Love the Way You Lie (House of Crows), Lisa Unger [best motivational books .txt] 📗

“Mason claims that he was with you last night. Is that right?”

They all looked at each other, nodded. As their eyes locked for the briefest of moments, a tacit agreement passed between them to say nothing about Havenwood, or what they had seen and heard.

“Yeah,” said Matthew, always the leader of the group. “We were all together last night.”

“What were you kids up to?”

“Not much,” said Matthew. Claire was still sniffling. “Just playing in the woods.”

The detective had not been offered a seat, so he stood, notebook in hand.

“Until what time?”

Matthew shrugged, looked at the other two.

“They’re meant to be in by dinner,” said Penny. “But they were late.”

“We lost track of time,” said Matthew.

“Of course they did,” said Grandpa. He also stood, in a kind of ready posture by the door. He used a cane most of the time, but he didn’t have it now. “They’re kids. They’re supposed to lose track of time, especially in the summer.”

“Mason ate dinner here,” said Penny. “Left sometime after that.”

“What time exactly?”

“Nine,” said Matthew. “Maybe later.”

Everyone nodded. No one contradicted him, though Matthew might have been padding the time a little to give Mason some cover. What if he did push his father off the roof? Matthew wouldn’t blame him.

“Well, there you go,” said Old Man Merle. “He was here late. Let me show you out.”

“Did Mason ever talk about his father?” asked the detective, ignoring the old man’s obvious annoyance.

They all shook their heads.

It was true, usually. Mason’s declaration was an anomaly. Parents were not a topic that was of any interest, except for passing complaints, snarky observations, or declarations that they would never do the things their parents did. But no one ever wanted to go to Mason’s house. Merle House—with its ready housekeeper, and endless rooms, hallways, and passages to explore, the giant pool, the wild grounds, their total freedom there—was by far the preferred hangout. Claire’s was a fair second, because there was a pool table, big-screen television, and comfy furniture in the finished basement. Ian’s house had all the best snacks, and his mom always let them order pizza—no matter what time of day it was. They might ping-pong from house to house during the day, but Mason’s rundown ranch was very rarely on the rotation.

“What about Amelia March?” asked the detective. “Did he ever talk about her?”

Again, a group head shaking. They were all obeying that unwritten rule: kids against grown-ups. No one was going to say that he’d been talking about her just yesterday. Claire took Matthew’s hand under the table. Her fingers were ice cold. He felt a little thrill at her touch, squeezed her fingers with his.

Ian cleared his throat, spoke for the first time. “She’s missing, right?”

“Did you know her?” asked the detective, moving subtly closer to them.

“She was older,” put in Claire. “I used to see her at school sometimes. She ran away, right? With her older boyfriend?”

“Did Mason tell you that he was following her? Turning up at her work? At her house?”

A chorus of noes. Ian’s voice picked that moment to crack.

But, thought Matthew, not surprising. Mason was weird. It sounded like him to do creepy things. After all, didn’t he just show up here? Matthew couldn’t even remember how they’d become friends. He was just here at Merle House one day, seemed to know Matthew’s grandfather. Seemed to belong. His family had worked for the Merle family in some capacity forever—wasn’t that it?

“Mason was the last person to speak to his father. According to the neighbors, there was yelling earlier in the afternoon. And he was the last person seen with Amelia March the night she disappeared.”

They all stayed silent. That was bad, thought Matthew. Really bad.

“Okay,” said Old Man Merle, stepping away from his place by the door. Suddenly he didn’t seem so bent and frail, or old at all. “That’s enough. There won’t be any more discussion on this topic without the presence of my lawyer and the parents of these minor children.”

Detective Braun failed to control a smirk, lifted his palms. “That won’t be necessary. I am just asking questions.”

“You’re trying to get these kids to say something to incriminate Mason Brandt, when for years the police in this town have done nothing to protect him and his mother from an abusive man. That’s not going to happen on my watch. Good evening, Officer.”

There was a lot of data in that statement, too much for fifteen-year-old Matthew to process. But it was clear that his grandfather knew more about Mason than Matthew had been aware. And for the first time Matthew saw the fearsome business titan people talked about when they talked about his grandfather—who to him had always been just a kind old man who gave him money and let him have total freedom.

Detective Braun made a show of slowly putting away his notepad. He took a couple of business cards from his pocket and lay them on the table.

“Kids, I’ll be in touch. And in the meantime, call me if you want to talk about Mason, or Amelia, or—anything.” It seemed friendly, but it wasn’t. There was a hard glint to Braun’s eyes. He was a man with an agenda.

Then to Old Man Merle, “Do you mind if I take a look around the grounds?”

Grandpa smiled mirthlessly, glasses shining in the overhead light. “May I see your warrant?”

“I don’t—”

“I didn’t think so. Good evening.”

Detective Braun bowed his head like a shamed schoolboy and headed for the door—with Penny at his heels to usher him out.

“Rule number one, kids,” said Matthew’s grandfather when they heard the heavy front door close. “Never talk to the cops, even if you’re innocent, and especially if you’re guilty. Penny, call Benjamin Ward.”

“Yes, Mr. Merle.” She’d just returned, but hustled off again.

“Now.” He turned a hard gaze on Matthew. “Tell me what really happened last night.”

2.

Merle House receded from view in the rearview mirror as Samantha