A little sleuthing around the internet gave Lisa a pretty good idea about this small town, which had emerged as a logging hub in the early twentieth century but had since fallen on hard times. It was a little too far north, past Sonoma and Napa Valleys, to make it a weekend destination for wealthy tourists from San Francisco. It lay right in the middle of what was known as the Emerald Triangle, a vast area in Northern California famous for its cannabis production—both legal and illegal.
What was Scott doing up there when he was eighteen?
A few days later, when all three families were together, she floated the idea of taking a trip to wine country.
“Wouldn’t that be great, Marcus?” she asked in front of everyone. “I’ve never been to Northern California. I mean, not past San Francisco. Have you?” She turned to Aimee when she asked this.
Aimee shook her head. “Never been west of the Mississippi, but I’d love to go. Maybe when the kids are older.”
“How about you, Scott?” Lisa asked.
“Have I ever been west of the Mississippi?” He smiled. “Well, I grew up in New Mexico, so that’s a yes.” He winked at her and took a swig of his beer. It was a non-answer. Lisa pushed a little.
“What about Northern California? Any interest in seeingwine country, or going even farther up the coast, maybe see the redwoods? It’s supposed to be beautiful up there.”
This was the moment when he could say,Oh, I’ve been there. I worked up there one summer.Or some other plausible explanation.
“Love to. One day I’d like to drive all the way up the coast from L.A. to San Francisco and then up to Eureka. Maybe even keep going to Crater Lake in Oregon.” He turned to Aimee. “One day we’ll do that together.”
“You never visited California playing baseball?” Aimee asked Scott. She turned to everyone. “Scott started at third base on his high school varsity team.” She beamed at him.
“Nope. Never traveled that far. We drove all over the state, and we did end up in Arizona more than a few times, but not California.”
The conversation moved on to road trips, to must-see national parks, and the difficulties of traveling with children. But Lisa zoned out. All she could think about was that Scott was lying. He had been to California, all right.
She could barely contain her impatience waiting for Marcus and Kai to leave the house the following Monday morning. She had cleared her schedule, switching her appointments around so she would have the whole day to spend online if needed.
She settled into her desk chair with a can of Yerba Mate and fired up her computer. On the desk was an 8×10 photo of her and Marcus standing with Aimee and Scott at Tikki Night at the school a few years ago. They had smiles on their faces, leis around their necks, and a glossy sheen, thanks to hours spent dancing. Lisa had gone to Michaels and bought an unfinished wooden frame, which she had painted and glued letters to at the bottom.#SLAM TIME!
She turned the photo facedown so Scott wasn’t staring at her. SLAM was over. Gwen had ruined it. There was no going back. She began googling and it didn’t take long to find what she was looking for.
The tiny newspaper story was written the same year Scott was in California. She leaned forward in her chair, as if getting closer to her computer screen might bring her closer to the truth about Scott. There was something here, all right. But what was it? The story was buried in the middle of the Metro section of theRedwood Independent, a local paper that had closed in 2010, but lucky for her, had been archived online.
AUTHORITIESSEARCH FORMISSINGSTUDENTATHLETESthe headline read.
Police are asking anyone who knows the whereabouts of Michael Finch, 18, and Dexter Kohl, 18, to contact authorities immediately. Both young men are seniors at Mad River Regional High School, where Finch and Kohl were co-captains on the school’s regional championship-winning baseball team. They were last seen together on Friday, Sept. 20, parking at a trailhead in Mad River, embarking on a three-day backpacking trip. Anyone with information is asked to call the authorities.
Lisa sat back in her seat and re-read the article twice. The mention of baseball convinced her that Scott was connected to this story somehow. She wasn’t sure what it all meant, but she had a feeling it was going to be good news for her, and very bad for Scott.
25
NOW
Sometimes husbands don’t come home for the night.
Aimee stares at the phone. Did the 9–1–1 dispatcher really just say that to her? The woman didn’t say it in a cruel way—there was no mocking undertone, no sneer in her voice. She was gentle, as if she had heard it all and was trying to reassure Aimee.
“He’s been gone what, four hours?” the dispatcher asks.
“I know that doesn’t seem like a long time to you, but trust me, I know my husband. He’s not answering his phone.” Aimee is pacing the kitchen as she says this. She was able to keep it together while getting all three kids to bed, but now, in the empty, quiet house, her anxiety has taken hold. “He could be hurt somewhere, his car in a ditch.”
“And you’ve called all the local hospitals?”
“Yes, I told you that already.” She catches herself. She doesn’t want to take out her frustration on this woman, who is only doing her job. “Sorry. I know you’re trying to help. But he was supposed to pick up our daughter. He wouldn’t just not show up.”
“Look, we can fill out a missing persons report if you’d like.”
“I would, yes.” Aimee answers a barrage of questions. Name: Scott Crowder. Height: six-one. Hair: brown. Eyes: brown. No distinguishing scars or tattoos.