Page 90 of What Boys Learn

Robert said, “We don’t know the ‘point of fatal encounter,’ if there even is one in her case. All we know is where he snatched her—Fox Lake. If the person was being careful, he’d live more than three miles from there.”

“Doesn’t narrow it down too well, does it?” I drew an imaginary circle with my finger.

“The more careful he was, the less it narrows it down. The radius just gets bigger and bigger.”

“So the question—if you were looking for her—is to figure out how careful this particular man is.” I studied the first graph he’d shown me and the spreadsheets we’d made together. “You told me most killers get less careful. But it looks like in our area, they got more careful starting in the early 2000s and really careful from at least 2010, at least in terms of how far they traveled to find a victim and dispose of the body.” I looked at the spreadsheets again. “What changed?”

“Netflix?”

I elbowed him.

“I’m not kidding. Between streaming true crime and using the internet, it’s easier to learn how to avoid getting caught.”

“Itshouldbe easier. But you already showed me. The most notorious serial killers get more reckless over time. Except, not lately.” I pointed to the nearest map on the table. “Not where we live.”

32

On the weekend, Curtis had no sessions planned with Benjamin. Their final session would be on Monday. I had mentioned to Curtis that we’d be attending Sidney’s funeral over the weekend, and I mentioned it again to Benjamin on Friday night, after Robert left.

“Perhaps something to discuss, on your final day with Dr. Campbell. Thoughts, feelings.”

“Perhaps,” Benjamin said, imitating me facetiously. But then his tone changed. More quietly he said, “IfI go to the funeral.”

“I think you should.”

“Sidney wouldn’t have come to mine, if I’d been the one who died, and Izzy—no way.”

I got up and took my plate to the sink. “Wow. You really didn’t like Izzy, did you?”

“I did like her. I liked her a lot.”

I turned back toward him, surprised by the sincerity in his voice.

“She wasn’t full of shit, Mom. She would have hated funerals, especially the kind where people who don’t even know you come all dressed up with those big sunglasses, getting weepy and putting on a show. I’m sure she hates the teddy bears and shitty cheap stuff people are leaving next to the Summit sign. She hated people who bragged about where they were going to college or for their next fancy family vacation. She hated liars and she hated . . . she hated . . .”

He stopped mid-stammer. I averted my glance discreetly, not wanting him to jump up and hurry away.

“You’re right,” I said, turning back toward the dishes, wishing I could hug him but knowing he wouldn’t let me. “That’s the impression I got of Izzy, too.”

Benjamin was home, still sleeping in on a Saturday morning, when I hit the secondhand boutique in downtown Pleasant Park that had the best selection of affordable work clothes. I wanted to look right for my Grove job—a little dressier than I’d been at Summit, at least until I saw how the other teachers dressed. Maybe I’d find some black flats that would double for the funeral and for work. I had to get used to leaving Benjamin on his own. After all, I’d be occupied at Grove for the next six weeks. He wasn’t a child anymore. I needed to trust him.

I was on the way home, listening to public radio, when the top of the hour news announced that Veronica Lynn Lovell had come home. She was alive and well. Shaken but well.

I ran in the door to turn on the television, hoping to get more details. I was aiming the remote when Benjamin came out of his room, scratching his taut midriff, and headed toward the bathroom. Over his shoulder he called out, “Missing girl, right?”

“How’d you know?”

“I just read it online. Freaky story.”

“What’s freaky about it?”

But he was already behind the bathroom door, and I gave up on the television and opened my laptop instead.

Veronica had fallen sick suddenly in a bar many days after I’d seen her on Green Bay Road. She didn’t remember the fact that she’d called an Uber and failed to meet it outside or that she’d accepted a ride from someone else who came to her aid. She woke up once in the car, where she was laid out in the back seat, but the only thing she remembered was a calm voice from the front promising she was almost home.

She woke blindfolded, still dressed, in a house or apartment. No memory of being carried inside. No sounds of neighbors. When her blindfold was removed, she saw black garbage bags taped over the windows, a wall-mounted television, a queen bed with gray blankets that crinkled due to the plastic sheeting that was under the linens.

At no time did the stranger touch her. He didn’t drug her again, either, if he’d been the one to do it at the bar. He entered the room only once each day, with a balaclava over his head, loose black clothes that obscured his build, and disposable blue latex gloves over his hands. He told her she was being monitored by a camera around the clock. The room had a mini-fridge stocked with sandwiches and water, with access to a small, adequate bathroom with motel-type soap, paper towels, and no windows. The TV was hooked up to several streaming services. The remote, like the bed, was plastic wrapped. When the man spoke, he used a high, artificial voice that didn’t sound like anyone she knew.