfather was playing host. Half the church was there. Fireworks in the pasture after dark.” Her voice grew distant, like she was walking back through smoke. “Ellie took you inside because you fell asleep on the couch. I was washing bowls. When I came looking for her later, she was gone.”
Gabe’s chest tightened so hard he could barely breathe.
“What did he say?”
“That she took off. Said he’d seen her storm down the road with a bag. Said he found a note in her room.” Diane laughed again, bitter this time. “A note that sounded nothing like my daughter.”
“Why didn’t you tell the police?”
She looked at him then, and Gabe understood he had asked the question of a woman who had been trapped long before he was born.
“Because your grandfather came to me that night,” she said, “while the search party was outside, and he said if I opened my mouth I’d lose both my children. He said accidents happened near rivers. He said little boys wandered.” She swallowed. “He told me to choose carefully.”
The room tilted.
