knew she couldn’t take the chance, couldn’t call attention to herself
anymore. It was too dangerous for her, and so she listened to
everyone talk about Ann, Tyler s wife and Sam’s mother, who had
supposedly disappeared fifteen months before without a word to
anybody, not her husband, not her son. Ann had had a mother until
two years before, but Mildred Kendred had died and left Ann all
alone with Tyler. She’d had no other relatives to hassle Tyler about
where his wife had supposedly gone. And just look at poor little
Sam, so quiet, so withdrawn, he’d probably seen something,
everyone was sure of that. That he wasn’t at all afraid of his stepfather
just meant that the poor little boy had blocked the worst of
it out.
Oh, yes, it all made sense now to everyone. Tyler had bashed his
wife on the head–she probably wanted to leave him, that was it–
and then he’d bricked her in the wall in Jacob Marley’s basement.
And little Sam knew something, because he’d changed right after
his mother disappeared.
Tyler remained stoic during the following days, saying nothing
about all the speculation, ignoring the sidelong looks from people
who were supposedly his friends. He went about his business,
seemingly oblivious of the stares.
He was in misery, Becca knew that, but there was nothing she
could do except say over and over, “Tyler, I know it isn’t Ann.
They’ll prove it was someone else, you’ll see.”
“How?”
“If they can’t figure out who she was, then they’ll check for runaways.
There are DNA tests. They’ll find out. Then there are going
to be a whole lot of folk apologizing to you on their hands and
knees.”
He looked at her and said nothing at all.
Becca went shopping at Food Fort at eight o’clock the next
night, hoping the store would be nearly empty. She moved quickly
down the aisles. The last item on her list was peanut butter,
crunchy. She found it and picked up a small jar, saw that it had a
web of mirrored cracks in it, and started to call out to one of the
clerks, only to have it break apart in her hands. She yelped and
dropped it. It splattered all over jars of jams and jellies before
smashing onto the floor at her feet. She stood there staring down
at the mess.
“I see you buy natural, not sugar-added. That’s the only kind I’ll
eat.”
She whirled around so fast she slid on the peanut butter and
nearly careened into the soup. The man caught her arm and pulled
her upright.
“Sorry, I didn’t mean to startle you. Let me get you another jar.
Here comes a young fellow with a mop. Better let him wipe off the
bottom of your sneaker.”
“Yes, of course.” The man not two feet from her was a stranger,
which didn’t mean all that much since she hadn’t met everyone in
town. He was wearing a black windbreaker, dark jeans, and Nike
running shoes. He was careful not to step into the peanut butter.
Her first impression was that he was big and he looked really hard
and his hair was on the long side, and as dark as his eyes.
“The only thing,” he continued after a moment, “it’s a real pain
to have to stir the peanut butter before you put it in the refrigerator.
The oil always spills over the sides and on your hands.” He
smiled, but his eyes still looked hard, as if he looked at people and
saw all the bad things they were trying to hide, and was used to it,
maybe even philosophical about it. She didn’t want him looking at
her that way, seeing deep into her. She didn’t want to talk to him.
She just wanted to get out of there.
“Yes, I know,” she said, and took a step back.
“Once I got used to it, though, I found I couldn’t eat the other
peanut butter, too much sugar.”
“That’s true.” She took another step away from him. Who was
he? Why -was he trying to be so nice?
“Miss Powell, I’m Young Jeff. Ah, Old Jeff is my pop, he’s the assistant