The Long and Faraway Gone by Lou Berney Page A

her at all. Face-­to-­face, though, he’d had a pang of guilt, of pity, something. She nodded. “I see.”
    â€œI talked to him. Went down there, where he’s staying at. Crowley said what he said before. He doesn’t know anything.”
    â€œWhy didn’t you let me know?”
    He didn’t bother answering that.
    â€œWhere’s he staying?” she said.
    â€œI told you. I already talked to him.”
    â€œI want to talk to him myself.”
    â€œYou don’t.”
    â€œWhere is he? He didn’t get the casino job.” Not with two felony convictions and prison time.
    â€œNo.”
    â€œYou have to tell me.”
    He leaned back, ramrod straight, and lifted his chin—­the move he used to show you that he wasn’t playing. “Is that what you think?”
    Her neighbor’s kids were in the backyard, running around with their dog. Julianna could hear the laughter and panting and happy growling.
    She went into the kitchen and cut two slices of the lemon meringue pie she’d bought at the German bakery DeMars liked.
    â€œMy favorite,” he said when she set the plate in front of him. “Look at that.”
    â€œI’m sorry,” she said. “I was out of line.”
    He ate the slice of pie in four big bites, then squared up the loose crumbs with his fork and ate those, too. “You don’t want anything to do with him, Juli,” he said. “He’s bad news. You have to trust me on that.”
    â€œI do.”
    â€œAll right.”
    â€œWhat about the other thing? The woman on Facebook?”
    â€œGive it another week,” he said. “You don’t hear back from her about the photo, I’ll see what I can do.”
    â€œThank you, DeMars.”
    He reached across the table and took her small hand in his big one. He leaned in and let the lines on his forehead soften. This was another one of his moves, the gentle father. “Forget about Crowley. All right? He doesn’t have the answer. You are here. That’s the answer. Forget about him.”
    â€œI will,” she said, and gave his hand a squeeze. “You’re right. I promise.”

 
Wyatt
    CHAPTER 7
    W yatt’s father was stern and humorless, a buzz-­cut high-­school basketball coach. One time the school principal made him phone a player on his team to apologize for an incident at practice. Wyatt’s father had thrown a basketball and nailed the kid in the head with it. Wyatt’s father called the kid and told him he was sorry—­he’d been aiming for the kid standing next to him. Wyatt’s mother laughed, but his father didn’t understand why. He just looked at her like he always did, with vague and patient disgust.
    It wasn’t until Wyatt landed the job at the Pheasant Run—­in September of 1985, the day after his fifteenth birthday—­that he realized just how lonely and unhappy his life had been up until then.
    His first day of work at the movie theater, O’Malley came over to Wyatt and asked him who his favorite band was. Wyatt panicked. He was fifteen years old. O’Malley was seventeen and a half. They inhabited different universes.
    â€œI don’t know,” Wyatt said.
    â€œI like that,” O’Malley said, nodding. “An open mind. I’ll bring you some tapes. Come here.”
    O’Malley straightened the knot of Wyatt’s official Monarch Theaters tie. The tie was black polyester, to match the slacks. The blazer was orange.
    â€œThanks,” Wyatt said.
    â€œWhat’s your name? You want some Junior Mints or Raisinets? Here’s what we do. Just take a ­couple of pieces from every box, two or three max, then put the box back in the case. Ingenious, if I do say so myself.”
    It was pretty ingenious. This was back before boxes of candy were sealed or shrink-­wrapped.
    â€œMichael,” Wyatt said. “My name’s