The Scotch burned as it went down, splashing into his empty stomach with a roar. The warmth spread through his veins and worked quickly to unknot the tense muscles in his shoulders and neck. He should’ve made a trip to the Wet Hen while he was there dealing with the cops. He was wound up tighter than a pocket watch and deserved a drink or two after fielding the press and the police at the farm.
That, at least, was easier than watching his parents deal with the tragic news. His cheerful, optimistic mother had been beside herself when she found out that the body belonged to her missing foster child. Molly had never quite forgiven herself for failing Tommy, despite her successes with so many other children. She hadn’t so much as raised a finger to Tommy, but she was consumed with misplaced guilt. She couldn’t even speak to the police the first day, she was so upset.
Ken had been distressed by the news as well, but he seemed to handle it better. Or at least more calmly than Molly. He’d sat on the porch, rocking in his favorite chair, as people came and went. Xander had sat beside him much of the time, trying to match his father’s level temperament and failing.
Ken didn’t have much to tell the police, of course, because he didn’t know the truth. All he could tell them was that Tommy had run away and he could take a lie detector test to confirm it. Xander had been sitting with Ken at the kitchen table eating breakfast when Wade had come to them with the note left on Tommy’s bed.
Xander had written the note himself, but he’d feigned surprise and chased after Ken when he’d rushed to the bunkhouse. There they’d found his bed hadn’t been slept in and all of Tommy’s things were gone. When asked, none of the boys said they had seen Tommy leave or knew where he could’ve gone. Ken had immediately called the police and turned over the letter. From there, the professionals had tried, and failed, to determine what had become of Tommy Wilder.
It was the same story Ken had always told. The same story Molly and Xander and everyone else told. It was all they knew to tell. The press and Sheriff Duke couldn’t do much more than write down their statements and go home. There was no crime scene to study or evidence left to collect. Tommy’s letter had been misplaced when the sheriff’s department archived old case files years ago.
There was an old story and a body, and between them, a gap big enough for Tommy to disappear into it.
Heath had been worried that it wouldn’t be enough, but it seemed to hold. Xander had planted enough seeds of doubt in the sheriff’s mind that attention would eventually shift away from his family. Tommy had been a magnet for trouble, after all. That was a well-documented fact. It wasn’t a stretch to suggest that perhaps Tommy had run off to meet someone. Maybe he’d been involved in dealing drugs or something else with dangerous and untrustworthy people. Anything could’ve happened to him once he left the safety of the bunkhouse.
All Xander needed was reasonable doubt and he was satisfied that he had it. Thankfully, he’d reached that point when he had. Congress would be back in session come Monday. He couldn’t do anything more at the farm right now. The only other reason for him to stay in Cornwall was to work things out with Rose, and as much as he might want to do that, she was very firm about him staying away for a while.
So he went home. Once he was able to lose himself in his job again, maybe the sharp pain that stabbed him in the chest every time he thought of her would fade away.
Xander sipped the last of his Scotch and sighed. The liquor had done its work and numbed the darkest thoughts in his brain. Now perhaps he could get some sleep. He wasn’t going to pass out on the stool at the kitchen island, so he needed to head upstairs. He left the glass on the counter and stumbled back to grab his bags. He hauled them up into his room and set them on the foot of the bed. His bigger bag could wait for the morning to be unpacked, but he needed his toiletries and things out of the smaller duffel that he used for his sleepovers at Rose’s apartment.
Methodically, he went about unpacking it, setting aside his case of grooming items and a few other things. He was rummaging through some dirty clothes when his fingers brushed against something hard and rough in texture. He didn’t recall packing anything like that, so he felt around until he found it again and pulled the item out to examine it.
Holding it in his hand, Xander glanced down and his mouth dropped open. He stumbled back to sit on the mattress before his knees gave out.
It was a picture frame. He remembered making one just like this when he went to scout camp twenty years ago. It was a craft project made of painted Popsicle sticks and backed with felt. Hard macaroni noodles were glued to the frame and decorated with puff paint and glitter.