Jeremy Finley - The Darkest Time of Night

“I care, Tom, because Ginger Roth from church died from lung cancer last year.”

“Tell me about the doctor. Did he get Brian to talk?”

“No, Tom, he didn’t. He wants Brian to come every day and do some experimental therapy to hopefully open him up to discuss what happened. But he thinks the same thing the police think: that whatever Brian saw stunned him into silence.”

“Experimental therapy? My God, we don’t have time for experiments. It’s been almost twenty-four hours, Lynn. You heard what the detectives said. Every minute that passes means our chance of finding William diminishes. Brian needs to talk. He’s the only one with answers. I should have gone.”

His used that tone primarily when he was in Washington, with everyone from his staffers to Republican adversaries. It indicated that he knew everything about which he spoke. There was no room for debate.

“If you had gone, you would have ended up in a shouting match with the doctor. So no, Tom, you shouldn’t have gone. I know you want this to end—”

“So I can get back to Washington and the VP offer? That’s not true, Lynn.”

“I didn’t say that.”

“But you were thinking it.”

“This is my fault. I’m the one who allowed that photographer to take his picture and put it on the cover of that magazine. My God, what was I thinking? I just wished I’d known the truth.”

“If this magazine had anything to do with William’s disappearance, I will live with that for the rest of my life. It’s not your fault. It’s nobody’s fault but my own. It was my idea. Even Kate didn’t know. I didn’t think it would do any harm. I keep saying it, over and over again. I know the agents are tired of hearing me say it.”

“But if you’d just told us about the formal offer to run for vice president the night William disappeared, how could anyone else have known?”

“It’s the worst-kept secret in Washington. And the FBI does not hesitate to point out that you could fill a phone book with the names of the people who hate me.”

I actually sat in during the first meeting with the investigators from the government and local police, but became so upset I had to leave in the middle of it. When the vice agents began to talk about the desire of pedophiles, I couldn’t hear anymore.

The likely culprit was someone who had staked out the family, the investigators believed. It was no random act. Someone either had become fascinated with William from the article, or wanted the deepest revenge possible on my husband.

“Could someone hate you that much?”

Tom’s face took on a weary look. “Shall I begin stateside or overseas?”

“I can’t believe someone in the United States would do this for political reasons.”

“I never thought it was possible either, Lynn. I still can’t fathom it. But people are so angry now, they are so fired up by the pundits on both sides… All it would take is one crazy zealot who listened to one of the conservative commentators call me an enemy of the state. The FBI played it back to me, a recording of what’s-his-name, the bigheaded guy, looking at the screen, pointing. ‘Take back your country. Do whatever you have to do stop Roseworth and his liberal agenda. Don’t let him into the White House. Do whatever you have to do.’ All it would take is one nut job to come up with the idea to hurt my family. Because that’s about the only thing that would cause me to turn my back on politics forever. They know that.”

“This certainly can’t be an act of terrorism.”

Tom twitched his lips. It meant he was craving a cigarette.

“Terrorism… do they really think…?”

“It’s been tense in DC. It’s by design that I don’t bring you or the kids there anymore. I have almost constant security now.”

“Since when?”

“Since I started coming down hardcore on needing more ground troops in the Middle East. I knew it would be controversial when a Democrat called for it, but I didn’t expect to become public enemy number one. ISIS obviously hasn’t taken responsibility for William—that would have been plastered all over the internet. But domestic terrorism is a different story. We’ve seen what these extremists have done. It’s all about seeking revenge. And there’ve been no calls, no letters, nothing demanding a ransom for William. I’ve had every theory thrown out to me by either the CIA or the FBI, and I get a real feeling they don’t know a damn thing.”

The lights. Tell him about the lights. What you heard, what you did all those years ago.

Instead, I nearly threw up, something I’d never done in my life, despite living through countless stomach flus with the girls. I hadn’t even vomited with Anne, my only girl who had prompted late-term morning sickness. Anne’s pregnancy had been so different than the others….

“Lynn, listen to me.” Tom placed his hands on my shoulders, leaning in close. “I need you. I need you to be the person you’ve always been for us. We need you to be solid, to be unwavering, to be calm. No more outbursts like the other morning, asking if the magazine spread was a setup. I can’t have you acting like that. Anne and Chris need you to be supportive and encouraging. Brian and Greg need their grandmother to be loving, not frazzled. Greg especially is having a hard time. Being nine-years-old and having one brother missing and the other refusing to talk is weighing heavily on him. Kate and Stella are tough, but they need their mother too. And I… I need my rock. The person I can depend on for everything.”

He pulled me into a tight embrace.

And with that, I decided to keep lying.

It was Roxy who broke me free. Leaving the house wasn’t an option, with investigators and police still combing the woods, and Tom receiving hourly updates on no potential leads. All this meant there was no way to avoid the cameras, the calls from earnest-sounding producers from the Today Show and Good Morning America , the neighbors bringing food and insisting they were refusing all sorts of financial offers from the tabloids to gain access to a better view of our house.

Roxy showed up late in the evening. She scowled at the photographers who’d flicked on their lights to capture her arrival in her pickup truck, took one look at me pacing in the kitchen, and ushered me out the back door towards the Rose Peddler.

Our garden shop was already closed on Sunday anyway, but she’d made a sign that read “Closed Indefinitely. This means you, National Enquirer .”

As Roxy unlocked the door, the familiar smell of the lavender candles and fertilizer brought the first moment of peace I’d had since Anne’s frantic phone call two days ago. I inhaled deeply as she led me out to the back to the small screened-in porch we added on a few years ago as a place for me to read magazines and for Roxy to drink margaritas after a long day.

“No one can see you here. No reporters, no investigators, no husband or children. Turn on Nina while I pour the tequila.”

“My God, Roxy, I can’t do this. What if the police find something, what if Anne needs me, and I certainly can’t have alcohol—”

“Sister, that tequila is for me. I wouldn’t waste it on you, you’re drunk off half a glass of wine. And you know as well as I do that your phone is in your pocket set on the loudest ringtone possible. Tom saw me haul you out, he knows where you are. We need to talk, and we need to do it in private. And your house happens to be crawling with the FBI at this moment. Simone. Now.”

I reached over and pushed play on the ancient, yellow CD player. The piano rift that began “I Want a Little Sugar In My Bowl” was barely audible above the cicadas outside. As Nina Simone began to sing about her heartbreaking longing, Roxy returned from the mini refrigerator with a margarita in a pouch, something she routinely stocked up on at the liquor store.