When Matt did manage to get out of bed, for a glass of water or some Tylenol, he didn’t bother to check the phone to see if he had any messages. He simply had given up hope. True, Mrs. Gibson had put up signs in the library, but a lost manuscript wasn’t like a stray dog. It didn’t come when you called; it wasn’t taken in and fed by kindly neighbors; and it assuredly wasn’t waiting in a cage at the pound, tail wagging. The phone calls were always for Will, anyway, for he seemed to have taken over the house. Matt wondered what the mothers of Will’s students would think if they knew Will Avery had spent his entire adult life as a drunkard and a liar. But the fact of the matter was Will had stopped drinking completely. For all Matt knew, he’d stopped lying as well.
“Rise and shine, brother,” Will would call through the wall before he went running, and why shouldn’t good old Will be happy? All charges against him had been dropped, now that the murdered woman’s dinner companion had come forward to say the victim had been considering taking out a restraining order against an old boyfriend, one who wouldn’t leave her alone. The boyfriend had turned up missing, and Will had been the one to identify him, from a photograph, as the so-called reporter who’d interviewed him and stolen the model of Cake House. Inside Edition had already dispatched a reporter to interview Will right on the town green, and there was a rumor that the Today show would be sending a film crew on Memorial Day. Will had been asked to be the parade marshal. Will Avery, who hadn’t visited his mother on her deathbed, who’d lied for sport and cheated on his wife, who’d frittered away his talents and had been the sort of father available only for birthdays and special occasions, would be running alongside the mayor’s white convertible Cadillac on Memorial Day, his music students following along, tossing Tootsie Rolls and lollipops to the crowd.
Will hadn’t mentioned to anyone—except for Liza, in whom he now confided everything—the reason he’d taken up running. It was a reaction to the fear that arose inside him when he went into the station house in Boston to pick out the photograph of the man who’d stolen the model house. When Will got back to Unity, he was concerned enough about Stella’s safety to go and talk to the chief of police, Robby Hendrix, who had been three years behind Will in school. Robby had assured Will that Stella would not be in any danger, but as far as Will could tell, the most difficult case the Unity police force had dealt with, prior to tracking down what was possibly a cold-blooded murderer, was ridding the neighborhood of a family of rabid raccoons that had to be trapped up in the Elliots’ attic.
Will had little faith in the Unity police department, however well intended it was. And so he had taken up running. He had become the ears and eyes of the town, and by now he knew most people’s habits quite well. Henry Elliot, for instance, headed out to Boston at a quarter after six each day. Eli Hathaway was usually the first customer at the gas station on the corner of Main. Enid Frost opened up the doors to the train station at 6:30 exactly. On fair days she swept off the platform; when it rained she used a mop to clear away puddles.
Will found he could cover most of the town in two hours, making a loop that led around the common, down Lockhart, past the library and the elementary school and the shops on Main Street, all the while looking forward to the moment when he’d pass by the porch of the tea house, where Liza Hull was often waiting to cheer him on. Lately, Will had felt as though someone had drained the poison out of him; without alcohol, without the weight of his lies, he was light-headed and light-footed, faster than he’d ever imagined possible. Another runner he’d met, Solange Gibson, the librarian’s daughter, had shown him a few stretches to prevent his legs from cramping up. Sometimes, when he was out on his appointed route, he’d meet up with one of his piano students and their families and they’d all be so pleased to see him Will had at first thought such people had mistaken him for his brother, someone else entirely, a well-respected man who cared about more than how easily something came to him or how little work he had to put in to get by.
When he heard that Jenny had come down with the spring flu, Will was so penitent he actually picked some of the phlox in his mother’s perennial garden that always bloomed early, an unexpected burst of white in the midst of all that May greenery. He ran over to Cake House one morning while Matt stayed in bed bemoaning both his future and his past. The wisteria was blooming and the whole town smelled sweet. Even the muddy lake, best known for its drownings, had a spicy aroma, more like cinnamon than its usual muck.
“I know you hate me,” Will said when Elinor opened the door. Elinor blinked when she saw Will, surprised to find him on her front porch. “I’m just here to visit Jenny. I won’t steal anything.”