of southern law enforcement: overweight,
pants hanging too low, small mirrored sunglasses, a mouth full of chewing
tobacco. She’d imagined him swaggering
into her classroom, hooking his thumbs into the waistband of his pants, and
drawling,Now, just what did you want to talk to me about, little lady? But
Miles was none of these things.
He was
attractive, too. Not as Michael had been—dark and glamorous, everything always
perfectly in place—but appealing in a natural, more rugged way. His face had a
roughness to it, as if he’d spent many hours in the sun as a boy. But contrary
to what she’d said, he didn’t look forty, and that had surprised her. It shouldn’t have. After all, Jonah was only
seven, and she knew Missy Ryan had died young. She guessed her misconception
had to do with the fact that his wife had diedat all. She couldn’t imagine that
happening to someone her age. It wasn’t right; it seemed out of sync with the
natural order of the world. Sarah was
still musing over this as she glanced around the room one last time, making
sure she had everything she needed. She removed her purse from the bottom
drawer of her desk, slipped it over her shoulder, put everything else under her
other arm, and then turned off the lights on her way out. As she walked to her car, she felt a pang of
disappointment when she saw that Miles had already left. Chiding herself for
her thoughts, she reminded herself that a widower like Miles would hardly be
entertaining similar thoughts about his young son’s schoolteacher.
Sarah Andrews
had no idea how wrong she was.
A Bend in the Road
Chapter 4
By the dim
light on my desk, the newspaper clippings look older than they are. Though yellowed and wrinkled, they seem
strangely heavy, as if burdened with the weight of my life back then.
There are some
simple truths in life, and this is one of them: Whenever someone dies young and
tragically, there’s always interest in the story, especially in a small town,
where everyone seems to know each other.
When Missy Ryan
died, it was front-page news, and gasps were heard in kitchens
throughout New
Bern when newspapers were opened the following morning. There was
a major article
and three photographs: one of the accident scene and two others that showed
Missy as the beautiful woman she’d been. There were two more lengthy articles
in the days that followed as more information was released, and in the
beginning, everyone was confident that the case would have a resolution. A month or so after the event, another
article appeared on the front page, stating that a reward had been offered by
the town council for any information on the case; and with that, confidence
began to fade. And as is typical of any news event, so did the interest. People
around town stopped discussing it as frequently, Missy’s name came up less and
less often. In time, another article appeared, this one on the third page,
repeating what had been stated in the first few articles and again asking
anyone in the community with information to come forward. After that, there
wasn’t anything at all.
The articles
had always followed the same pattern, outlining what was known for sure and laying
out the facts in a simple and straightforward way: On a warm summer evening in
1986, Missy Ryan—high school sweetheart of a local sheriff and mother of one
son—went out for a jog, just as it was getting dark. Two people had seen her
running along Madame Moore’s Lane a few minutes after she started; each of them
had been interviewed later by the highway patrol. The rest of the articles
concerned the events of that night. What none of them mentioned, however, was
how Miles had spent the last few hours before he finally learned what happened.
Those hours,
I’m sure, were the ones that Miles would always remember, since they were the
last hours of normalcy he would know. Miles blew off the driveway and the walk,
just as Missy had asked, then went inside. He picked
pants hanging too low, small mirrored sunglasses, a mouth full of chewing
tobacco. She’d imagined him swaggering
into her classroom, hooking his thumbs into the waistband of his pants, and
drawling,Now, just what did you want to talk to me about, little lady? But
Miles was none of these things.
He was
attractive, too. Not as Michael had been—dark and glamorous, everything always
perfectly in place—but appealing in a natural, more rugged way. His face had a
roughness to it, as if he’d spent many hours in the sun as a boy. But contrary
to what she’d said, he didn’t look forty, and that had surprised her. It shouldn’t have. After all, Jonah was only
seven, and she knew Missy Ryan had died young. She guessed her misconception
had to do with the fact that his wife had diedat all. She couldn’t imagine that
happening to someone her age. It wasn’t right; it seemed out of sync with the
natural order of the world. Sarah was
still musing over this as she glanced around the room one last time, making
sure she had everything she needed. She removed her purse from the bottom
drawer of her desk, slipped it over her shoulder, put everything else under her
other arm, and then turned off the lights on her way out. As she walked to her car, she felt a pang of
disappointment when she saw that Miles had already left. Chiding herself for
her thoughts, she reminded herself that a widower like Miles would hardly be
entertaining similar thoughts about his young son’s schoolteacher.
Sarah Andrews
had no idea how wrong she was.
A Bend in the Road
Chapter 4
By the dim
light on my desk, the newspaper clippings look older than they are. Though yellowed and wrinkled, they seem
strangely heavy, as if burdened with the weight of my life back then.
There are some
simple truths in life, and this is one of them: Whenever someone dies young and
tragically, there’s always interest in the story, especially in a small town,
where everyone seems to know each other.
When Missy Ryan
died, it was front-page news, and gasps were heard in kitchens
throughout New
Bern when newspapers were opened the following morning. There was
a major article
and three photographs: one of the accident scene and two others that showed
Missy as the beautiful woman she’d been. There were two more lengthy articles
in the days that followed as more information was released, and in the
beginning, everyone was confident that the case would have a resolution. A month or so after the event, another
article appeared on the front page, stating that a reward had been offered by
the town council for any information on the case; and with that, confidence
began to fade. And as is typical of any news event, so did the interest. People
around town stopped discussing it as frequently, Missy’s name came up less and
less often. In time, another article appeared, this one on the third page,
repeating what had been stated in the first few articles and again asking
anyone in the community with information to come forward. After that, there
wasn’t anything at all.
The articles
had always followed the same pattern, outlining what was known for sure and laying
out the facts in a simple and straightforward way: On a warm summer evening in
1986, Missy Ryan—high school sweetheart of a local sheriff and mother of one
son—went out for a jog, just as it was getting dark. Two people had seen her
running along Madame Moore’s Lane a few minutes after she started; each of them
had been interviewed later by the highway patrol. The rest of the articles
concerned the events of that night. What none of them mentioned, however, was
how Miles had spent the last few hours before he finally learned what happened.
Those hours,
I’m sure, were the ones that Miles would always remember, since they were the
last hours of normalcy he would know. Miles blew off the driveway and the walk,
just as Missy had asked, then went inside. He picked
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