Софи Райан - No Escape Claws

Liam had taken a look inside and said he thought the wood was cypress. I had decided to refinish the piece as a Christmas gift for Gram and John. Gram had mentioned that she could use more storage space in the apartment.

Around three thirty I put everything away, brushed my hair and my teeth and put on a little lip gloss. Then I went in search of Rose and Mr. P. I found the latter standing in the middle of the sunporch, which no longer had drywall on two sides but did have a new window facing the street. Rose and Nick were standing by the back door, their heads bent over what looked like a small notebook. Nick had bits of drywall dust in his hair.

“Are you ready, Rose?” I said. She and Nick stepped apart—somewhat guiltily, it seemed to me.

“I just need to get my sweater,” Rose said. She didn’t make any effort to do that, though.

“What are you looking at?” I asked.

Nick looked at Rose. Rose looked at Nick. I noticed that neither of them was looking at me. I cocked my head inquiringly to one side. Nick looked like he was about to say something but Rose kicked his leg with her foot. He jumped, made a bit of a grunt and then tried to turn it into a cough to cover.

Rose gave me a totally insincere smile. “Dear, you know how sometimes you decide it might be better if you didn’t know exactly how Alfred acquired a certain piece of information?”

I nodded.

“This may be a similar circumstance.”

“I’ll see you in the car in five minutes,” I said.

We got to the park where the cross-country meet was being held just a few minutes before four o’clock. It was the kind of September afternoon the coast of Maine is known for: streaky clouds overhead, just a hint of a breeze coming in from the water and on the trees all around us the leaves were starting to change. I took a deep breath of the fresh air. It was good to be outside for a change. Rockwell Park had close to eight miles of trails, many of them through old-growth forest with trees that were close to four hundred years old. There was a waterfowl pond and outdoor rink in the wintertime. I made a mental note to come for a run in the park sometimes soon.

“How exactly are we going to find Hannah Allison’s parents?” I asked, looking around. There were more people than I’d expected. Most of them were parents, I was guessing. “I don’t even know their names.”

“Ben Allison and Jia Kent-Allison,” Mr. P. said. “Don’t worry. I know what they look like.”

The cross-country course had been marked off with stakes and yellow tape. We walked in the general direction that most of the people seemed to have gathered as Mr. P. scanned the spectators. No one paid any attention to us and I realized that we probably looked like the mom and grandparents of one of the kids. Finally Mr. P. put a hand on my arm. “Over there, Sarah,” he said, inclining his head in the direction of a man and woman standing by themselves where the trail curved up the hill.

I took a minute to study them. Ben Allison looked to be in his early forties, average height and build, in jeans and a red and black hoodie. Everything about him was unremarkable except for his hair. It was on the longish side, thick and wavy, a mix of dark and silver. It was the kind of hair that belonged in a shampoo commercial.

Jia Kent-Allison was five eight or so with a lean build that made me suspect she was a runner herself. She was of Asian ancestry and she wore her dark hair in a cropped pixie that showed off her cheekbones and long neck. She was dressed in leggings and a gray zippered running jacket. Her arms were folded over her chest and there was a frown of concentration on her face as she watched the runners on the course.

We stood a little way away from the Allisons and waited until their daughter ran by. Hannah Allison was easy to spot with a similar runner’s build to her mother and her dad’s thick hair in a high ponytail. She ran at a steady pace, grinning at her parents as she passed them. I had no idea how good her time was, but I noticed that she had an excellent stride. Ben and Jia clapped and called out encouragingly as Hannah disappeared on the wooded part of the course.

Mr. P. and Rose exchanged a look. Then Mr. P. nodded and they started over to the Allisons. I tagged along behind them wondering what his approach was going to be.

It turned out Mr. P. had decided on a direct one. “Mr. and Mrs. Allison,” he said. “My name is Alfred Peterson. I’m a private investigator.” He showed them his license from the state. “These are my associates, Mrs. Jackson and Ms. Grayson.”

“What do you want with us?” Ben asked. He seemed wary, shoulders squared, hands stuffed in the pocket of his hooded sweatshirt.

“I’d like to ask you a few questions about your daughter’s accident,” Mr. P. said.

“Why?” Jia Allison asked, a challenge in her dark eyes. She looked familiar. I had the feeling I’d seen her in a couple of 10K races that I’d done recently.

“Gina Pearson’s name has come up in an investigation,” he said. “We’re looking into her background.” Alfred Peterson may have been a balding little man who wore his pants a bit too high, but his quiet confidence and intelligence won people over.

“She’s dead,” Jia said bluntly.

Mr. P. nodded. “Yes, we’re aware of that. But we still need to learn more about her.”

“She damn near killed my daughter driving drunk,” Ben said. There were deep lines around his eyes and mouth. “Running was Hannah’s life and for a while, after her leg was injured in that accident, they weren’t sure if she was going to be able to walk again, let alone run.”

Jia looked at me. “You run,” she said. “I do the hills loop a lot. I’ve seen you running it a few times.”

I nodded. “Yes I do that one on occasion.”

“Then you know what it was like for my daughter not to be able to run.”

Two young women running in tandem passed us and I felt a sudden urge to join them, to feel my muscles working, feet pounding against the ground, lungs pulling in air. “I can guess,” I said.

“Gina Pearson did that to my child,” Jia said. She’d folded her arms across her chest with her fingers tucked into her armpits and she shifted her weight restlessly from one foot to the other as though she might suddenly turn and sprint away.

“This is probably going to sound cruel,” Ben interrupted, “but as far as I’m concerned Gina Pearson could have drunk herself to death for all I cared, but she had no right to get into a car and drive.” He pulled one hand out of his pocket and raked it back through his hair. “Her husband is partly to blame as well.”

“Why do you say that?” Rose asked. As usual, her genuine curiosity got an answer.

“Mike Pearson was an enabler,” Ben said. “He made excuses for his wife. He got her second and third and fourth chances.” His voice was getting louder and rougher and his anger was apparent in every gesture he made, both hands moving, punctuating his words. “Gina Pearson’s drinking never really cost her any of the things that mattered to her so she never hit bottom. And since she never hit bottom, she never had any incentive to climb back up. That’s on him.” He swiped a hand over his mouth and walked away from us.

His wife’s eyes followed him but she didn’t. Jia Allison looked at us. “Gina Pearson died in a fire that she started because, once again, she was drinking. Because she learned nothing from what she did to our daughter. Neither Ben nor I wanted her to die like that.” She looked past us, took a deep breath and exhaled slowly. “ Any man’s death diminishes me ,” she said softly.

“ Because I am involved in mankind ,” Rose finished in a gentle voice. “John Donne.”