Page 12 of Find Me

She started to pour more wine into Scott’s glass too, causing a nearby waiter to scurry to their table to take over the job.

“I’m surprised you’re not exhausted,” he said once they were alone again. “It was still dark out when you left this morning.”

“I think the food’s actually giving me a second wind.” Scott had finally persuaded her to leave the apartment for dinner. She thought it would mean a quick stop for a burger or something, but now they were at this fancy place where she couldn’t pour her own wine.

She had spent six hours in her car that day, driving round trip to East Hampton and back, just to have Carter Decker blow her off, claiming that the blood from the Stansfield house was a “dead end.” Maybe some people would be willing to accept the officer’s decision, but Lindsay wasn’t in the business of allowing other people to draw conclusions for her.

Accordingly, she had sent a list of questions to Detective Decker, by voice mail and email: (1) Which databases or other resources had they relied upon to compare the genetic material? (2) What, if any, results had come from such comparisons? (3) What resources, other than DNA databases, were they utilizing to determine the source of the genetic material?

She checked her cell phone once again for email updates. Nothing.

Next to her, Scott was dragging a piece of bread through the olive oil/balsamic/basil mix at the bottom of his salad plate. “Earth to Lindsay. The whole point of going out was so you’d stop staring at your phone all night.”

She set her phone next to her wineglass. “I just feel so helpless.”

“You’ve been pulling out all the stops.” He placed a hand on her knee. “I’m sorry that it’s not getting the attention you want.”

“They say they ran the blood, and nothing came of it. But it seems like the detective’s being intentionally vague about it. It would be easy for him to say there were no hits, for example. That would be crystal clear. But when I was pressing him for details, all he said was that it was a ‘dead end’? It doesn’t sound right to me.”

“I’ve got to be honest. I don’t hear any difference between those two.” Scott was an investment banker for institutional clients, although Lindsay still wasn’t entirely sure what that meant.

“It’s him giving me his conclusion, versus sharing the raw information upon which he’s basing that conclusion.”

“That makes sense.”

She knew it was his way of validating her, but at the same time, she found the response annoying. Of course it made sense. She wasn’t in the habit of saying things that didn’t make sense. She realized she was also being overly defensive. She’d been trying her best not to talk so much about Hope since the move, but that seemed impossible now that she was missing.

“I don’t know how to articulate it. There was just something weird about his tone. He was being evasive. And totally condescending. He even made fun of my keychain.”

“Stabby Kitty? Little does he know its power.”

“Exactly.” A gift from Hope, who had one to match, the keychain known as Stabby Kitty was a ridiculous purple plastic cat head with pointy ears and two holes for eyes. It also doubled as a self-defense weapon. She had resisted the urge that morning to slip her index and middle fingers into place for a few quick jabs at Carter’s self-satisfied grin.

“Well, from what you told me, it sounds like his neighbor roped him into doing something he didn’t want to do. More of a lark than anything else, and then he happened to find some random DNA sample. You’re the one who told me why you always pull the comforter off the bed every time we check into a hotel.”

Everything everywhere, were her exact words. “Except it’s not exactly random if it’s in the house where Hope was last seen. She’s been missing for a week now. I just want him to tell me that they didn’t get a hit. He’s being loosey-goosey with his words.”

Scott studied the label on the wine bottle, avoiding her gaze.

“You want to say something,” she said.

“No, I want to know where Hope is, just as you do.”

“But you don’t seem surprised that the police are blowing me off.”

At least according to what Scott said most of the time, he personally loved Hope just as much as Lindsay did. She was a friend who was honorary family. Yada yada yada. But to the extent they ever argued about the state of their relationship, it often included him pressuring Lindsay to make more of a permanent commitment to him, and then somehow the subject always seemed to land eventually on Hope. Last fall, he’d even asked her to go to therapy with him, where he told the counselor that he feared Lindsay would never allow herself to live a complete life until Hope was able to do the same. He thought she felt too guilty about “leaving Hope behind” if—say, for example—Lindsay were to marry and have a child, or “even meet her boyfriend’s daughter,” he added. “I see you guys together, and you have this energy—like two puppies in a playpen, as if you’ve been raised together from birth. But puppies are supposed to grow up . . .”

He dropped the dog analogy the second she started laughing about it, but did not let go of his point. “It’s like the two of you both got frozen in time when you found her in that car.” She told him afterward that she felt bombarded by the session and wouldn’t be attending anymore, but the topic resurfaced again when Hope announced that she wanted to leave Hopewell. Lindsay couldn’t sleep for weeks, worried about how her friend could possibly get by somewhere else, on her own. When Hope insisted on the move, Lindsay even offered to clear her calendar so she could spend the first month in East Hampton with her, just in case. But Scott had taken Hope’s side, saying that he totally “supported” Hope’s decision to try to become “independent.”

Independent. Meaning, without Lindsay. Meaning Lindsay might then feel free to give Scott everything he wanted from their relationship, on his timeline. All the next steps: Meet Nora, shack up, get hitched, have baby. Done.

She’d asked him early on what it was about her that made him strike up that conversation with her at the brewery, or to ask her out the very next day, and then the day after that. She worried at the time she mightappear to be fishing for a compliment, but his response had nothing to do with her at all. “I’d been divorced for two years by then, and was ready for a serious relationship. And I’m determined not to mess it up this time.”

Once she found out exactly how he had “messed it up,” she couldn’t unknow it. Lindsay’s reluctance to take even that initial leap had nothing to do with Hope and everything to do with Scott. How many times had she started to tell him the reasons for her doubts, but then stopped herself? She might not be ready to go all in, but she also didn’t want to lose him.

He reached across the table and placed his hand over hers. “I honestly don’t know what you want me to say right now, Linds. The last thing I want to do is add to your stress.”

“Look, I know you were all for her moving. And then you told me not to worry when she wasn’t calling or texting. But now she’s gone, Scott. Like, actually gone. I mean, how do you explain that?”

---