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“But if there’s something wrong with the follow-up, I guess I could print a retraction. If it’s not true, that is.”
What follow-up? she thinks, and makes a mental note to pick up the latest issue of Plains Truth.
“What I want to know, Mr. Andersson, is who gave you your information?”
“A cop.” Andersson pauses for a moment, then blurts, “At least he said he was a cop, and I believed him because he really had the inside track on the investigation. He said printing the guy’s name would put pressure on him to, you know, come clean.”
“This mystery cop didn’t give you a name?”
“No—”
“But you ran the story anyway.”
“Well, isn’t it true?” Andersson is trying to sound pugnacious. “Isn’t this Coughlin the guy you’re looking at for the murder of the girl?”
“Mr. Andersson, I think I’d better come see you in person,” Davis says.
“Oh God,” he says, sounding younger than ever.
“What time would be convenient?”
“I guess I could be at the office. There now. Have you got the address? We’re in Cathcart.”
“I have it.”
“Truth is pretty much a one-man operation. Just tell me one thing, ma’am. Did I break the law when I printed his name?”
“Not to my knowledge,” Davis says. “It wasn’t illegal, just shitty. I’ll be by this afternoon.”
46
Danny doesn’t know what his next stop will be—maybe Denver, maybe Longmont, maybe Arvada—but after nearly three years in Oak Grove, his two small suitcases won’t be enough for the belongings he means to take. He decides to go to Manitou Fine Liquors and see if he can get some empty boxes for his clothes. They might not know his face there because even in his drinking days he stuck mostly to beer.
He opens his trailer door shortly after noon and stops on the top step. Darla Jean Richardson has set up her dollhouse on the asphalt in the shade of the Oak Grove office building. It’s a big one, damn near a mansion. Carrying it from her trailer must have been a chore. Becky ordered it from Amazon for DJ’s seventh birthday, then threw up her hands in despair when she realized it had to be assembled. Danny put it together with DJ handing him the various components, both of them singing along with the radio. That was a good day.
She’s nine now, and he hasn’t seen Marigold’s DreemHouse for almost a year. He supposes she plays with it in her bedroom. Or has outgrown it. But if she lugged it all the way out here from her trailer, it can only have been for one reason.
“Hey, DJ, what do you say?”
That’s always been good for a smile, but not today. She gives him a solemn look. “She’s gone, if that’s why you were staying inside.”
Danny doesn’t have to ask who DJ’s talking about. Ella Davis was in the park earlier, knocking on doors and talking to anyone who was home. He expected her to make a visit to his trailer, but she never did; just took off her Covid mask and left.
“Where’s your mom?”
“She hadda take Marielle’s shift at the diner. Marielle’s got impetigo.” DJ says the word very carefully, syllable by syllable. “She said I could stay on my own and she’d bring me back a slice of cake. I don’t want cake, I don’t care if I ever have cake again. She told me I couldn’t knock on your door, so I came here. So I’d see you when you came out.”
Danny goes down the steps, walks half the distance to DJ, then stops. The dollhouse is open on its hinges and he can see Barbie and Ken inside, sitting at the kitchen table. Barbie sits with her legs stuck awkwardly out because her knees don’t bend very well. There was a time when DJ and Danny discussed this, and other unrealistic attributes of various dolls—plastic skin, creepy hair—at some length.
“Why are you just standing there?” DJ asks.
Because he can feel eyes, of course. The accused killer and the defenseless little girl. Most people are at work, but some are at home—the ones Inspector Davis talked to—and they will be watching. Maybe he shouldn’t care, but he does.
Before he can think of a reply, she says, “Ma ast if you ever molested me. I know what that means, it means stranger danger, and I said Danny would never molest me because he’s my friend.”
Darla Jean starts to cry.
“DJ, Jesus, don’t—”
