Because of a Girl (4 page)

She shot a resentful look his way. “It's not like it was my business where she was all the time.”

Yep, definitely evasive
, Jack decided.

With a sniff, she continued, “We have some different friends. Plus, I work on school plays and I started newspaper this year, so I don't go right home after school a lot of days.”

“What about Sabra?” he asked. “She involved in any extracurricular activities?”

“Um...not really. Probably because of being pregnant. You know.”

Yeah, he didn't suppose whatever teacher cast plays would want to put an obviously pregnant girl onstage. And nothing he'd learned about Sabra Lee encouraged him to picture her doing Science Olympiad or yearbook.

“Does she catch the bus and go straight home most days?” he asked.

Emily was back to studying her hands on her lap. “I think she hangs out with friends.”

“Can you give me names?”

Clearly feeling pressured, she offered a few she hadn't included before.

Jack let her go back to class at last. He worked his way down a list of other students, learning nothing new. None of the friends whose names Emily had offered admitted to hanging out with Sabra after school.

In fact, one looked surprised and said, “I think she practically always catches the bus. I never see her after school.”

In other words, Sabra Lee had been practicing her vanishing act for a while. Possibly with some help from her best friend.

He and the principal huddled over a flyer to be sent home with students. It asked the students or parents to contact Jack if they had seen Sabra on school grounds on the relevant morning, or had any information pertaining to her disappearance.

He could only talk to teachers during their individual planning periods, which required him to put together a jigsaw puzzle. If he sat down with the geometry teacher fifth period, he'd have to leave World History until tomorrow. He'd long since missed the Spanish teacher's planning period. Computer Science, too, he saw; that had been fourth period. And so on. He thought it was pretty unlikely any of them would be able to contribute, but he wasn't ruling anything out.

And face it—the kid hadn't been gone long at all. The police wouldn't have gotten involved yet if not for Sabra's irregular home placement, or if anyone had seen Meg Harper, her van or Sabra at the school Friday morning. Girls her age did impulsive things. It was still likeliest she was hiding out somewhere because of some mini-catastrophe that had her distraught. She and her guy could have headed for Seattle to hang out and pretend they were UW students for a few days. See a concert at the Showbox. Maybe they were on their way to Vegas in some beater of a car, convinced they could get married there, no questions asked. Who knew?

He chose to start with Carl Howard, biology, following a school secretary's directions to the classroom. A bell rang just as he arrived, and he had to step aside and flatten himself against the wall to avoid being trampled. The kids might as well have exploded off starting blocks on a track.

When the last seemed to have passed, he peered cautiously into the classroom, where the teacher was wiping clean a whiteboard. As expected, “the douche” was neither young nor hip. In his forties, at a guess, skinny and balding. Nothing about him would stand out. He wore chinos, a plaid sport shirt and brown lace-up shoes that were starting to roll out.

Jack rapped lightly on the door and, when the teacher glanced his way, introduced himself.

The conversation was short and unhelpful despite Mr. Howard's cooperation. Sabra Lee was a C student in his class, which frustrated him as he felt sure she had the ability to do well. She just wasn't interested.

Jack asked how many students really were enthusiastic, and saw subtle signs of discouragement. The gung-ho, college-bound kids paid attention because they wanted the grades. Some seemed to enjoy the experiments. But science classes in general weren't popular.

“Because they can't skate in my classroom,” the teacher declared.

Had he noticed Sabra huddling with other students? Only Emily. They shared a table and partnered for lab work. Boys? He hadn't noticed. Any talk among teachers? About her pregnancy, yes, and whether she should have been shuttled to the alternative school the minute she started to show, but otherwise? No.

Jack thanked him and moved on.

 

CHAPTER FOUR

A
NDREA
L
EE
WORKED
at The Beauty Boutique, which along with haircuts and perms offered waxing, sugaring—he didn't even let himself speculate about that one—and manicures and pedicures. He stepped inside cautiously, seeing only women. Every single head turned. A sharp, chemical smell overwhelmed Jack's sinuses.

A middle-aged woman who had been folding tiny pieces of aluminum foil into a customer's hair left her to step behind the small front counter. Lifting her gaze from his badge, she smiled tentatively. “May I help you?”

She seemed a little old to be Sabra's mother, but he couldn't be sure. Nobody he saw resembled Sabra, judging from the most recent school photo.

“I'm looking for Andrea Lee,” he said. “I understand she works here.”

“Oh!” She pressed a hand to her bosom. “We've all been so terrified, wondering what possibly could have happened to Sabra. Andrea was so brave to come to work today.”

“She's here, then?” He studied the half-dozen women either cutting hair or working on someone's fingernails. He was pretty sure every one of them was eavesdropping.

“Yes, let me get her.” His informant went rushing to the back, where a curtain blocked the view of a supply or break room. A moment later, a second woman emerged, short and blonde like Sabra.

Any pretense of a waistline had disappeared, and he could tell by the time she was ten feet away that the blond hair wasn't natural—or, at least, wasn't natural anymore. Blue eyes welled with tears, tracking mascara down her cheeks. A whiff of cigarette smoke accompanied her.

“At last!” she cried. “I thought the police were pretending Sabra didn't
have
a mother.”

Oh, damn.
She'd managed more high drama in one sentence than a dozen teenagers had in the several hours he'd been at the high school. Jack hadn't gone out for theater in high school or college, and he didn't like being dragged into a scene staged for the benefit of an enraptured audience.

“Mrs. Lee, can we step outside to talk about your daughter's disappearance? Or is there somewhere private we can speak?”

“All of my coworkers know about Sabra. I've been so shattered.” The woman who had gone back to foiling hair had tears in her eyes now.

Mrs. Lee finally led him through the shop, eight pairs of eyes following them, and behind the curtain to what was, indeed, a cramped break room with a small refrigerator, a microwave and a couple of reasonably comfortable chairs.

Private it wasn't, but Jack supposed it didn't matter.

“Emily is such a nice girl,” Mrs. Lee burst out. “I
thought
her mother was trustworthy.”

Despite his own reservations concerning Ms. Harper, that irritated him. This woman had tossed her own kid out. Meg had taken her in.

He couldn't resist saying, “I assume you visited the home where your daughter was living, to be sure it was suitable?”

“Well, of course I've met Emily's mother,” she said sharply. “I was grateful when she offered to give us time to cool off, but now she's lost my daughter.” She snatched up a napkin to pat at her cheeks.

“She didn't say whether the two of you have been in counseling.”

Sabra's mother gazed woefully at him. “Oh, what
difference
does it make now? I would give anything to go back!”

Jack found it interesting that Meg had said something similar.

He asked questions. Mrs. Lee evaded. It wasn't
her
fault her precious daughter had gone MIA. Her woe-is-me shit rapidly became tiresome.

By the time he gave up, Jack had reached only two meaningful conclusions. The first was that, contrary to his suspicions, Ms. Harper had told the truth; Mrs. Lee hadn't so much as spoken to her daughter since the grand fight, and very likely didn't have any intentions of doing so in the foreseeable future. Second, Mr. Lee—if he existed at all—was also MIA. “He abandoned us!” she cried, but Jack couldn't pin down when that was. Mrs. Lee claimed to have no idea where he was and insisted he'd never paid child support. Unfortunately, she had another child at home, a girl who was eleven. Bryony—she carefully spelled it for him—had a different father, who did pay child support, although his wife resented it and he hardly ever spent time with Bryony.

Poor kid.

Jack's head was throbbing by the time he thanked the woman for her time, promised to keep her informed and left the beauty shop.

He sat behind the wheel of his SUV, doing battle with an inexplicable desire to return to the Harpers' house. If Meg—no, he should stick to
Ms. Harper
—had learned anything new, she'd have called him. She had his number.

Home
, he told himself. A beer, a Mariners game and a frozen pizza added up to the smart choice.

* * *

T
UESDAY
MORNING
,
M
EG
tensed when the doorbell rang. She could not believe that jerk Rivera had called Child Protective Services on her. No discussion with her about his concerns, no warning. He'd just done it.

As mad as she'd been and still was, it was nerve-racking to have a social worker standing on her doorstep, intent on assessing whether Meg had abused or neglected Sabra.

But she made herself take a deep breath and summon her anger. This was insulting. It was also a huge waste of resources. Instead of trying to blame her for some unstated sin, everyone should be looking for Sabra.

Squaring her shoulders, she opened the door. A middle-aged woman who reminded Meg of a favorite art teacher in high school looked back at her.

“Ms. Harper? I'm Kathryn Berry. Please, call me Kathryn. And thank you for agreeing to meet with me.”

As if she had any more of a choice than she had when either of the two police officers had appeared on her doorstep in the last week. Meg managed a polite smile and let the social worker in.

Leading the way, she said, “Would you care for tea or coffee?”

“Oh!” Kathryn darted into the living room to stare at the shepherd rug. “This is amazing. Where did you...” Her voice trailed off as she spotted the pillows. “Oh, my. These are wonderful. Did you make them?”

This might be an attempt to disarm her, but Meg didn't think so. Her walls started to crumble.

“Yes, that's what I do for a living. I design and hook wool rugs, pillow covers, wall hangings. I also sell and occasionally license the patterns and am working on a book that teaches technique and has some new patterns.”

“Where do you sell?” She looked chagrined. “I suppose we should get business over before I drool on your rug.”

Meg laughed. “Tea or coffee?”

The social worker chose tea, and she wandered after Meg to the kitchen, pausing only briefly to peek in the former dining room, now Meg's studio. In the kitchen, she set her briefcase on the table. “This house has such charm.”

Either she was laying it on thick or she and Meg could be friends. In case of the former, Meg reminded herself to be wary.

Once she'd poured the tea, they sat down, facing each other across the table. Kathryn Berry had her wavy, gray-streaked hair cut short. She wore little if any makeup and didn't seem to care about crow's feet. She opened her briefcase and removed a pair of reading glasses, a notepad and pen. “I'm still low-tech,” she said, wrinkling her nose.

“I'm so low-tech,” Meg admitted. “My daughter embarrasses me on a regular basis.”

“A five-year-old could embarrass me.” Kathryn smiled apologetically. “Okay, tell me about your daughter first.”

Meg did, relieved because, despite the recent outbreak of hormone-driven sullenness, Emily came across as successful. The social worker jotted down notes: daughter in honors English, stage-managed the high school's fall musical, had a 4.0 GPA so far. Of course, none of that said anything about Emily's real character, the qualities like kindness and generosity that Meg valued most.

But she heard herself continue talking. “Not a grain of artistic ability that I can see. Oddly enough, that's Sabra's strength. Her art teacher raved to me, and I had to agree that what she showed me was head and shoulders beyond what any of her peers are doing.”

She explained that Sabra and Emily had known each other since fifth grade, but had grown closer in middle school and become best friends the previous year. The past year, Meg had gotten an earful about Sabra's tempestuous relationship with her mother.

“They're both over the top emotionally. You know? Although at Sabra's age, it's a little hard to know whether she has a fiery personality or is just an average teenager. Plus, of course, there's the pregnancy hormones.”

“And the very fact she
is
pregnant, which must alter how other kids perceive her.”

“Yes.”

Meg explained to this woman, as she had to Detective Moore, that she'd initially taken Sabra in on an emergency basis, not expecting her stay to extend the way it had.

“She's proved a lot harder to deal with than I expected,” she confessed, making a face. “Right now, I'm voting for fiery.” Relieved by Kathryn's laugh, she said, “I've just lately started to worry about what the next step should be for her. I can't set everything aside to take care of her baby so she can stay in school.” And yet essentially abandoning Sabra the way her mother had wasn't an option she could live with, either. “I suppose I would have called DSHS soon to ask for advice,” she said reluctantly, given a built-in wariness about institutions with more rules than heart.

Kathryn, she thought, had heart and might be willing to let some rules slide.

“Do you think Sabra imagined that she could stay long term?”

Meg shook her head immediately. “No. That's been another worry. She acted as if she had a plan. She just wouldn't say what it was. She told both Emily and me that she might get married, but she's been adamant in
not
saying who the father of her baby is.”

“Hmm.”

“Have you spoken to Detective Moore who is investigating her disappearance?”

“I wasn't aware anyone was yet,” Kathryn said, sounding surprised and possibly annoyed at having been kept in the dark. “Is there reason to believe she was abducted?”

“No,” Meg said, a little grimly. “There's reason to believe she took off on her own.” She explained about the books, and that Emily had come up with a list last night of what she thought was missing, a list that included makeup and some of her favorite clothes. “Her toothbrush is here, but it's possible she took a new one. Several were in the drawer.”

“Phone?”

“Yes, and her iPod, but she takes those to school on a normal day.”

Kathryn did suggest gently that Meg probably ought to have contacted DSHS if she was unable to persuade Sabra's mother to sign a written contract. Meg didn't say that the idea of a contract had never occurred to her. Apparently what she'd thought of as a kindness, being part of a village coming together to care for a child, wasn't supposed to happen in the real world.

Kathryn asked to see Sabra's bedroom, which Emily had, under duress, picked up last night. It still wasn't organized, but at least without Sabra's clothing strewn everywhere, only Emily's, the room appeared spacious and airy with the high ceiling and a pair of double-sash windows looking out at the backyard.

They discussed possibilities for when—not
if
—Sabra returned, both staying completely positive. Kathryn offered her a card so she could call for any reason.

And then, a fanatical light in her eyes, the social worker said, “Now tell me how
I
can learn to hook rugs.”

* * *

T
HE
DAY
WAS
completely unreal. Emily couldn't believe she was supposed to go from class to class and concentrate on lectures, even take a pop quiz in geometry, when none of it was important compared with finding out where Sabra had gone.

Sabra was all anyone could talk about. And it wasn't just to Emily. As she carried her tray through the cafeteria, snippets of conversation came to her.

“So she left with the guy who knocked her up? What's the big deal?”

“She just wants attention.” That was a girl's voice, and Emily knew her. She was being spiteful, because she liked being center stage. “Nobody was interested anymore. I mean, she was pregnant. We all
knew
that. So she had to do something.”

Emily was really tempted to trip and, oh oops, drop her tray on Belle Whitmore's head. The Taco Surprise looked gross anyway. She could get something out of the machine instead.

But she never actually
did
the stuff she wanted to. Sabra could have done it and made everyone laugh. Emily knew she'd turn bright red, mumble apologies and slink away. She just wanted to blend in, to follow the rules.

So she kept going, finding a seat at a table of kids she knew from Drama Club. They were talking about Sabra, too, but they were almost done with their lunches, so after only a few minutes, she had the table to herself.

Mostly her food got cold in front of her while she tried to think.

She just didn't understand. Sabra had her phone, so why wasn't she answering it? Why did calls go straight to voice mail? They were
friends
. It hurt that she wouldn't at least take Emily's calls. Or even just text her. And
explain
.

Emily stared into space. Why hadn't she tried harder to find out who the guy was? She so shouldn't have covered for Sabra to meet some guy without knowing his name. But since Emily
had
helped her, why would Sabra have taken off like this without warning her?