Page 7

A missing teenager.

Jo had fielded similar calls from equally frantic parents, and almost always the wayward kid would turn up within a day or two after sulking in a friend’s house or sleeping off a hangover, or stumbling out of the woods, bug bitten and hungry, after an ill-considered detour off a trail. If the kid was local, Jo would usually know some background, whether they’d been in trouble before and who their friends were, so she’d have an idea of where to start searching, and whether alarm was truly justified.

The Conovers, however, were summer people. She knew almost nothing about them.

She knew their name, of course. They owned Moonview, one of the largest cottages on Maiden Pond, and for the most part, they kept to themselves. She’d answered only one prior call to Moonview, but that was several summers ago, when George Conover complained that their canoe had been vandalized. It had been a cold and drizzly day, and Jo remembered standing at their door, expecting to be invited inside. Most people in Purity would have asked her to come in out of the rain and offered her a cup of tea or coffee, maybe even a slice of cake, but not George Conover. No, he’d simply pulled on his rain jacket and led her down the lawn to the water’s edge, where he pointed to the canoe lying on the grass.

“You can see someone punched a hole in it.”

“Do you have any idea who did this, sir?” Jo asked.

“Oh, I know exactly who did it.” George glowered at the cottage across the pond. “It’s always him, Reuben Tarkin. He’s been doing things like this for years. Left rotting fish on our deck. Harassed my grandson’s nanny. Threw a rock and broke our window. Expensive picture window too. I called the police for that one.”

“When was that rock incident?”

“Years back, before your time. But the hole in the canoe, it could’ve been dangerous. My grandson could’ve taken it out on the water and gotten into trouble.”

“Why would Mr. Tarkin be doing this to you?”

“The man’s insane, all right? And I assume you know what his father did. Those people he killed on Main Street.”

“That was a long time ago, sir. And that was his father, not Reuben.”

“But it’s the same family. Look, just file the report. I want this incident documented,” he said, and strode back into the house. He never did invite Jo inside.

Now she stood once again at the Conovers’ door, wondering what sort of reception she’d get this time. She wasn’t expecting coffee and cake, but a little respect would be appreciated. A woman answered the doorbell. She was in her midforties, slim in blue jeans, her shirtsleeves hastily shoved up to her elbows. One look at the woman’s taut face and panicked eyes told Jo: This is the missing kid’s mother.

“I’m Jo Thibodeau, Purity PD. Are you Susan Conover?”

“Come in. Please, come in!” The woman was so anxious she was practically vibrating, her hands shaking as she waved Jo into the house. Even before Jo could step in the door, Susan was talking, words tumbling over words. “My daughter Zoe is fifteen years old and she’s never done anything like this before. Never, ever. She hasn’t answered her phone in hours, she hasn’t answered any of my texts. I know something’s wrong. I can feel it, even if the rest of the family ...” Susan stopped, as if she’d suddenly run out of air. She inhaled, and her breath came out in a sob. “I just want to know where she is.”

A man approached and wrapped his arm around Susan’s waist. Dark hair, glasses, a worried gaze. “Why don’t you sit down, sweetheart? Why don’t we all sit down? I’m sure she’ll want to talk to all of us.”

“Are you Zoe’s father?” Jo asked.

He nodded. “Ethan Conover.” He gestured to the living room. “Please, come in.”

Jo walked into the living room, where four other members of the family were seated. Having a police officer in one’s home was not an everyday occurrence, and they regarded her with uneasy gazes. The teenage boy didn’t look at her at all; he sat hunched between a handsome blond couple on the sofa, a forelock drooping over his brow as he stared down at his own lap.

“I think this panic might be premature,” said the silver-haired woman seated in an armchair. Her regal posture, her tone of authority, made it clear she was the matriarch of the family. She gazed unflinchingly at Jo.

“May I have all your names?” said Jo, pulling out a notebook.

“Elizabeth Conover,” said the older woman.

Jo nodded. “I met George Conover a few years ago. Your husband, I believe? He called about a damaged canoe.”

“George passed away in March. We’re back in Maine for his memorial service.”

“I’m sorry to hear that.” Even if the man was a jerk. Jo began writing in the notebook. “And everyone else?”

“Colin Conover,” the blond man cut in. “I’m Ethan’s brother. I have to agree with my mother—I don’t see the reason for alarm yet. Zoe met a new friend, and they went off together. You know how kids are. The time probably got away from them.”

Jo looked him over. Sleek haircut, Brooks Brothers khakis, polished loafers. Everything screamed yacht club . An impressive watch gleamed on his wrist. Jo wasn’t familiar enough with watches to recognize the brand, but she had little doubt it cost more than her annual salary. This was the type of man who wouldn’t hesitate to interrupt a woman, even one wearing a badge.

Colin said, “This is my wife, Brooke. And our son, Kit.”

A man like Colin needed an equally sleek wife, and Brooke Conover, in her blue cashmere shell and pressed white slacks, certainly fit the bill. But the teenage boy slouched between them, wearing baggy jeans and a T-shirt, didn’t look like part of the same matched set. He’d folded himself deeply into the sofa, as if trying to disappear into the cushions.

“You’re all staying here, at the house?” asked Jo.

“We are,” said Colin.

“Who was the last person to see Zoe?”

There was a silence. Then Ethan said, quietly: “It would have been me.” He stood behind Susan’s chair, his hands resting on her shoulders. “It was around ten, ten thirty. She came upstairs, told me she was going to visit the home of a girl she’d just met. This is Zoe’s first time staying on the pond, so she doesn’t know anyone here. I think the girl’s local, not a visitor.”

“Did she tell you this girl’s name?”

He shook his head. “I know, I should have asked, but it all seemed perfectly fine to me. I mean, it was another girl , about Zoe’s age, and they’d just spent the morning swimming together. That’s what kids do here, on the pond. They meet other kids. They make friends.”

“What was your daughter wearing when you last saw her?”

“She’d changed into a dress. Something red and pink, I think.” He sighed. “I’m sorry, I didn’t really pay much attention. If I’d only—”

“It has little puff sleeves,” Susan said, her voice barely a whisper. “I bought it for her a few years ago, and I’ve washed it so many times it’s almost falling apart now. She’s grown so much, the hem is up to her thighs, but it’s her favorite dress and she won’t let me ... she won’t let me ...” Susan’s voice faded.

Jo jotted the description of the dress in her notebook. Details that a father might not remember, but a mother would. A mother who’d repeatedly washed and folded that dress. Who’d paid attention to its rising hemline on her daughter’s lengthening legs. “So Zoe left home around ten, ten thirty. And then?”

Ethan exhaled, and all the air seemed to go out of him. “I lost track of the time,” he admitted quietly. “I was busy, working upstairs—”

“You were here all day?”

“No, I went into town around noon to buy more paper, and I stopped in at the Marigold for lunch. But I was back home by two.”

“And the rest of you? Anyone see her?” Jo asked the family, and was answered by a general shaking of heads. All except the teenage boy, whose gaze remained fixed on the floor, as if he was afraid to look at her.

“How about you?” Jo asked the boy. “Your name is Kit?”

“He was with me,” Brooke answered. “After Colin went out for a hike, Kit and I drove into town. We came home around two thirty, so I could change into more comfortable shoes, and then we went out again. We didn’t see Zoe at all.”

“Okay.” Jo closed her notebook. “Can I take a look at Zoe’s room?”

“Why?” said Elizabeth.

The question irritated Jo. As if she needed to justify every move she made. As if she, just a small-town cop, could not possibly handle this situation to Elizabeth’s satisfaction.

Susan stood up. “I’ll take you upstairs.”

The woman seemed so unsteady that Jo wondered if she could make it up the steps, but Susan doggedly led the way, gripping the handrail as she climbed to the second floor. It took only a glance at Zoe’s bedroom to know that a teenage girl was sleeping here. A suitcase lay open on the floor, spilling out panties and socks and a pink T-shirt, size extra small. The air smelled like soap and suntan lotion, and on the dresser was a stack of young adult paperbacks. A series of fantasy novels, judging by the covers, which featured an aquatic heroine, her red hair swirling underwater.

“Does Zoe have a diary?” Jo asked.

“No. I mean, I don’t think so.” Susan paused. “God, that sounds like I don’t know my own daughter. But I do.”

“She’s fifteen years old, Mrs. Conover,” Jo said gently. “Girls that age, well, they don’t always tell their parents everything.”

“You don’t understand, Zoe isn’t like that! I’m a school nurse, so I know teenagers. I know how deceptive they can be. I know all the trouble they can get into. My daughter isn’t like that. She’s never been in trouble, never given me any reason to worry about her. She’s not a complicated girl.” Susan wobbled and sat down on the bed. “Oh God, I can’t believe this is happening ...”

How many times had Jo heard that phrase, I can’t believe this is happening ? She thought of the excruciating visits she’d paid to other households and the words she’d been forced to deliver. I’m sorry, there’s been an accident. I’m sorry, we found your husband in the woods. I’m sorry, your son didn’t make it. No family was ever really prepared to hear bad news from a uniformed officer. No one wanted to believe that their world had just imploded.

But they were not at that point yet. Zoe Conover could be alive and well and merely behaving like a thoughtless teenager who hadn’t a clue what her mother was going through. She still might walk in their door tonight.

“Does Zoe have a cell phone?” asked Jo.

Susan nodded. “Yes. An iPhone. But she hasn’t answered any of my calls or texts.”

“Have you tried locating her using the Find My iPhone app?”

“Ethan tried, but it says ‘No location found.’ I don’t know if that means it’s turned off, or she’s in a dead zone.”

“I’ll need her phone number and her Apple ID. It could help us locate the phone.”

“Of course.”

“Her Facebook page too. And any other social media she’s on.”

“She hasn’t even called me. Why would she be posting anything?”

“We need to check if maybe she’s met someone online. Someone who’s talked her into going away together.”

“That’s not possible.” Susan’s jaw jerked up, and she looked Jo in the eye. Up till that moment, fear had made the woman seem small and defeated. Now, mustering some hidden source of strength, Susan sat up straighter. In happier circumstances, she could be considered a handsome woman in a wholesome New England way, with her sturdy jaw, unplucked eyebrows, and freckled nose. Handsome, yes, but not a beauty like her sister-in-law downstairs. Certainly not tonight, with anxiety pinching her features.

“My daughter would not run away,” said Susan.

Jo nodded and sat down on the bed beside her. “Why don’t you tell me about your daughter. Tell me what kind of girl she is. Her friends. The things she’s interested in.”

Susan took a moment to consider her answer. “My Zoe, she’s beautiful. She’s sweet and she’s kind.” She lowered her head and whispered, “She’s perfect.”

So many parents believed that about their children. They’re perfect. They’d never do anything wrong. Jo was the one who sometimes had to open their eyes to the truth: that yes, Johnny really did steal that car. Yes, Billy really did set that barn on fire. Parents were so often blind to who and what their children really were. She wondered if Susan Conover was one of them.

“Does she have a boyfriend? Someone she might have—”

“No.”

“You’re certain?”

“You don’t believe me, do you?”

“Mrs. Conover, we can’t always know what our children are up to.”

“You don’t understand.” Susan raised her head again. “Zoe and I are best friends. She was only eight years old when her father died of cancer, and for years, it was just the two of us. Zoe and me against the world. We trust each other. I trust her, because I know my daughter.”

“Then your husband, Ethan, he’s Zoe’s stepfather?”

Susan nodded. “We met a few years ago, at his book signing. He’s a writer. A novelist. We’ve been married for two years. Ethan formally adopted Zoe last year.”

So Susan and her daughter were new to the Conover family. Having seen the cool dispassion of Elizabeth Conover, the arrogance of Colin Conover, Jo didn’t envy any woman who married into this clan.

“You see, I do know my daughter,” said Susan. “I know she doesn’t have a secret boyfriend. I know she wouldn’t run away without telling me, because she knows how frantic I’d be. She loves school, and her swim team, and her fantasy books. She loves animals.” Susan shook her head. “That’s why she went off to visit that girl. All because of some stupid cow .”

It took a few seconds for Jo to register that last detail. “What cow? What’re you talking about?”

“That girl she went to visit, apparently she has a cow and some goats. Ethan said that’s why Zoe wanted to go home with her. To see the animals.”

“Did you meet this girl?”

“I only saw her from a distance.”

“What does she look like?”

“She’s about Zoe’s age. Light-brown hair. Just like Zoe.”

And she has a cow. Jo had a sudden, vivid memory of a brown-haired girl walking across a snowy field. A girl with a Jersey cow and eight goats trailing after her. Jo knew the farm where that girl lived because she had visited it several times this past winter, had stood in the girl’s house, where the air smelled like woodsmoke and burnt coffee. She felt her heart thump faster as she asked: “Was the girl’s name Callie Yount?”

“I never heard the girl’s ...” Susan suddenly stopped. “Do you know who she is?”

“Excuse me.” Jo rose to her feet. “I need to make a phone call.”