Harlan Coben - Caught

Jenna looked down. She pulled the large flannel shirt tighter against her, as though it might offer protection. She looked even smaller now. "I loved that man. I was devastated."

"But like you said, dead is dead. Dan had already been branded a pedophile, and well, you told me that Dan wouldn't care about being rehabilitated. He didn't believe in an afterlife."

"That's all true."

"The phone records showed the only people Dan called were you and his lawyer, Flair Hickory. You were the only one he trusted. You knew where he was. You still had Haley's iPhone. So why not? Pin it on a dead man."

"He couldn't be hurt anymore. Don't you see that?"

In a terrible way, this part made sense. You can't hurt a dead man.

"You plugged Ringwood State Park into Google Earth on Haley's iPhone. That was another clue. Why, if Dan killed her and buried her there, would she have looked up that park? There'd be no reason. The only conclusion I could draw was that Haley's killer wanted her body found."

"Not her killer," Jenna said. "It was an accident."

"I'm really not up for a semantics lesson here, Jenna. But why did you put Ringwood State Park into Google Earth?"

"Because despite what you think, I'm not a monster. I saw Ted and Marcia-the torment they were going through. I saw what the not knowing was doing to them."

"You did it for them?"

Jenna turned to her. "I wanted to give them some measure of peace. I wanted their daughter to have a true burial."

"Nice of you."

"Your sarcasm," Jenna said.

"What about it?"

"It's a cover. What we did was bad. It was wrong. But you also understand it on some level. You're a mother. We do what we have to do to protect our children."

"We don't bury dead girls in the woods."

"No? So you wouldn't, no matter what? Suppose Charlie's life was at stake. I know you lost your husband. Suppose he was there, on his way to jail for an accident. What would you have done?"

"I wouldn't have buried a girl in the woods."

"Well, what would you have done? I want to know."

Wendy did not answer. For a moment she let herself imagine it. John still alive. Charlie coming upstairs. The girl dead on the floor. She didn't have to wonder what she would have done. There was no reason to take it that far.

"Her death was an accident," Jenna said again, her voice soft.

Wendy nodded. "I know."

"Do you understand why we did what we did? I'm not saying you have to agree. But do you understand?"

"I guess on some level I do."

Jenna looked at her with a tearstained face. "So what are you going to do now?"

"What would you do if you were me?"

"I would let it be." Jenna reached out and took Wendy's hand. "Please. I beg you. Just let it be."

Wendy thought about that. She had come here feeling one way. Had her opinion shifted? Again she pictured John alive. She pictured Charlie coming up the stairs. She pictured the girl dead on the floor.

"Wendy?"

"I'm not up for being judge and jury," she said, flashing now on Ed Grayson, on what he'd done. "It's not my place to punish you. But it's not my place to absolve you either."

"What does that mean?"

"I'm sorry, Jenna."

Jenna stepped back. "You can't prove any of this. I'll deny this whole conversation took place."

"You could try, but I don't think that will help you."

"It will be your word against mine."

"No, it won't," Wendy said. She gestured toward the gate. Frank Tremont and two other police detectives came around the corner.

"I lied before," Wendy said, opening up her shirt. "I am wired."

THAT NIGHT, when it was all done, Wendy sat alone on the porch of her house. Charlie was upstairs on the computer. Pops came out and stood by her chair. They both stared up at the stars. Wendy drank white wine. Pops had a bottle of beer.

"I'm ready to go," he said.

"Not if you have a beer."

"Just having this one."

"Still."

He sat. "We need to have a little talk first anyway."

She took another sip of the wine. Odd. Alcohol had killed her husband. Alcohol had killed Haley McWaid. Yet here they both were, sitting on a cool, clear spring evening drinking. Some other time, maybe when she was stone-cold sober, Wendy would search for the deeper meaning in that.

"What's up?" she asked.

"I didn't come back to New Jersey just to visit you and Charlie."

She turned to him. "Why then?"

"I came," he said, "because I got a letter from Ariana Nasbro."

Wendy just stared at him.

"I met with her this week. More than once."

"And?"

"And I'm forgiving her, Wendy. I don't want to hold on to it anymore. I don't think John would want me to. If we don't have compassion, what have we got?"

She said nothing. She thought back to Christa Stockwell, how she had forgiven the college boys who had done her wrong. She said that if you hold on to hate, you lose your grip on so much more. Phil Turnball had learned that lesson the hard way, hadn't he? Revenge, hate-if you hold on to them too tightly, you could lose the important stuff.

On the other hand, Ariana Nasbro wasn't a college kid playing a harmless prank. She had been a drunk driver, a repeat offender, who had killed her husband. Still, Wendy couldn't help but wonder: If Dan Mercer were alive, would he forgive? Were the situations comparable? Did it matter if they were?

"I'm sorry, Pops," she said. "I can't forgive her."

"I'm not asking you to. I respect that. And I want you to respect what I'm doing. Can you do that?"

She thought about it. "Yeah, I think I can."

They sat in comfortable silence.

"I'm waiting," Wendy said.

"For what?"

"For you to tell me about Charlie."

"What about him?"

"Did you tell him why you came back?"

"Not my place," Pops said. He rose and finished packing. An hour later, Pops left. Wendy and Charlie flipped on the television. Wendy sat there for a moment, the images flickering before her. Then she rose and went into the kitchen. When she came back, the envelope was in her hand. She handed it to Charlie.

"What's this?" he asked.

"It's a letter to you from Ariana Nasbro. Read it. If you want to talk about it, I'll be upstairs."

Wendy got ready for bed and left her door open. She waited. Eventually she heard Charlie making his way up the stairs. She braced herself. He poked his head in the doorway and said, "I'm heading to bed."

"You okay?"

"Fine. I don't want to talk about it right now, okay? I just want to think a little on my own."

"Okay."

"Good night, Mom."

"Good night, Charlie."

TWO DAYS LATER, right before Kasselton High School girls played Ridgewood for the county championship in lacrosse, a memorial service was held at midfield. A big sign that read HALEY MCWAID'S PARK was hoisted up on the scoreboard during a moment of silence.

Wendy was there. She watched at a distance. Ted and Marcia were there, of course. Their remaining children, Patricia and Ryan, stood with them. Wendy looked at them and felt her heart break all over again. Another sign was hoisted below Haley's name. This one said NOT IN OUR HOUSE, and reminded parents not to host drinking parties. Marcia McWaid looked away as the sign went up. She scanned the crowd then, and her eyes landed on Wendy. She gave Wendy a small nod. Wendy nodded back. That was all.

When the game began, Wendy turned and walked away. Now-retired county investigator Frank Tremont was there too, way in the back, wearing the same rumpled suit he'd worn to the funeral. It had helped for him to know that Haley McWaid was dead before he ever got the case. But right now, it didn't seem to help a lot.

Walker wore his full sheriff uniform for the ceremony, complete with gun and holster. He stood on the blacktop talking to Michele Feisler. Michele was covering the event for NTC. She moved away when she saw Wendy approach, leaving the two of them alone. Walker started shifting his feet nervously.