“Tracy’s missing too!” Annabel said, breathless—and a nearby trooper said, “Who?”
In short order, the two of them were being walked by a phalanx of policemen toward the Great Hall.
Over and over again, on that walk, Louise had tried to catch Annabel’s eye. Remember, she wanted to tell her, with her gaze. Remember your promise.
But Annabel wouldn’t meet her gaze.
• • •
Now Annabel is in the dressing room next to Louise’s. Through the thin wall that separates them, Louise can hear muffled sounds she thinks might be sobs.
She can also hear the angry voice of a different woman, and a man: Mr. and Mrs. Southworth, she surmises. Annabel’s parents. Guests, this week, of the Van Laars.
A light tap on Louise’s door, and then it swings open before she can respond.
A man walks in, fortyish, balding. He stops and stares at her a moment, as if realizing something. He’s not in uniform: instead he wears a yellow Oxford, short-sleeved, with a red tie. He carries his brown suit coat over his elbow.
“Louise Donnadieu?”
She nods.
The man smiles. He’s thin, unmuscled.
“Remember me?” he says.
Only then does Louise look closely at his face, which, she realizes, does ring a bell.
“Denny Hayes,” he says. “Used to live in Shattuck. I know your mom.”
“Oh,” she says. “Mr. Hayes.”
He holds up a hand, shaking his head. “Please,” he says. “Call me Denny. You’re a grown woman now, right?”
The words shock her, though she supposes they’re technically true.
“How is she?” asks Denny Hayes.
“Who?”
“Your mother.”
Louise pauses. “All right, I guess. We don’t talk much.”
He nods once. As ready as she is to change the subject.
If she remembers correctly, Denny Hayes was one of several men who used to float around their house just after her father left town. She glances at his hand. Notices the wedding ring there. If he was married back then, she didn’t know it—but she wouldn’t have been surprised.
Nothing her mother did, or does, surprises her anymore. Not even when she got pregnant with Jesse when Louise was eleven. Not even when she confessed to being uncertain about who the father was.
God, thinks Louise—please don’t let this man be Jesse’s dad.
“How ’bout you?” Denny asks. “You married or anything? Got kids or anything?”
“No,” says Louise. “Just working.”
“I’ve got two,” says Denny. “Boy and a girl. Third on the way. Moved away from Shattuck seven years ago, when I got promoted. I live in North Elba, now. Close to work.”
Louise nods.
“Mind if I sit?” says Denny.
The dressing room is tiny and bright, the only two chairs in it side by side. The two of them angle their knees awkwardly toward one another. Too close for Louise’s liking. In the mirror, she watches him fumble in his breast pocket for a notepad and pen.
“So,” says Denny. “You’re her counselor. The Van Laar girl?”
Louise nods.
“Any idea where she might have got to?”
“I don’t,” says Louise. Quietly.
Denny glances at her. “Lady out there,” he says, checking his notes, “T.J.? Lady with the short hair?”
“The director,” says Louise.
“Right. She said you were the one first reported her missing. That true?”
Louise nods.
