Page 36

CHAPTER 36

I KNEW WHAT I was seeing even from a hundred yards away. This was a candlelight vigil. The soft radiance of the lights on the faces of families gathered in the night, some of whom had brought their dogs on leashes, might at first have made someone think, Street party. But it was silent. Reverent. Expressions were serious. Children were wide-eyed, nervous. Troy and I watched as a couple pushing a stroller turned the corner and walked toward the vigil, a framed photograph of Daisy tucked under the guy’s arm.

“They’re not going to let you get to your driveway,” I said. “Let’s just go. You can crash at my place.”

“No,” Troy said. “Just drive me home.”

“Troy.”

“It’s my house.” He sat up in his seat. “I’m tired, and I want to go home.”

“You assholes were supposed to keep the public back,” I snapped at the checkpoint cops. “What’s the point of blocking off the street if you’re going to allow something like this?”

“We can’t stop people who live on the street from inviting their friends over,” one of the cops said. He looked at Troy. “Your neighbor across the way organized this. Says there should be about two hundred guests coming. She can’t remember all their names, though.”

They laughed as I rolled up my window and drove through. Troy was gripping his seat belt tight.

“Mrs. Drummond,” he said. “I backed my work truck into her mailbox once. She’s never forgiven me.”

We drove slowly toward the mass of people. Some of Troy’s neighbors were sitting on their porches or standing on their lawns in small groups. Some were arranging flowers and teddy bears and photographs of Daisy in a huge mound in the Hansens’ front yard. People turned to look at us, pointed, whispered. The wall of bodies shifted, blocking the road.

I pulled over as close as I could get to Troy’s house. We both got out. I couldn’t let him walk into that scene alone.

The crowd was so silent, I could hear the crickets chirping nearby. I had a strange instinct to take Troy’s hand or arm, but I didn’t want to appear to be either a girlfriend or someone leading him unwillingly. White lights — photo flashes, phone flashlights — sparked to life between the golden candle flames. Dozens of cameras and hundreds of eyes watched us unsuccessfully try to skirt the edges of the crowd on the way to the house. The crowd shifted and swelled around us. In their midst, I could hear the whispers.

“Murderous pig ... ”

“Dirtbag piece of shit ... ”

“Where is her body ... ”

A little girl watched anxiously as we walked by. She shrank away from me, moved close to a woman’s leg as Troy passed her. “Mommy, is that him?”

At the back of the crowd were Daisy Hansen’s parents, Mark and Summer Rayburn; I recognized them from their public appeal. Her mother, Summer, lean and bronzed and fine-featured, was kneeling by the flower pile reading a letter pinned to a teddy. Daisy’s father, Mark, broad-chested and silver-haired, watched Troy and me work our way to the house.

Suddenly a woman stepped into Troy’s path. She was small with frizzy hair and dark-rimmed glasses. She held out the candle clutched in her fist like it was a microphone.

“Hey, Troy!” she snarled. “This is for Daisy.” She jabbed the candle at him.

Troy stumbled back as the hot wax hit his face. “Oh, shit!” he cried. The crowd was immediately divided — half the people trying to maintain calm and dignity, the other half hurling abuse and flicking their candles at us. Hot wax scorched my arm, neck, and face. The crowd became black silhouettes in the near dark. I shoved Troy through the press of bodies and up the driveway to his home.

The shouts of the crowd had grown too loud for me to hear Troy’s parting words before he shut the door, but he’d looked tired and afraid. I went back down the driveway, thankful that only a handful of people were still spitting abuse at me. The rest of the crowd had turned inward, probably to dissect Troy’s appearance, his body language, the fact that he hadn’t addressed them.

As I reached my car, two figures emerged from the crowd: Mark and Summer Rayburn. Their approach zapped electric fear through the relief I’d felt when I gripped the door handle.

“You’re Rhonda Bird, right?”

I turned. Mark was blank-faced. Summer was clutching his arm like it was the only thing holding her up.

“That’s me,” I told the man, sounding less steady than I would have liked.

“We want to talk to you,” Mark said. “Hopefully you’ve got the decency to grant us five minutes.”

“I respectfully decline.” I put my hands up. “I’m sorry. I’m extremely tired. And I’m guessing you don’t want to sit me down and tell me all the reasons why you’re on Team Troy.”

Daisy’s parents looked at each other.

“You guessed wrong,” her father said.