“They? Do you think there’ll be other people besides Nowak there?”
“Oh god, did I forgot to tell you? Yes, one more person. A detective from the Hunterdon County prosecutor’s office.”
He did forget to tell me. I’d been steeling myself for a one-on-one meeting.
“Whoa, I wish I’d known.”
“I’m really sorry, Button, it slipped my mind. But it’s nothing to be alarmed about. I believe it’s the detective who’s been looking into the case again.”
He rises, hoisting a platter with each hand. “Coffee?”
“Better not. Here, let me help.”
“Let’s leave most of this here. I’ll just stick the cheese and meat in the fridge.”
Five minutes later, we’re on our way to the police station in Millerstown. During the short drive, I suck on yet another cinnamon Altoid and take so many deep breaths, Roger must think I’m hyperventilating.
My hometown is a small, fairly charming place along the banks of the Delaware River, founded in the mid-1880s. Thanks to preservation efforts, the town center is pretty much unspoiled by chain stores and fast-food stands and instead boasts shops selling antiques, scented candles, and tchotchkes. Roger makes the turn off River Street and pulls up in front of the police station, an old four-story brick building. Though I often come back to visit my father, I can’t recall the last time I was in this particular location.
After Roger parks against the curb, I step out of the car. The woods where I found Jaycee are about two miles away, along the outskirts of town, and yet I feel their psychic drag even from here.
We enter into a large foyer to find a young woman sitting at a gray metal desk, circa 1950s. She’s pretty, with long brown hair styled in waves.
“Can I help you?” she asks, swiveling away from her computer screen. She manages to be polite without being friendly. Perhaps an acquired skill for the job.
Roger speaks before I can, announcing that I have an interview scheduled with the chief. The woman nods, rises, and asks me to wait. But she returns quickly and leads me through a warren of tiny offices, obviously reconfigured from the original space. It’s a sea of bulging cabinets, climbing manila folders, and bulletin boards plastered with brochures and announcements. Finally, I’m ushered into a windowless faux-wood-paneled room containing nothing more than a table and chairs. A man and woman are sitting there. He’s in uniform; she’s in a beige blouse and dark-brown wool blazer.
“So you’re Ally Linden,” the man says, rising and pumping my hand a few times. He introduces himself as Chief Nowak, and I realize I’ve glimpsed him in town in the past. He’s probably in his fifties, clean-shaven, a big guy with massive forearms shooting from his short-sleeved shirt. “We appreciate you coming in today.”
“Well, thank you for making time so quickly,” I tell him.
Nowak, I decide, seems kind, sympathetic actually. And so does Detective Jane Corbet once she’s introduced. She rises, too, shakes my hand, and offers a smile. She’s probably in her late forties, with short, dark hair and brown, penny-shaped eyes. Her only makeup seems to be coral lipstick, half of which now appears to be on the rim of her coffee mug.
I relax a little. Neither one of them looks ready to bite.
“Please, Ms. Linden, have a seat,” the chief tells me.
I settle across from them at the gray metal table. Corbet, I notice, has a folder to the right of her notebook. It’s fresh-looking and fairly slim, obviously not the file from years ago, which would surely be thick and dog-eared.
“We look forward to hearing what you have to say,” Corbet says. “Do you need any water before we start?”
“No, I’m fine, thanks.”
“Why don’t you go ahead, then. And please, take your time.”
I start. I describe, haltingly at moments, my trip home alone through the woods that Wednesday, with me eventually stumbling over a pile of leaves, realizing there was something buried under it, and then investigating. I explain how I tried to convince myself at first that I’d seen an old, discarded doll, how I agonized over whether to tell my parents or keep my discovery a secret so I wouldn’t end up in trouble; and how finally, on Friday, I confessed and my parents called the police.
I glance at both people when speaking, but it’s clear to me from the sure-footed way Corbet takes notes and manages to hold my gaze that she’s the key player here.
As I finish, it occurs to me that I’ve barely taken a breath for the past ten minutes. I exhale quietly, waiting. Corbet lays down the pen she’s been using and looks at me intently.
“That must have been such a traumatic time for you, Ally,” she says. “I’m sorry you had to go through all that.”
I almost tear up. She’s not passing any judgment, not looking at me as if I’m a naughty little liar.
“I appreciate that, Detective Corbet. I’m the one who’s really sorry, though. I wish I’d told everyone the full story back then.”
Her elbows are resting on the table and she flips over a hand. “Ally, you were only a kid. I’ve worked many cases involving young people, including sexual abuse cases, and children almost always hold back certain details, at least in the beginning. Some things are just too hard to say.”
“Thank you for telling me that,” I say. It’s a relief to hear that another child might have done the same as me.
“And kids worry, too, about how adults will respond,” she says. “It sounds like you were scared your parents would punish you for going home via the woods.”
I instinctively jerk forward, like I’m trying to catch something that’s about to spill.
“No, they wouldn’t have punished me,” I correct her. “My father’s a very kind person, and so was my mom. But they’d told me not to go into the woods without an adult, and I didn’t want to disappoint them. And once I decided to admit I’d dawdled at school and taken the shortcut, I was afraid to make things worse for myself by saying I’d waited two days to report what I found.”
“Okay,” she says, scribbling down a few words. “I hear you.” She uses her thumb to flick back through a few pages. “This has been very helpful, but let me review a couple of details. I want to be sure I have the sequence of events down pat.”
“Of course.”
She scans the page, without her gaze seeming to light on anything, and finally glances up. “The day you actually found the body was on . . . ?”
“Wednesday.”
“And you’re pretty sure of that? Not, let’s say, Tuesday?”
“I’m sure.” On Tuesdays my mother and I always had what she called our “tea date” after school, and she would have picked me up.
“And you took the shortcut so you wouldn’t be late?”
“Right.”
“At about what time did you find the body?”
“Around three thirty, I guess, or maybe a few minutes before.”
She drops her gaze slowly to her notes and then looks up again, her eyes leveled at me.
“What held you up at school that day, do you remember?”
“I don’t remember very clearly, but I have this vague sense of watching some older kids on the soccer field. I didn’t realize how long I’d stayed.”