“You gave your family the cover story?” He wanted to hear me say it again. For the third time.
“I’m taking a leave of absence to rethink my job. An extended road trip with some money I saved. Call them when I can, from wherever I am.” Rethinking my job had become my actual job lately, so it wasn’t much of a stretch.
“And you went over the FBI guidelines for undercover operations again?”
I let out an exasperated breath. “About a million times. And we went over it with your legal counsel, and I remember it from when I started the Roberts case.”
“Remember, everything has to be double-checked with me.”
“Except what I encounter in the field. Then I have to use my discretion. I got it. I know.”
He nodded, satisfied with my reply. “Cell phone reception can be spotty in Kelly’s Falls. The Wi-Fi can be as bad. Try to keep me updated daily. Hourly, if it comes to that.”
“I’ll follow you on Instagram,” I told him.
“Funny. We have all your social media accounts set up. Don’t go on Facebook; they use facial recognition software—you know, how they tag you in pictures? Don’t follow anyone you know from Buffalo. Don’t follow anything that can connect you back to Buffalo. We’ll be monitoring them.”
My poor follower-less accounts. I was starting out as a loser. “I’ll try to keep the selfies to a minimum.”
As Bill drove, I watched the scenery unfold, from the iron grays of the city to the dirty browns of a Western New York spring. The farther we got from the city and then the suburbs, the muddier and more barren the landscape looked. The hills rolled by out the window, dotted with farms. Farms with sagging snow fences and red grain silos. Farms that had cows. Cows that didn’t even turn their heads as we drove by; they just kept chewing at the ground, or staring off at each other, mouths working, working, working. I was on another planet. It was an alien landscape to me.
“I hope I can pass. I actually feel like I’m starting a new school for the first time,” I said, running my fingers through my choppy, unnaturally straightened brown hair.
“You’ll fit in. You look like a million bucks, kid. And look on the bright side. It’s March eighteenth now; only a few more weeks and you get to go on spring break.”
“Only if you foot the bill,” I countered.
“Imagine that line in my expense report.” Bill chuckled and glanced around. “Looks like we’re here.”
The town was bigger than I expected. Bill pointed out various landmarks to me as we rolled over a bridge onto a wide street lined with brand-new old-fashioned lampposts. I saw a pizza place, a McDonald’s, even a large shopping plaza with a Target and a grocery store. He took a left, past a car dealership/body shop, and then another right. I was getting the full tour. We passed the high school and the athletic field across from it where the Kelly’s Falls football team played in the fall and the baseball team played in the spring.
Circling back toward the bridge, Bill drove through the Main Street area. “The townies refer to this as downtown,” Bill told me, slowly cruising past cutesy boutiques, a coffee shop full of people, and a very fancy bank building, probably built in the 1920s, restored to its art deco glory.
“Kelly’s Falls even has a country club,” Bill announced, as if that would make me giddy with joy.
“It’s a nice town,” I admitted, peering into a bridal shop with a gorgeous white beaded dress in the window. “Nicer than I expected.”
“What did you expect?”
I shrugged. “Something from Deliverance.”
He turned the car around in a deli parking lot and went back the way we came. “I’d take you to the crime scene, but we don’t want you connected to us in any way. You’re on your own. This place has been crawling with cops, reporters, troopers, Feds, you name it, since the girls disappeared. So these people are suspicious of everyone. Got it?”
“Nothing like sticking an undercover operative in to spy on them, right?”
“Welcome to post-nine/eleven America.”
“It feels dirty, somehow.” I crossed my arms against my chest. “I still don’t like it, lying to these people.”
Bill laughed. “You sure fit the roll. You’re as crabby and opinionated as my own kid.”
I suppressed the overwhelming urge to stick my tongue out at him.
We rolled off Main Street and down a side road lined with pretty, well-kept houses. I watched as he pulled into the driveway of a three-story, white Victorian with an impressive wraparound porch that sat at the corner of a crossroads.
On one corner stood Theresa Parker’s Boardinghouse, announced by its hand-painted sign hanging from a post on the lawn. On the other side of the street, directly across, was the police station. It was a square, squat one-story structure with glass block windows and a massive double door right in the center, dividing the building perfectly in two.
On the other side of the crossroads stood the volunteer fire station, with its red-brick facade, complete with an old-fashioned fire bell out front. It was the kind that looked like a big metal hoop. The firefighters would bang on it with a hammer before sirens were invented to wake the town. The only reason I knew that was because my uncle had been chief of a volunteer fire company when I was a kid, out in the suburbs, and I used to climb on the “bell” when they had family parties at the fire hall.
I wondered if they had banged the bell the night the girls went missing.
“This is some town,” I said, reaching for the door handle.
“It’s one of those quiet towns the tabloid TV shows love, where nothing ever happens, except when the city folks come down for hunting season and shoot each other, drunk in the woods.” He swung his door open. “Take my word for it, small towns have the worst secrets, the most skeletons. Let’s see if you can dig up a few.”
He helped me extract my four overstuffed suitcases and shuffle them to the front porch. I looked up. Standing in the doorway was a gray-haired woman in her seventies. She reminded me of those ladies you see in the adult-diaper ads, all smiles and apple pie.
“Welcome! Welcome, Miss Anderson. I’m Theresa Parker,” she called, pushing forward to grab a bag. “Your Uncle Roy has told me so much about you. I’m so sorry to hear about your parents, dear. Tragic—that’s what it is.” She swung one of my bags up onto the porch with surprising ease. “But you look hungry, so you go on upstairs and get settled, and I’ll make you something to eat.”
She grabbed another bag, swung it up, and then stuck her head inside the doorway. “Henry!” she called. “Come down here and carry Miss Anderson’s bags.” She gave me a pat on the arm and disappeared down the hallway.
“One last thing,” Bill said quietly, coming up next to me. “I want you to remember you are not a cop here. You’re just here to get us some leads. Whoever we’re dealing with is dangerous. No unnecessary risks. You’re to consult with me on everything, got it?”
“Go home, Bill. I’ll call you in the morning.”
“Good-bye. You just be careful.” He glanced toward the stairs for a moment, turned, and left.
I stood there on the porch for a second, not knowing what to do, as Bill’s car pulled out of the driveway. Then a man appeared at the top of the stairs in an old flannel shirt and overalls. He looked like he was in his early sixties, painfully thin, with wild, white hair. Marching down the steps, he scooped up three of my bags at once. “I have bad knees,” he said gruffly. His left front tooth was chipped clean in half, giving him a slight lisp. “You’ll have to carry the big one.”