Харлан Кобен - The Boy from the Woods

“My God...”

Cheryl Carmichael was all over social media. Her Instagram account had more than 800,000 followers. Her vertical Instagram bio or whatever you called it read:

Public Figure

Fitness Model

Influencer and Free Spirit

“I love life!”

#Over60andFabulous

Gag me , Hester thought.

Under the bio was an email address to write “For Inquiries.” Inquiries? What kind of inquiries? Hester’s mind spiraled down a prurient hole until she realized that by “inquiries” she meant paid endorsements. Yes, for real.

Companies paid Cheryl to pose with their products.

Looking at the photos on display made Hester’s stomach knot. Cheryl, who used to have flowing locks down to the middle of her back — Hester remembered her at the Little League field in tight shorts and a tighter top, the dads pretending not to stare — now sported that mod, short, spiky hair. Her physique, which was on display in many risqué pictures with hashtags reading #bikinibabe #fitgoals #squats #loveyourself #beachbum, was all that and more.

Ugh. Cheryl Carmichael was still a knockout.

Hester’s mobile rang. She checked the number and saw it was from Wilde.

“Articulate,” she said.

“What are you doing?”

“Making myself feel immensely inadequate.”

“Pardon?”

“Never mind. What’s up?”

“Did the phone company get back to you?” Wilde asked.

He was talking about Naomi’s phone. “They’re monitoring it. So far, no activity.”

“Meaning the phone is off?”

“Yes.”

“Can they tell when and where it was powered off?”

“I’ll check. Did you talk to Matthew last night?”

“Yeah.”

“And?”

“And it might be better if you talk to him directly.”

Wilde didn’t want to betray Matthew’s trust. Hester understood.

“There is one other thing you can do for me,” Wilde said.

“I’m not much in the mood to put a lot of resources on this. I mean, unless you have some real evidence Naomi didn’t just run away.”

“Fair enough,” Wilde said. “Can you make one more call to Naomi’s mother?”

He briefly filled her in on his conversation with Ava O’Brien the art teacher.

“So if the mother took the kid, wouldn’t she tell the father?” Hester asked.

“Who knows. A quick call to the mom might put it to rest. If you’re too busy—”

“What, you’re going to call? What would you say? ‘Hi, I’m a single male in my late thirties looking for your daughter’?”

“Good point.”

“I’ll do it.”

“You okay, Hester?”

She was staring at a photograph of Cheryl Carmichael in a one-piece that could be a cover shot for the Sports Illustrated swimsuit issue. “I’m average at best.”

“You sound grouchier than usual.”

“Maybe,” she said. “Where are you?”

“Still at the high school. I want to try to question the Maynard kid.”

Wilde hung up the call with Hester and turned to Ava.

“You sure about this?”

“Yes.”

“It might blow back on you.”

Ava shrugged. “I’m out at the end of the year anyway. All the part-timers are. Budget cuts.”

“Sorry.”

She waved it away. “It’s time I moved back to Maine anyway.”

They’d stayed in the same art room. Wilde had slowly circled, checking out the various student works throughout the room. It was, in some ways, the greatest museum he’d ever seen. There were drawings and watercolors and sculptures and mobiles and pottery and jewelry, and while the talent level was naturally all over the place, the heart and creativity were never less than mesmerizing.

They stood by the door and waited for the final bell.

“This wasn’t an art room when I was here,” he said.

“What was it?”

“Shop with Mr. Cece.”

She smiled. “Did you make a lamp or footstool?”

“Lamp.”

“Where is it now?”

He had given it to the Brewers, his foster-cum-adoptive parents who retired to a gated community in Jupiter, Florida. Wilde and his foster sister Rola had helped the Brewers move in eight years ago, renting a U-Haul for the long drive down Interstate 95. Rola kept wanting to stop at roadside oddities along the way, like the UFO Welcome Center in South Carolina and America’s smallest church in Georgia.

Wilde hadn’t been back to Florida since.

When the bell trilled, Wilde slipped into a supply closet. Ava stood near the door to the corridor.

Two minutes later, Crash Maynard came in. “You wanted to see me, Miss O’Brien?”

Wilde left the closet door open a crack so he could watch.

Ava said, “Yes, thank you.”

Crash touched a clay sculpture standing by the stool.

“That’s still drying,” Ava warned him.

“I don’t get why you paged me. I haven’t taken an art class since freshman year.”

“This isn’t about art. Why don’t you have a seat?”

“My mom’s waiting for me, so—”

“Do you know where Naomi Pine is?”

Wilde liked that. No reason to play around.

“Me?” Crash said it as though the very notion that he might know was the most shocking and incomprehensible concept ever uttered. “Why would I know?”

“You and Naomi are classmates.”

“Yeah, but...”

“But?”

Crash gave a chuckle that seemed both nervous and cocky at the same time. “We aren’t exactly friends or anything.”

“But you talk.”

“No, we don’t.”

Ava folded her arms. “Why should she tell me that you did?”

“Naomi said that?”

“Yes.”

Crash gave it a second. You could see the wheels turning as an aw-shucks smile spread across his face. “I shouldn’t say this.”

“But?”

“I think Naomi might have a thing for me.”

“And if she did?”

“Well, I mean, if she said we talked” — shrug — “I don’t know, maybe she was trying to show off or something.”

“Show off?”

“Yeah. Or, I don’t know, I’m nice to her and all. So, like, if she says hi to me, I say hi back.”

“Wow,” Ava said. “That is nice.”

The sarcasm went right over his head. “But really we don’t have any serious interaction. You know what I mean?”

“I think I do,” Ava said. “Now tell me about the night Matthew ghosted her or whatever you call it at your house.”

Silence.

“Crash?”

He lifted his phone into view and touched a button. Wilde didn’t like that. “My mom is texting me, Ms. O’Brien.”

“Okay.”

“I have to go.”

“Answer my question first.”

“Yeah, I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Yes, you do. Naomi told me—”

“She told you?”

“Yes—”

“Then there’s no reason to ask me about it,” Crash said, which, Wilde had to admit, was a pretty decent rejoinder. “I’d better leave now, Ms. O’Brien.”

“I want to know—”

Crash spun toward her, getting a little too close. “I don’t know anything about Naomi Pine!” The aw-shucks tone was gone. “Nothing!”

Ava didn’t back away. “You saw her that night.”

“So what if I did? She was on my property.”

“Why did you tell Matthew Crimstein to prank her?”

“Did Matthew tell you that?” He shook his head. “Look, I’m allowed to leave, right? You can’t force me to stay, can you?”

“No, of course not—”

“Then I’m out of here.”

Wilde figured, Why not? He opened the closet door and said, “I can stop you.” He crossed the room and positioned himself so that his back was against the door, literally blocking the teen’s exit. Ava shot him a look and shook her head. The look and headshake both said that this wasn’t the way to handle it.