Page 83 of The Girl from Widow Hills
The image was so pixelated, a video from twenty years earlier. Her hands fidgeted as she spoke, and she gripped the handles of a tan tote bag slung over her shoulder. Her body turned slightly to the left, and I froze the frame. Rewound it, watched again.
That tote—it had been part of a fund-raising effort by the volunteer center. My school photo, with the generic blue background. The wordsHave You Seen Me?printed below, along with the tip number. She was holding it in front of her, so the camera could see.
The hairs on the back of my neck stood on end.
That tote, in the box. In my house. Old and tan, with the bluegray smudge—in the place my photo once had been. Had she kept it all this time? Both the tote and that bracelet, the things she’d held on to above all else?
My phone rang, a call from a number I didn’t recognize.
“Hello?” I said.
“My God, is it really you?” Her voice was deeper, a little raspy, but I recognized the lilt right away. I’d just been listening to her.
“I know you’ve tried to reach me in the past,” I said. “I’m sorry for never getting back to you. But I’m willing to give you an interview in exchange for your help.” I knew there was always a trade: Every story had a value.
“Honey,” she said, “I don’t want your story. Honestly, I was hoping I’d never hear your name again, and I could go on imagining you were off living your life somewhere, away from all of this. All of us.”
“That was my hope, too,” I said. “I’m sure you saw what’s happening, but some things have come up . . . some things I need to ask you about.”
“Of course. Arden—Olivia,” she said, correcting herself. “Look, I know I emailed you, and I hope you don’t take this the wrong way, but I need to do this face-to-face. I need to make sure it’s really you I’m talking to. I’m not interested in providing more information to the cycle.”
“I understand,” I said.
“So, you’re in North Carolina, is it?”
“That’s where I’m living. But I’m actually . . . I’m on my way to Widow Hills. I was hoping to get some answers there.”
“If you have some time to spare, I’m about two hours outside. Must be on your way. If you want to stop, maybe I can answer your questions.”
THE ADDRESS EMMA LYONSgave me sent me to the outer suburbs of Lexington, an area with rolling hills, farmland, and a rich history. Her home was a white colonial with a simple stone fountain in the front and a small circular drive surrounded by tall hedges. The iron gates were open, and as I pulled into the drive, she was already stepping out the front door, barefoot, with a little white dog at her feet.
Her hair had been cut shorter, and she wore tan shorts and a pale orange blouse. She looked so different from her television personality. Her smile was the same, though.
“Well, look at you,” she said as I exited the car. “I mean, I wouldn’t recognize you on the street. You’ve gone and grown up.” The twenty years had aged her, but the heart of her was the same. She was still thin, but more sculpted than soft now. Without the heavier makeup, her eyes looked smaller, the wrinkles giving her a new authenticity. She had to be in her mid-fifties. “Hate to ask, but can I see your ID before we get started?”
I handed her my driver’s license, didn’t blame her for asking. I’d done my best to hide Arden Maynor away.
Her eyes flicked from my photo to my face, and I pulled up my left sleeve. “Can’t fake this part,” I said, and she frowned at the long white scar, jagged down my shoulder.
“Come in, come in,” she said, gesturing me up the steps, the little white dog following behind.
She led me to the dining room, just off the foyer. There was already a pitcher of lemonade out on the table, a tray of sandwiches: a true hostess. “Figured you might be hungry.” She poured me a glass, hand faintly shaking, and I realized she was nervous.
I remained standing but took a sandwich, just to have something to do with my hands. “You heard about Sean Coleman,” I said. “You saw the article?”
She nodded, standing on the other side of the table, eyes flicking periodically to the front windows. “In your email, you mentioned . . . Has his son been in contact?” she asked.
“You could say that. I think . . . I think he’s obsessed. With what happened.” I swallowed. “Or with me. I found this stack of papers he had with him. He’s been keeping everything about the case. Everything from twenty years ago.” I was trying to figure out why he’d homed in on certain details. “He had transcripts from the 911 calls, even. I don’t know why.”
She took a sip of her drink, ice rattling in the crystal glass. “He came to me,” she said. “Around the ten-year anniversary.”
“God, but I was just in high school . . . he was—”
“Nineteen,” she said, nodding. “He was nineteen, and very self-righteous, and hyper-focused. I only agreed to talk to him because of his father. Because I was hoping to have you all on for a special together—your mom, Sean Coleman, you. A happy reunion.”
But that had never happened. I’d refused to participate, though my mom had practically demanded it. Sean hadn’t done any interviews, either, though.
“So Nathan Coleman meets with me, and he says he has a big story. That his father said something once when he was drunk. Apparently, Nathan had asked him about it, about why he didn’t take more interviews.” She looked away. “According to Nathan, his father claimed he’d walked that same route every day of the search, and you weren’t there. Said he’d even looked inside once.”
