The Last Thing He Told Me by Laura Dave (bill gates books to read .txt) 📗

the only church we’ve walked into—the final of the six contenders—that Bailey said felt familiar to her.

“We are just looking for a list of weddings that were held here during the 2008 football season,” Bailey says.

Elenor, who is in her early seventies and pushing six feet tall, looks at us, overwhelmed.

“It’s less complicated than it sounds,” I say. “We actually just need a list of the weddings your pastor performed during the home games of the 2008 season. And we don’t need the weddings that fell on the other days of those weekends. Just the weddings that happened to actually take place during the Longhorns’ home games. That’s all.”

“Oh, during the home games from twelve years ago. Is that all?”

I ignore her tone and plow forward, hoping to turn her around. “I actually already did the legwork,” I say.

I nudge the list across the table toward her. I’ve created a chart with the Longhorns’ schedule from twelve years ago. I had Jules cross-check it at the San Francisco Chronicle, using their research tools, just to be sure that we didn’t miss any of the games, just to make sure we checked all the boxes.

There are only eight dates in question. There are only eight dates when a small Bailey could have been walking into the stadium with Owen, could have found herself sitting here.

Elenor stares at the list. But she doesn’t make a move to pick it up.

I look around the office, for clues about her—clues that may help me win her over. Christmas cards and bumper stickers cover her desk; photographs of Elenor’s family are lined up on the fireplace mantel; a large bulletin board is brimming over with photographs and notes from parishioners. The office reveals forty years of building relationships right in this room, in this church. She knows everything about this place. We just need to know one small piece of it.

“I know it seems like a lot,” I say. “But, if you take a look, you’ll see we have downloaded the home game schedule from the 2008 season. And we are looking at fewer than ten weekends. We have them all for you, ready to go. Even if your pastor officiated two weddings a weekend, it’d be fewer than twenty couples.”

“Look,” Elenor says. “I’m sorry. I’m simply not authorized to give out that information.”

“I understand that’s the policy and why that’s the policy,” I say. “But you must agree these are exceptional circumstances.”

“Of course. It’s terrible to hear that your husband is missing. It seems you are dealing with a lot because of his absence. But that doesn’t change our policy.”

“Can’t you make an exception to your policy?” Bailey says, her tone too harsh. “We clearly aren’t serial killers or anything. We could care less who these people are.”

I put my hand on Bailey’s leg, trying to calm her.

“We can sit here while we read the names,” I say. “No printouts or addresses even have to leave this room.”

Elenor looks back and forth between us, like she is torn between helping us and kicking us out. But it looks like she is leaning toward kicking us out. I can’t let that happen, not when it’s possible we are onto something. If we can figure out what wedding Owen and Bailey attended, we’ll understand their tie to Austin. And maybe that tie will help explain what Grady was doing on my doorstep, what Owen is doing so far away from it.

“I really think Bailey may have been at this church,” I say. “It would be very helpful to her, to both of us, to know for sure. And if you knew what we’ve been through this week, without her father… let’s just say, it would be an act of kindness.”

I see the sympathy percolate in Elenor’s eyes and feel hopeful suddenly that my plea has put her on the side of helping.

“I’d like to help you. I would. But it’s not something I can do, dear. If you want to leave your number, I can check with the pastor, but I just don’t think that he’s going to want to provide our parishioners’ personal details.”

“Jesus, lady, you’re not going to give us a break here?” Bailey says.

It’s, admittedly, not great language for her to use.

Elenor stands up, her head dangerously close to hitting the ceiling. “I’m going to need to excuse myself now, friends,” she says. “We have a Bible study group this evening that I need to prepare for in the conference room. So if you wouldn’t mind showing yourselves out.”

“Look, Bailey didn’t mean to be rude to you, but her father is missing and we’re just trying to find out why. It’s putting our family under a great deal of stress. Family is everything to us, as I’m sure you can understand.”

I motion toward the photographs lining the mantel above the fireplace—the Christmas shots of her children and grandchildren, the candid shots of her husband, their dogs, a farm. Several photographs of Elenor and, perhaps, her favorite grandchild, sporting some crazy streaked hair of his own. His in a shade of green.

“I’m sure you’d be the first to go to great lengths for your family,” I say. “I can see that about you. Please just think about it for a second. If I were sitting there and you were sitting here, I’m just asking you, what would you hope I’d do? Because, I’d try to do it.”

She pauses and straightens her dress. Then, miraculously, Elenor sits back down, pushing her bifocals higher on her nose.

“Let me see what I can do,” she says.

Bailey smiles in relief.

“The names can’t leave this room.”

“They won’t leave your desk,” I say. “We will figure out if there is someone who can help our family. That’s all.”

Elenor nods and pulls my list across the desk. Then she picks it up. She looks down at it, in her hands, as though she can’t believe she is doing this. She sighs so we know she can’t believe she’s doing this.

She turns