Because of a Girl (11 page)

Okay, high school
, he decided.

With the halls mostly empty, he went straight to the art teacher's classroom, then leaned one shoulder against the wall right outside, waiting for the next bell. He occupied himself listening to voice mail again. If he answered half the calls that came in, he wouldn't get anything else done.

Even though he expected the bell, it was loud enough to make him jump. Within seconds, doors opened and students poured out into the hall. Unless he wanted to imitate a salmon struggling upriver, he had to wait until the room had emptied.

Then he stuck his head in. “Ms. Guzman?”

Wiry and energetic, the teacher was setting some kind of blobs onto the long tables that filled the room in lieu of desks.
Clay
, he realized. Looking surprised, she said, “Detective Moore! What can I do for you?”

When he explained, she shook her head in perplexity. “My windows do look out on the front of the school—” she waved toward them “—but I don't recall so much as glancing out that morning. I rarely do. I certainly didn't see Sabra
or
Asher. Most often I'm busy before class preparing materials, like I am now.”

“Ceramics, huh?”

She chuckled. “Well, undirected sculpting. Actually, Emily is in this class.” Her expression sobered. “Sabra's class already did this earlier in the semester. She created a quite astonishing gargoyle. Some of the pieces weren't worth firing and glazing, but hers could have sold in a local gallery. I worry about her.”

“You're not alone,” he said. “I'll try to trace this rumor to its source, but I'm not optimistic. Please call if you hear anything about it.”

“Of course I will,” she said warmly.

He nodded and reached the door just as the first students arrived. The pair of boys looked to be about twelve, so presumably were freshmen. Jack smiled a little ruefully, remembering what Meg said about why girls this age were prone to crushes on their teachers instead of classmates. He'd been skinny going into high school and was battling acne that made him painfully shy. A romantic figure, he wasn't.

Could he waylay Emily after school again to find out what, if anything, she'd learned? Or was that just another excuse to see her mother? Now that he knew how Meg felt in his arms, getting her off his mind was even harder.

Reluctantly, he decided he'd text again.

 

CHAPTER ELEVEN

F
OR
ONCE
, M
EG
almost dreaded Emily's arrival home from school. The scene between them last night had been awful. Emily had said really hurtful things, the worst being her accusation that Meg was glad Sabra was gone. Meg had been too stunned to respond.

Fortunately, once she'd traced her pattern on the monk's cloth she was using for this particular rug, hooking was something she could do without thought. A lap frame held the fabric taut, and she plied the hook with her right hand while her left hand manipulated the wool beneath the stretched cloth. The pattern was one she'd been excited about when she imagined it: deep purple wine grapes, ready for harvesting, the vines forming a pattern she could see in her mind's eye. She had cut the strips of wool narrower than usual to allow for finer detail. If the rug came out the way she imagined, she knew it would sell for a substantial price in the gallery downtown. Wine tourism had transformed Frenchman Lake.

The roar of the school bus's diesel engine and the squeal of brakes gave her advance warning. Her hands went still as she waited. Emily had darn well better be on that bus.

The front door opened. Once upon a time, her daughter would have called, “Mom, I'm home!” and come looking for Meg. No more. These days, she was more likely to hurry straight upstairs and close herself into her bedroom until dinnertime.

But today momentary silence was followed by a tentative, “Mom?”

“I'm in my studio.”

Emily appeared in the arched opening. Her face looked pinched. When Meg didn't say anything, Emily bit her lip. “Are you mad at me?”

Meg tried for a smile. “How many times in your life have you known me to get mad?”

“Um... I guess just after the party.” Emily chewed on her bottom lip. “But...you don't sound like you want to talk to me.”

Meg hated hearing her usually confident daughter timid. She produced a half smile. “You haven't been very interested in talking to
me
lately. And, yes, you hurt my feelings last night. There are consequences to that, you know.”

Emily eyed her mother warily. “You mean, like, I'll be on restriction?”

“Don't be silly.” Meg held out an arm. “Will you give me a hug?”

The teenager dropped her pack to the floor and all but flung herself into Meg's arms. “I'm sorry!” she wailed. “I didn't mean it. Most moms wouldn't have let Sabra stay here. I know that. I just... I'm scared!”

Meg held her close, relishing what had become a rare occurrence, but couldn't help letting some tartness slip into her voice. “So you had to take it out on me?”

Her daughter lifted a tear-dampened face. “I don't know why I did. I get all tangled up sometimes.”

With a chuckle, Meg gave her another squeeze. “Hormones.”

Emily retreated, snuffling and wiping her wet cheeks. “Did you? I mean, when you were my age?”

Meg hesitated. Maybe she should have been more open with Emily about her own childhood. Talking to Jack had made her wonder. She had an opportunity here that might not come again soon.

“I felt rebellious,” she said slowly, “but I was too intimidated to come right out with it.” She nodded at a chair. “Sit down.”

Emily did, her forehead crinkling. “You never want to say anything about your family. Did your dad hit you or something?”

“No, nothing like that. My parents were just...unemotional. They didn't hug or kiss, me or each other. The worst was when my father froze me out.” She felt a chill even remembering. “If I annoyed him, he might not look at me or speak to me for days. I was required to come to the dinner table, but when I was in trouble, we'd eat in absolute silence. I'd shrivel inside.” She'd felt as she imagined a prisoner held in isolation did, utterly alone. The fact that she had been alone when she was with the two people who should love her most had made it worse.

Emily's brown eyes were fixed on her mother's face. “What did you
do
? I mean, to get in trouble.”

“Be too loud. Beg for permission to do something I'd already been told I couldn't do. Forget to do a chore. Not be respectful enough. Bring home a grade he didn't deem adequate. Break a dish when I was drying them.” She laughed without humor. “Almost anything. And Mom always went along. My parents should never have had children. I think I was more a nuisance to them than anything. They did what they saw as their duty, but it never occurred to them to give more.” She shook her head. “Jack—Detective Moore—asked me if they're alive. I told him the truth. I have no idea. I have no desire to see either, ever again.”

“Did you get pregnant to, I don't know, make them mad or something?”

The question struck Meg as surprisingly perceptive, coming from someone Emily's age. She actually had to think about her answer for a minute.

“The pregnancy wasn't planned, if that's what you're asking. But I'd started sneaking out of the house after my parents had gone to bed. I went wild. I gave myself permission to
feel
. I suppose my choice of boyfriend was a form of rebellion. They would have hated him.” But not for the reasons they should have. Protecting her from hurt or disappointment would never have entered their minds.

Shock widened Emily's eyes. “Didn't they ever
meet
him?”

“They weren't interested. They didn't encourage me to bring friends home from school, and they were never available to pick me up if I did after-school activities. As a result, I didn't have close friends. I didn't want to tell anyone that my parents weren't like theirs.”

“How could they be like that?” Emily sounded genuinely perplexed, which made Meg warm inside.

“I can't be sure. Mom had grown up in foster homes, which might explain her, but Dad's parents were alive. They lived back east, but we never went to see them or anything. I think he talked to them on the phone once in a while. Now I have to wonder if they were abusive, or maybe just cold, like him.”

“What did your parents do? I mean, for work?”

“My father was a pathologist.” Seeing Emily's puzzlement, she explained, “They're doctors who do autopsies to find the cause of death. I feel sure he went that route so he didn't have to deal with many people.”

Emily wrinkled her nose. “People who were alive.”

This laugh felt more natural. “Right. My mother was an administrator for a nursing home. I'm sure she was efficient.”

Emily stared at her, unblinking, for a moment. “How come you're not
like
them?”

Another good question.
She grinned at her daughter. “I rebelled. Whenever I have to make a decision, I ask myself what they'd have done.”

“And you do the opposite.” Emily sounded awed. “That's kind of cool.”

Meg smiled. “Thank you. And that's enough about them. How was your day?”

“Well, I didn't tell you what I heard.” The story burst out. Emily said she'd thought about asking Ms. Guzman herself if it was true, but instead she'd told Detective Moore about it, and
he'd
said what Emily heard wasn't true at all. “I thought he was going to talk to Ms. Guzman today,” she concluded, “but I don't know.”

The doorbell rang. Emily jumped to her feet. “I bet that's him!”

Watching her race for the front door, Meg shook her head in bemusement.
Go figure.
Last night Emily had hated them both; today she was remorseful and now eager to greet Jack.

The rumble of a deep male voice played counterpoint to her daughter's high, excited one. A fluttering in Meg's chest made her feel about as grown-up as her daughter. Taking a deep breath, she composed herself.

A moment later, both appeared in the doorway.

As he'd been every time she saw him, Jack Moore appeared the quintessential detective. Today he wore khaki chinos instead of dark slacks, a brown, long-sleeve crewneck pullover replacing the white dress shirt and tie. But the weapon and badge at his waist were what drew attention.

Along with his height, broad shoulders, athletic build and craggy face
, Meg admitted wryly. Yes, and the intensity that seemed to be part of him.

Right now his brown eyes were friendly instead of guarded. “Sorry to keep popping in like this,” he said. “I should have just texted Emily, but I wanted to find out what she'd learned today.”

“Did you talk to Ms. Guzman?” Emily asked eagerly.

“I did,” he said. “She says she never so much as looked out the window that morning, and saw neither Sabra nor Asher.”

“So...who started this rumor?” Meg asked, worry twisting in her stomach. Was it just talk, exaggerated as it spread, or had the misinformation been deliberately planted?

Jack's expression told her he shared her concern. “That's the question, isn't it?” He focused on Emily. “Who said what?”

Before Emily could start, Meg suggested, “Why don't we adjourn to the kitchen? I'm sure Emily could use a snack, and if you don't expect gourmet, I can offer you a cup of coffee.”

His grin stole her breath. “Thank you. I'm an Americano kind of guy. I like my coffee plain.”

Meg smiled back until she became aware that Emily was watching suspiciously.

In the kitchen, while she put water on to boil, Emily got out the milk and sliced some pumpkin bread Meg had made the day before. Eventually, they were all seated at the farm table. Jack inhaled steam from his coffee, then eyed the pumpkin bread. If he hadn't been here, Meg would have had milk with Emily, but she didn't mind a jolt of caffeine.

He devoured a piece of bread, then took a second slice at Meg's encouragement before once again looking straight at Emily. “Okay.”

“Well, first I heard this girl, Courtney Vanduren. You remember her, Mom.”

Meg nodded. Courtney had attended a theater camp with Emily the summer between eighth and ninth grades. “She said Jenn told her. So I asked her later, because I know a bunch of girls named Jenn. She says it was Jenn Carmichael.”

Meg couldn't help wrinkling her nose, just a little.

“Mom doesn't like Jenn,” Emily told Jack. “She told Mrs. Farabee, my sixth-grade teacher, that I'd stolen something from her, and it wasn't true.” Indignation rang in her voice. “She was just trying to get me in trouble.”

Not smiling, although Meg could tell he wanted to, Jack asked, “Has she improved any since then?”

“She's a cheerleader.”

“Ah.” One side of his mouth tipped up. “Popular, huh?”

Emily sniffed. “Yes, but I don't know why. All she wants is everybody to look at
her
all the time.”

“You know,” he said, “the most popular kids in high school rarely stay that way in college, never mind later in life. This Jenn, for example. Is she smart? Good at anything in particular?”

“She can do the splits,” Emily said, as if to be fair. “Before she moved here, she was in gymnastics.” She shrugged. “Mostly she's pretty.”

“Gotcha.” He smiled at her. “So are you.”

“I'm not blonde and blue-eyed.” Her mood visibly dimmed. “Like Jenn and Sabra.”

“But you like Sabra and not Jenn,” he observed.

“Sabra's not totally full of herself,” Emily said.

“Did you try to talk to Jenn?”

“Uh-huh, but it didn't help, because she says she heard some kids in class talking, and she wasn't sure who. She thought maybe this guy named Dan Hooper, but I don't know him that well, and she wasn't even sure it
was
him.”

Jack nodded. “All right, Emily, here's the thing. I want you to quit asking questions.”

Emily's mouth opened in instant protest, but he shook his head before she could say anything.

“We have two possibilities here. Sabra left willingly. She either took off, bought a bus ticket or stuck out her thumb and could be anywhere by now, or she's not far away, staying with someone she knows. Option two, she was abducted. And that's what you're really afraid of, isn't it?”

Emily's face worked. Finally she nodded.

“If that's the case—and I'm not convinced—it could have been a stranger. In which case we won't learn a thing asking questions at the high school unless someone comes forward to say they noticed someone hanging around outside that morning, or Sabra getting pushed into a car. And why wouldn't that person have already done so?”

Meg sat silent, understanding where he was going with this. The dread she hadn't wanted to acknowledge felt like cold fingers on her skin.

Predictably, Emily started to argue. “But then why can't I—”

“You didn't let me finish.” All detective now, Jack sounded deadly serious. “It's hard to imagine someone didn't notice a stranger lurking. As we discussed before, Sabra would surely have struggled if someone grabbed her. Screamed or yelled. Your mother didn't see anyone else coming or going right when she dropped off Sabra, but that doesn't mean there weren't other people around.”

Emily nodded, if reluctantly.

“I think it's likelier that, if she's being held against her will, it's by somebody she knows and trusted enough to go with that morning. She did pack as if she intended to be away for a night or two. So unless that person is a relative, say, like her father—”

“But she didn't know him,” Emily protested. “She said she didn't even have a picture of him.”

He dipped his head in acknowledgment, his gaze staying keen on her face. “Then chances are this person is someone she knows on a day-to-day basis. Another student, a former friend, a guy who maybe doesn't go to the high school but has to have been around. It could even be an adult.”

“You mean, like a teacher?” Her voice was hushed.