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  He did so with no words, the sweetness of his tender actions speaking for him, as was typical. I shuddered with quiet sobs; the warm water rippled over us as Case held me with one strong hand on the small of my back. Once I was sufficiently soaked, he replaced the showerhead and lathered me with coconut-scented soap from the pump bottle shoved in a corner of our tiny bathtub. His touch was so very gentle; the water was now blocked by his broad back, his red-gold hair damp from the over-spray, droplets purling on his chest muscles. I studied his face, this man I had loved in many lifetimes. I knew not to question this truth; it just was. He carefully rinsed my skin, running the showerhead up and down my body. At last he bent to one knee, grasping my hips with both hands.

  He rested his cheek on my belly, near my navel, and I looked down at him kneeling there, feeling like my heart might crack apart. His skin had paled with the winter months; even his wide shoulders were lightly scattered with small auburn freckles. I had spent many an hour kissing every last one. I slipped my fingers in his wet hair and held him close to my body, wishing I never had to let go, that we could stand here in the warm water, touching like this, until the earth simply turned to dust around us. There were so many fucking dangers out there; I battled an encompassing sense of vulnerability and dread. My knees nearly buckled. It was too much – this week had been too much.

  “Thank you,” I whispered after a time, and Case gave me his sweet smile.

  “C’mon, baby, I’ll make us some breakfast,” he whispered.

  Chapter Thirteen

  I HADN’T YET TOLD MY FATHER I BELIEVED ROBBIE HAD been murdered – for one thing, it was so bizarre. And it hurt so much to consider this truth. The very notion remained sticky in my mind, coated by unreality, like something watched in a popular but disturbing television show. And secondly, I didn’t think Dad could handle this theory, nor would he have any context for accepting it unless I told him far more than I currently considered prudent. Besides, Dad was too worried about Ruthie to discuss anything else; he was ready to catch the next flight to Montana.

  “Your mother knows more than she’s telling me,” Dad said when we spoke on the phone, and he sounded as though he was barely hanging on; my heart bumped in sympathy. As angry as I was with my father of late, I acknowledged the sincerity of his pain.

  “She doesn’t,” I said, with gentle insistence; guilty irony hammered at me, as I was the one who knew more than I was telling him. “Dad, we’re all in shock but there’s nothing you can do here. And there’s an investigation underway.” Sheriffs from both Montana and North Dakota were on the case, as we’d been informed yesterday. Of course they wouldn’t find a thing; even if I shouted the truth to the mountaintops visible out my back window, no law enforcement officers would believe a word. How could they?

  I realized Dad was crying and my stomach plunged. I pleaded, “Dad, it’s all right.”

  “It’s not all right!” he yelled. “My baby is missing. My baby girl is missing.”

  Dad gave over to weeping. He wasn’t normally one for overt emotional displays and a small part of me reflected Dad really did love us; maybe the shallow, jerk-like things he routinely did, such as sleeping with married women and cheating on his wife, weren’t the real him. I thought, Please don’t let him be involved in Ron’s illegal shit. Please…

  “It all went wrong when you moved to Landon,” Dad mumbled, as though thinking aloud. His nose was plugged, I could tell, and I could hardly bear to listen to him sound this way, my ultra-confident and poised father. As though I didn’t know what he meant, he continued passionately, “When Joelle took you girls from me and I had no more control of your lives. Your mother set a terrible example, marrying that goddamn criminal, letting Camille get pregnant and you and Ruthann run wild.”

  “Dad!” I half-yelled. “Stop. This isn’t Mom’s fault. How can you think that? We didn’t run wild. And Blythe isn’t a criminal, he’s a really –”

  “He’s an ex-convict!” Dad railed, interrupting me. I pictured him roughing up his perfect hair, standing it on end. “If not for your mother’s influence, you’d be a lawyer in Chicago where you belong, working for a successful firm instead of wasting your life in that godforsaken cow town.”

  “Dad!” I yelled again, aggravated by his preposterous insults, and Case came into the bedroom from the kitchen, concerned about the level of anger in my tone. I forced myself to inhale a deep breath, holding the phone outward so my husband could hear the steady stream of Dad’s frustrated rage.

  It finally occurred to Dad that I wasn’t listening and he demanded, “Patricia!”

  I brought the phone cautiously to my ear. “I’m here.” With my eyes I told Case it was all right, and he nodded and left me alone in the room.

  “I’m sorry,” Dad whispered after a pause. “I haven’t been to work since last week. I’m a fucking mess. Are you coming to Robbie’s funeral?”

  “I don’t know,” I hedged.

  “Please come,” Dad said. He never pleaded and it struck me deeply. The last thing I wanted to do was venture to Chicago, let alone be in the same physical space as Ron Turnbull. Would the son of a bitch actually show up at Robbie’s service? But of course he would, I reflected; Robbie had been his employee, his acquisition. It would be in the poorest of poor taste to avoid the funeral. If I was there maybe I could discover who was in possession of Robbie’s phone. I could look into Ron’s calculating eyes and judge for myself if he was capable of murder in addition to shady business deals and probably a thousand other crimes that would never be discovered.

  But is it too risky? What if Ron tries to hurt you?

  He can reach you in Montana just as easily. If that fucker wants to harm you or anyone you love, he can do so whether you’re in Chicago or Jalesville.

  My spine felt like cold, slimy jelly at this realization.

  Dad whispered, “I would really like to see you. And call me if anything new happens, if anyone learns a thing.”

  “I will, Dad,” I promised, and hung up before he could say another word.

  I dialed Camille immediately after. She knew where I thought Ruthie really was and that Marshall had gone after her. I imagined my older sister, whose face and voice were an irreplaceable part of my earliest memories. Camille and I understood things that our mother, as dear and open-minded as she was, could not. Further, Camille and her husband, Mathias Carter, had plenty of proof that the past was alive, all around us, even if we were not always aware; they were certain they’d loved each other in numerous other lives. My sister picked up after the third ring and I could hear the usual activity of her busy household in the background as she answered by asking, “Any news?”

  “No.” I sank to the edge of the bed. “Nothing yet. I just talked to Dad.”

  “Shit,” my sister said in response, needing no further explanation. “He keeps calling Mom and does nothing but yell at her. She couldn’t stop crying yesterday. Blythe is so worried. Like he needs another reason to hate Dad! It’s been so horrible the past few days.”

  “I miss you,” I whispered. “I just want to see you.”

  “I know, I miss you too.” In her best big-sister voice she demanded, “Are you taking care of yourself? Getting enough rest? I called Case last night to make sure and he said you were eating and sleeping, and I don’t think he’d lie to me…”

  “He wouldn’t. And I am, I promise.”

  “I’m so sorry about your friend in Chicago.” Camille paused and in the background I could hear Lorie, her second-youngest, singing a song to the baby; the sound was one of total innocence and made my stomach cramp even worse. My sister whispered in a rush, “Tish, I’m so scared. I’ve been…oh God, I’ve been having nightmares again. I can’t even tell Thias because I know he’d be too worried, and we all have too much to worry about right now.” She used her special nickname for Mathias and I knew she referred to the terrible dreams that had plagued her years ago, before their wedding. Dreams in which Mathias died too early, th
eir souls subsequently torn from one another’s.

  “I’ve been having the same kind of nightmares,” I confessed. “Like everything is insubstantial, like it could all just disappear from beneath us and there’s nothing we can do to stop it.”

  “Don’t say that,” Camille begged. I swore I could see her despite the distance separating us; she turned abruptly away from the peaceful wintertime scene out the window of the century-old cabin Mathias had painstakingly restored for their family. I saw the way her eyes roved desperately over their children, as clearly as if I stood beside her; Millie Jo and the twins, Brantley and Henry, would be at school, but the little ones were home with her.

  And I saw the way my sister’s face tightened with agony as she imagined them disappearing, her life with her true love and the family they’d made simply vanishing irretrievably, like water down a crack in the earth. She could crawl after it, scrape at the ground until her fingernails tore away, but that water would not come back in this lifetime. Camille’s horror was so intense I felt it as strongly as if I’d been struck in the mouth with a closed fist.

  “Milla,” I said sharply, using her oldest nickname. “Listen to me. Ruthie went back for a reason we can’t understand, but we have to trust it was for something important.” And I was certain of this, selfishly letting it comfort me even as my heart ached for our little sister, our sweet Ruthann. What was being asked of her, wherever she was right now? I whispered, with considerable awe, “Imagine if she’s meeting all of them as we speak. Cole Spicer and Grant Rawley…”

  “And Malcolm,” my sister whispered. “Malcolm is there too, I know he is. Oh God, she could have spoken with him…”

  “She’ll tell him how happy you are,” I said. “Oh, Milla, he’ll finally know.”

  I could hear her muffled weeping and pictured her pressing one hand to her mouth. She gulped and struggled for control, finally whispering, “Oh God, I pray so. I mean, you know I don’t really pray, but you know what I mean.”

  “I do. Of course I do.”

  “I’m trying to accept all of this, I really am. But what if Ruthie can’t get back? What if she’s stuck there or Marshall doesn’t find her? I’ve been trying so hard not to think like that, but I have that feeling again, like I did back in 2006, that something horrible is right around the bend, right behind me. Oh God, Tish…” She turned back to the frosty window in her living room, I didn’t know how I knew this, but I saw her in my mind’s eye as she touched her fingertips to its smooth surface, hoping the shock of the cold glass would restore her senses. I moved at once to the window that faced east, toward Minnesota, and pressed my fingertips against the pane, too. I imagined our hands making contact across the distance.

  “I can feel you out there,” Camille whispered. “You’re touching the window, aren’t you?”

  I nodded, knowing she heard me even without words.

  Case and I flew into O’Hare in the evening hours of Friday the twenty-first. We descended through a cloudbank that seemed a mile thick, Case with his shoulders tensed and lips clamped (he hated flying), while I sat near the tiny window and fought off sickly waves of claustrophobia. I had never been one for worrying on a flight, but each turbulent dip, however minute, seemed ominous. After much deliberation, Case had agreed to us making the trip; I felt I owed it to Robbie, even though he’d never know either way, and I wanted to see Ron Turnbull with my own eyes, wanted to get a read on his despicable face.

  Fat chance. He’s a goddamn lawyer.

  “I can’t believe I ever wanted to live here,” I murmured to my husband, clutching his arm as we entered the enormous gateway where Dad and Lanny, his wife, were supposed to be waiting. O’Hare was overwhelming with noise and bustle, same as always, and even though the city was not visible through the towering glass windows I was already homesick for Jalesville and our trailer with its view of the foothills, where the sun set over the pine-studded ridge and I could journey out to the barn in the twilight, the cats at my ankles, to give Cider and Buck one last pat, one last kiss on a velvet nose, before bed.

  “It makes me want to throw you over my shoulder and get us the hell out of here,” Case agreed, his gaze sweeping the humming crowd. He leaned down and nuzzled my hair, murmuring, “I miss the horses already.”

  “I was just thinking about them.”

  “You sit, baby, and I’ll get our bag.” We were flying home on Sunday, the day after the funeral. Case had just disappeared in the direction of the baggage claim when I spied my father hurrying through the crowd.

  Dad, I thought painfully.

  He reached me before I managed to stand, hauling me into a hug, rocking me side to side, cupping the back of my head the way he used to when I was a little girl. I remembered the last time I’d met Dad here at the airport, last July when I’d flown from Montana to take the bar exam, when I’d been obsessively wearing Case’s jean jacket, before I’d admitted my feelings for him. That particular summer day, my father had appeared his usual tasteful self, clad in meticulous designer duds and with his dark curls artfully styled. He looked terrible this evening, like maybe he hadn’t showered in a couple of days, wearing faded old jeans and – I did an instant double take – ratty tennis shoes, these paired with his black Givenchy leather coat. In that instant I knew Lanny had left him.

  “Tish,” he said quietly. There were shadows beneath his eyes and he hadn’t shaved in a week. He was almost unrecognizable. “I’m so glad you’re here, hon. Where’s Case?”

  “He went to get our bag.” I decided not to ask about Lanny just now.

  “How are you feeling?” Dad asked. He rocked back on his heels and for a second I was afraid he might tumble over. I was so concerned I reached for his wrists, intending to hold him steady; he misunderstood and caught my hands in his, tears welling in his eyes.

  I said, “Dad,” hearing the way my voice sounded higher than usual, as if I’d suddenly reverted to a preteen pitch.

  “I’m all right,” he said, understanding the frightened question I’d asked with that one word, but his tone contradicted the reassurance.

  Case returned, toting our suitcase, which he set to the side and reached to shake hands with Dad; the last time they’d been in each other’s company was the night of the fire in our barn, when Dad had met Case for the first time. Dad surprised both of us when he disregarded Case’s extended hand and hugged him instead. Dad wasn’t quite as tall as my husband and I had the odd sense that Case was hugging a child rather than an adult, bestowing far more comfort than he received. It was the strangeness of the whole situation getting to me, the unreal quality of the entire trip.

  “Come on, let’s get you guys home.” Dad drew away and passed a hand over his eyes. He tried for a little of his old self as he added, “We can order takeout if you’re hungry, you two. Anywhere in the city, my treat.”

  “Thanks, Dad,” I said, sweating in my down-filled jacket. I felt protective of him, afraid for him, and it was a horrible feeling. I lied, “I am pretty hungry.”

  In the cab I did my best to keep a steady stream of conversation rolling; it was otherwise too excruciating to deal with Dad when he was like this. I felt all twisted up, sick inside at what Ruthie’s disappearance was doing to all of us. And Robbie weighed heavily on my mind, especially now that we were in the city where most of my memories of him were centered. I was grateful our route would not take us past the apartment I’d once shared with my fellow Northwestern classmates Grace and Ina, just a few doors down from the bar where the three of us routinely met Robbie for drinks – Robbie, with his gigantic ego and charming, effortless smile. Robbie, with his head full of spy movies and secret codes and David-and-Goliath-like visions of grandeur.

  A planet-sized sphere of despair was waiting to descend onto my shoulders but I fought it away. Despite the February chill I was sweating in triple-time now. I told Case, clinging to the security of his hand, “That’s where I went to grade school, that building over there.” He lifted my hand and
kissed my knuckles, and I could sense him marveling anew that I had once been a part of the bright glare of this city, that I had once called it home. I shuddered at the thought; referring to the little brick elementary school in Jalesville, I said, “Blooming Rock seems a lot friendlier, doesn’t it?”

  Dad’s condo was more of the same, but I was prepared. I battled the sharp urge to gather up his dirty dishes and begin sorting laundry; I knew he employed a cleaning service, but still. It was a ghost town inside, no sign of Lanny, but since Dad wasn’t offering an explanation, I didn’t ask. By the time Case and I were blessedly alone in the spare room, chill and unwelcoming with its taupe designer sheets stretched crisply taut over a king-sized bed, I was about to crack apart. I locked the door and stripped almost aggressively free of every last scrap of clothing, tossing aside my bra with especial vengeance.

  “What the hell?” I muttered, cupping my breasts and massaging the red grooves left by the underwire. I swore they’d grown in circumference in the past week; I reasoned that my period was due any moment.

  Case sat on the edge of the mattress and held out his arms. I melted into his embrace and he took us backward onto the bed, resting his chin on the top of my head. I pressed my nose to his neck and curved my thigh over his hip, taking pleasure in the familiar scent of his skin; he wore a threadbare t-shirt and boxer-briefs, nothing else, his typical evening attire. He curled one hand beneath my bent knee, rubbing with his thumb, and whispered, “I’m here, baby. I’m right here.”

  “Oh God, what if he suffered?” I heard myself blubber, my voice a rough and choking whimper. “What if they hurt him before he died?”