Delphine paused. “Why not, do you think?”

“Well, he has a lot of ideas about what I should do each day,” said Alice. “He probably wouldn’t believe I had time to do that too.”

Delphine nodded. “And if you insisted?” she said.

Alice almost laughed. The idea of insisting on anything, when it came to Peter, was unimaginable to her. She wasn’t—frightened of him, exactly, though there had been one or two incidents that caused alarm. It was more that she had come to see herself nearly exclusively through his eyes, and therefore being in his good graces was the easiest way to achieve a sense of well-being.

“I wouldn’t insist,” she said, simply.

“You know,” said Delphine, “Peter has always struck me as someone with more bark than bite.”

Delphine smiled.

“But you’re an adult,” said Delphine. “And you know him better than I do.”

•   •   •

When Alice emerged from Delphine’s room, it was close to three in the morning, and sounds of snoring were echoing throughout the house. She felt sober now. She walked on the balls of her feet, avoiding floorboards she knew to make noise. Passing Bear’s room, she opened the door to gaze, at last, upon his sleeping form; and then she continued to the room she shared with Peter.

Inside, she found her husband awake.

He was lying on his back, his hands behind his head, his fine thin torso bare, and just visible in the moonlight.

He turned his head slowly in her direction, but said nothing.

Alice undressed, awkwardly, before him, feeling his appraising gaze, despite the dark. Already, she could feel the food and drink from the weeklong party making itself visible in her waistline, and she made a note to herself to eat nothing all day tomorrow—not until dinner, at least.

She pulled her nightgown over her head and lowered herself into bed next to Peter.

“Where have you been?” he asked her.

“In Bear’s room,” she said, automatically. “He was restless.” She wasn’t certain why, but it felt dangerous to tell him the truth.

For a long moment, Peter was silent, and she thought perhaps he had gone back to sleep.

But then he turned over, and the expression on his face was cold.

“You’re lying,” said Peter. “I checked in Bear’s room. I looked all over the grounds for you.”

He raised himself up on one elbow, suddenly. Alice tensed.

“Where were you?” he asked again. In his voice she recognized danger.

“I did go to Bear’s room,” she said. “Twice. But I also went to Delphine’s room.”

Peter paused, seemingly caught off guard. She knew this wasn’t the answer he was anticipating. When they were first married, she had made a terrible mistake at one of these parties, when she was too drunk to understand what was happening. Her mistake, she understood, had been drinking so much. The rest was someone else’s fault. A former friend of Peter’s, who was no longer invited to their parties.

“Why on earth were you in Delphine’s room?” he said.

“To check on her,” said Alice. “I heard her crying. And Merrill had said that horrible thing.”

Peter was silent for a moment. And then came off his elbow and lay back down, the conversation finished.

Alice closed her eyes. She pictured Delphine’s kind face, her dark hair, her upright posture. The well-being and confidence that emanated from her person, despite her recent loss.

Peter spoke again.

“I know she’s your sister, Alice,” he said. “And I’m sorry to say this. But I’d stay away from Delphine. She’s always seemed manipulative to me.”

The words landed heavily in the empty room.

“All of us worried that George would change when they married,” said Peter. “And do you know something? He did.”

After that, the two of them were silent.

Carl

1950s | 1961 | Winter 1973 | June 1975 | July 1975 | August 1975

In the large main room of Self-Reliance, Vic Hewitt was tending to a blaze in the stone fireplace that centered the space. A dozen people stood or sat around it; nobody spoke. They ranged in age from twenty to eighty. Aside from the Van Laars themselves, the only two Carl recognized definitively were the younger Mrs. Van Laar’s parents, come up from the city. Their daughter—Bear’s mother—was absent. Taken to bed, perhaps. Crying in some other room. Carl’s wife had been that way for Scotty’s final weeks. For the whole year after.

Everyone in the room appeared to have recently returned from spending hours in the woods. Their faces were dazed and drawn and streaked with dirt; their clothing was stiff, newly dried by the fire after the rain that had fallen earlier.

A queasy stillness pervaded the room. Reality settling in. He could imagine them at the start of their search, early in the afternoon, in the daylight: nervous, tipsy laughter as they scoured the grounds, sure they’d find the child, shouting for him in the rain, hopeful that he was pulling a prank, hopeful that by cocktail hour they’d be recounting the tale of their search over drinks.

He could imagine their mood as it shifted.

They should have called earlier, Carl was thinking. This had been the truth unspoken by all four volunteers as they drove toward the Preserve. Vic Hewitt, at least, should have known better. All four of the volunteers had basic tracking skills, and Dick’s brother Ronald had a hound, Jennie, with a good nose on her. But Ronald had been unreachable, so they’d left without a dog. Between the rainstorm and the general trampling the ground had taken by then, both tracks and scents would be more difficult to pick up tomorrow. Why hadn’t Hewitt called?

•   •   •

None of the central room’s dozen occupants had risen upon their arrival. It was only when Vic Hewitt spoke that anyone seemed to take notice of them at all.

“The folks from the local fire department are here,” he said—addressing the younger Mr. Van Laar. “In case you’d like a word.”

•   •   •

In the kitchen, away from the crowd, the elder and younger Mr. Van Laar faced the volunteers. It was then that Carl remembered his hat, a floppy felt thing his wife had given him several birthdays ago. He snatched it from his head, pawed at his hair and beard, smoothing them.

When no one else spoke, he did.

“Well,” said Carl. He looked down at the floor as he spoke, unable to meet anyone’s gaze. “So. When’s the last time you saw the boy?”

“Three o’clock,” said the elder Van Laar.

“And he was—hiking?”

“You know this already,” said the younger Van Laar. “We spoke on the telephone.” There was impatience in his voice as he said it. It occurred to Carl that he might believe they were going to set out into the woods this very night. They wouldn’t get far, doing that; they had one flashlight and one headlamp between them, and the latter was out of batteries, if Carl remembered right. There might be more equipment lying around the estate, but still—the state police, with their taxpayer dollars, would have to be called to make any progress at all.