Харлан Кобен - The Boy from the Woods

“Come on in.”

Wilde sat on the same red couch where he and Ava had first kissed. He quickly scanned the room. Nothing much had changed since he’d spent those three days here with her. On one wall, there were two new paintings hung the slightest bit crookedly — one watercolor of what looked like a tormented face, one oil painting of the Houvenkopf Mountain, which wasn’t far from here.

“The paintings,” he asked. “You do them?”

She shook her head. “Students.”

He had figured that. She didn’t like displaying her own work. Too personal , she’d told him when he asked. Too self-involved. Too easy to see all your flaws.

“Either of them by Naomi?”

“No,” Ava said. “But go ahead if you want.”

“Go ahead and what?”

She gestured to the walls. “Straighten them. I know how antsy it’s making you.”

At night, while Ava had slept, Wilde would go around, sometimes with a level, and make sure the paintings were indeed completely straight. It was one of the reasons why he was glad he had nothing hung up in his own abode.

As Wilde started to adjust the paintings, Ava took a seat in the chair farthest away from him. “You need to tell me why you’re looking for her.”

“No, I don’t.”

“Excuse me?”

He finished finagling with the mountain watercolor. “We don’t have time for explanations. Do you trust me, Ava?”

She pushed the hair back from her face. “Should I?”

There may have been an edge in the tone, he couldn’t be sure.

Then: “Yes, Wilde, I trust you.”

“Tell me about Naomi.”

“I don’t know where she is, if that’s what you’re asking.”

“But she’s one of your students?”

“She will be.”

“What does that mean?”

“I encouraged her to sign up for Intro to Watercolors next semester. She’ll be my student then.”

“But you already know her?”

“Yes.”

“How?”

“I do cafeteria duty three days a week. With the cutbacks, they were woefully understaffed.” She leaned forward. “You went to that high school, didn’t you?”

“Yes.”

“You’re not going to believe this, but when the two of us were, uh” — she looked up as though searching for the right word before shrugging and settling for — “together, I had no idea who you were. I mean, about your past.”

“I know.”

“How?”

“I can always tell.”

“People treat you differently, right? Never mind. It doesn’t matter. I imagine you were an outcast at that place, right?”

“To some degree.”

“To some degree,” she repeated, “because you’re strong and attractive and probably athletic. Naomi is none of those things. She is that girl, Wilde. The full-on, grade-A, bullied outcast. Somehow — and this will sound awful — but there is something about her that makes it easier for people. Human nature that no one wants to discuss. There is a bit of us that enjoys the spectacle. Like she deserves it. And it’s not just students. The other teachers smirk. I’m not saying they like it, but they do nothing to defend her.”

“But you do.”

“I try. It often makes it worse. I know that’s a cop-out, but when I stood up for her, well, let’s just say it didn’t help. So what I do instead, I pretend she gets in trouble — I hope that maybe gives her cred or something — and part of her punishment is, she can’t sit in the cafeteria during lunch. I take her to the art studio. Sometimes, if I get out of cafeteria duty, I’ll sit with her. I don’t think it helped much with the students, but at least...”

“At least what?”

“At least Naomi gets a break. At least she gets a few minutes of peace during the school day.” Ava blinked away a tear. “If Naomi is missing, she probably ran away.”

“Why do you say that?”

“Because her life is hell.”

“Even at home?”

“I don’t know if hell is the right word, but it isn’t great there either. Do you know Naomi was adopted?”

Wilde shook his head.

“She talks about it more than an adopted kid should.”

“In what way?”

“Fantasizing about being rescued by her real parents, for example. Her adoptive parents had to go through all kinds of interviews and screenings, and when they passed, they were awarded an infant — Naomi — but then pretty much right away, the mom couldn’t handle it. They even tried to return her to the orphanage. Do you believe that? Like she was a package delivered by UPS. Anyway, her mother had a breakdown. Or claimed to. She abandoned Naomi and her father.”

“Do you know where the mother is now?”

“Oh, she’s” — Ava frowned and made air quotes with her fingers — “‘recovered.’ Remarried a rich guy. Naomi says she lives in a fancy town house on Park Avenue.”

“Has Naomi said anything to you lately? Anything that might help?”

“No.” Then: “Now that you mention it.”

“What?”

“She seemed a little... better. More relaxed. Calm.”

Wilde didn’t say anything, but he didn’t like that.

“Now it’s your turn, Wilde. Why are you asking?”

“Someone is worried about her.”

“Who?”

“I can’t say.”

“Matthew Crimstein.”

He said nothing.

“Like I said, Wilde, I didn’t know who you were when we met.”

“But you know now.”

“Yes.” Her eyes were suddenly bright with tears. He reached out and took her hands in his. She pulled away. He let her. “Wilde?”

“Yes.”

“You need to find her.”

Wilde walked back to the condo parking lot. He drove Laila’s BMW twenty yards to a dumpster. Hester had been correct. Laila was a slob. A beautiful slob. She kept her own self meticulously neat and clean and freshly showered. But her surroundings did not follow suit. The backseat of her BMW had coffee cups and protein bar wrappers.

Wilde put the car in park and emptied it out. He wasn’t a germophobe, but he was glad that she had antibacterial lotion in the glove compartment. He looked back at Ava’s house. Would she call back the big guy with the bigger beard? Doubt it.

He didn’t regret his time with Ava. Not in the slightest. In fact, there had been a strange pang when he first saw her, something akin to... longing? Maybe it was justification or rationalization, but the fact that he couldn’t connect long term didn’t mean he didn’t appreciate new experiences with new people. He never wanted to hurt them, but maybe it was even worse to patronize them or hand them some bullshit line. He settled on being completely truthful, not sugarcoating it, not being too faux protective.

Wilde slept outside. Even on those nights.

It was hard to explain why, so sometimes he would leave a note, sneak back to the woods for a few hours, and then be back by the morning. Wilde couldn’t fall asleep when someone else was with him.

It was that simple.

Outside he dreamt a lot about his mother.

Or maybe it wasn’t his mother. Maybe it was another woman in that house with the red banister. He didn’t know. But in the dream, his mother — call her that for now — was beautiful, with long auburn hair and emerald eyes and the voice of an angel. Was this what his mother really looked like? The image was a bit too perfect, perhaps more delusion than reality. It could be something he just conjured up or had even seen on TV.

Memory makes demands that you often can’t keep. Memory is faulty because it insists on filling in the blanks.

His phone rang. It was Hester.

“Did you talk to Ava O’Brien?” Hester asked.

“Yes.”

“Are you proud of me for not prying about how you know her?”

“You’re the model of discretion.”