“So either he climbs over his own wall, or else he walks through the woods down to the river and leaves from there, right?”
“Yes...” “So he could’ve tripped that camera. I mean, it’s been a few years since I was there; maybe it’s gone.”
“And maybe it’s not!” Daisy said. “Yeah. Maybe it’s not.” “Exit here,” she said suddenly, and I did.
I knew it was the wrong exit, but I took it anyway, and without Daisy even telling me to,
I got in the right lane to drive back into the city, toward my house. Toward Davis’s house.
Daisy took out her phone and raised it to her ear. “Hey, Eric. It’s Daisy.
Listen, I’m really sorry, but I’ve got the stomach flu. Could be norovirus.”
“Yeah, no problem. Sorry again.” She hung up, put her phone in her bag, and said,
“If you even imply diarrhea, they tell you to stay home because they’re so scared of outbreaks.
Right, okay, we’re doing this. You still got that canoe?”
THREE
YEARS BEFORE, Mom and I had sometimes paddled down the White River, past Davis’s house to the park behind the art museum.
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