Self-Defense by JONATHAN KELLERMAN

“Maybe someone picked her up.”

“Who would she have allowed to pick her up? She wasn’t dating anyone, had no close friends. And she never would have hitchhiked. We talked about that before she left Massachusetts.”

His voice remained low, but his eyes bulged even more and the ridges in his forehead were wet.

“I’m sure they’re hiding something. I know what guilt looks like.”

I pulled the paper out of my jacket, unfolded it, and circled the two names.

“I kept going back to them,” said Best, “offered them money—the last of my cash before I started selling off the stocks and bonds. They wouldn’t even talk to me. Finally Tom called the sheriff, complained I was harassing them. I returned a few days later anyway, wanting to catch Gwen alone. She wouldn’t open the door, and the next day Tom came to my motel and threatened to beat me up if I didn’t leave them alone.”

“Was that the end of it?”

He sighed. “I did drive by their house, once or twice a week. Then they upped and left—moved out of Malibu. If that isn’t guilt, I don’t know what is. I called up the restaurant, pretending to be a friend, and was told they’d gone to Aspen. But they’ve been back in Malibu for over sixteen years. Own a place called Shooting the Curl—surfing supplies shop, near the pier. Doing very well, I might add. Tom drives one of those BMWs and Gwen has a fancy van.”

“You still drive by.”

“Only once a year, Dr. Delaware. On the anniversary of Karen’s disappearance.”

“Do you do anything else?”

“Do I try to talk to them? No, what would be the use? For me, it’s a day of reflection. I drive from Santa Monica to Santa Barbara. If I see a homeless person, I stop and give them food. Sometimes I pull over at a campsite, but I don’t talk to anyone or show Karen’s picture. What would be the sense showing the picture of a nineteen-year-old girl?”

He looked down. Hooked his fingers under his glasses and rubbed his eyes again. “She’s almost forty by now, but I still think of her as nineteen. . . . Don’t worry, doctor, I don’t bother the Sheas. Whatever they did, they have to live with. And they have their own troubles now: a crippled child. Maybe one day they’ll come to see that Providence and Fate emanate from the same place. When you approach them, don’t mention my name, I’m sure they think of me as a raving lunatic.”

“How long was Karen out in California before she disappeared?”

“Five months.”

“How often did she write?”

“She never wrote. She phoned. Always on Sunday, and sometimes on Wednesday and Friday. That’s why we were alarmed that first Sunday. She was like clockwork when it came to those Sunday phone calls. We phoned the restaurant, and they said she hadn’t shown up for work.”

“I assume she never said anything on a previous call that hinted at her disappearance.”

“Nothing. She was happy, enjoying the weather, enjoying her job, everything was fine. She was trying to earn enough money to enroll in acting school.”

“Did she say which school?”

“No, it never got that far.”

“How did you feel about her becoming an actress?”

“We didn’t really think she’d become one. We thought she’d try awhile and come back, go to college, meet someone nice.”

His lip quivered.

“My wife took most of the calls. I was usually at the store. After Karen disappeared, I grew to hate the store. Gave it to Craig, but he sold it and got a job with the state. Building and Safety. After I moved here, my first year was taken up completely by looking for Karen. The second year too, but nothing was turning up. I had time on my hands and started to read the Bible. Till then I wasn’t a religious man—I’d gone to church but I thought about profits and losses while pretending to worship. This time, the Bible started to mean something to me. I found a seminary in Eagle Rock and enrolled. Got ordained five years later and started the church. Do you know what we do?”

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