Listen (28 page)

Hunter slid off the bed and slowly moved to his computer, watching Damien closely as if he was afraid of a sudden move or a possible lecture on the female anatomy.

Damien stood near Hunter as the kid typed something into the address bar. A page appeared.

“That’s not you,” Damien said. “And that’s not your name.”

“I just pulled a pic off the Web and made up a name.”

“Why?”

More typing, then a new page came up. Hunter pointed to a block of writing. “Read this.”

Damien scanned it. Something about a bratty girl. The language was inundated with a lot of profanity and lewd comments. “What is this?”

Hunter turned in his chair, a serious expression on his face. “It’s about Jenna.”

“What?”

“They’re talking about Jenna.”

“Jenna isn’t named.”

“I know. You have to read more on this page to know it’s her. But they’re talking about her. All over the place. Smearing her name.”

Damien looked at Hunter, then back at the screen.

“It’s just a few girls,” Hunter said. “I know who they are. They’re the ones that hung out with the two that were arrested.”

“So they’re targeting Jenna because . . .”

“She told. They know she’s the one that told the police where to find Gabby.”

Damien stood upright, gasped. “How?”

“I’m not sure. I think it was mostly just a lucky guess. Jenna stopped hanging around them, and they decided she was the one that went to the police.”

Damien shook his head, staring at the screen.

“But look what I’ve been doing.” Hunter beckoned him closer. “It’s like a cyber blast. I’m working to control the first page that appears on Google when Jenna’s name is entered. So I’ve started blogs and a MySpace page and have linked up with any positive mention of her name, which is easy to do with alerts. Anytime her name is mentioned on the Web, I’m alerted. Then I sort of manipulate the information so that only positive remarks show up on the first page of Google. It’s kind of a way to manage your online reputation. And I think it’s working. Over the past few days, there has been way less activity. A lot of the people who were talking about her before are losing interest. But I’m not stopping until this thing dies down completely.”

Damien quit staring at the screen. He couldn’t take his eyes off his son. Emotions welled up as he watched him talk.

Hunter glanced at him. “What’s wrong?”

His voice cracked. “I’m just proud of you. You’re amazing.”

Hunter looked away. “It’s no big deal.”

“It’s a very big deal. Does Jenna know?”

“Yeah, I’m sure she does. It’s hard to hide from this kind of thing.”

“No, I mean, does she know what you’re doing for her?”

“Please don’t tell her. She’d freak out and get all emotional and stuff. And who wants a little brother handling your bullies, you know?”

Damien nodded. “I see what you mean.”

“So this stays here?”

“I promise.”

“Thanks. Oh, and I promise I won’t tell anyone about your porn problem.”

“What? No! No, there’s no porn problem. It was just an example. Those magazines, that was a long time ago, like when I was younger, way younger.” Damien took a breath. He was rambling.

An awkward moment passed. Hunter looked at Damien with a worried expression, indicating he thought there still might be some repercussions or perhaps new confessions.

“Finish up your homework,” Damien said, then walked out, closing the door behind him. He leaned against the wall for a moment, catching his breath and chuckling a little. Well, at least he got the pornography discussion out of the way.

He listened for the shower. It had stopped. He walked the length of the hallway to find the bathroom vacant. Jenna’s bedroom door was closed. He tapped lightly. “Jenna?”

No answer.

He hesitated before opening the door. He wasn’t sure he could go another round of “It’s pornography—wait, no, a MySpace page” again.

He nudged the door, cracking it open slightly, just enough to see the lights were off and Jenna was in her bed. She didn’t even stir.

“Jenna?” he whispered.

She didn’t respond. Her breathing was slow, peaceful.

He crept across the wood floor to the edge of her bed. He stared at her for a long time, remembering how he watched her sleep when she was a little girl, curled tightly around a giant panda he’d given her when she was four. He’d liked to watch her sleep, brush her tangled hair off her face, rub her cheek with the back of his hand.

He imagined, though, that now she was not quite the deep sleeper of her childhood.

Instead, he knelt down on the small, fluffy circle rug by her bed. As he clasped his hands together, the feeling of helplessness that caught him up in constant fear melted away. He knew he had no control over this situation, and there was nothing worse to feel than helplessness over a child.

But in the darkness of her room he was reminded that helplessness was often a portal to God, because rarely did the fragile, self-serving human pray for things in his complete control. He knew he’d been brought to his knees, and he willingly stayed there, his forehead laid against the side of her mattress. He prayed boldly, calling on the God he’d rarely thought about in the last few years. His small attempt at churchgoing was hardly enough to reconcile himself to his God. Yet he knew without a doubt, despite his absence, God would not be absent and that He was waiting even now to help.

“God help her,” Damien whispered. “God help me. Help us. Help Marlo.”

28

The bright morning sun brought only dark thoughts for Damien. As the smell of rich, fresh coffee wafted through the offices, Damien sat in his chair, contemplating revenge.

And there was so much to avenge for, he couldn’t quite wrap his mind around specifics for any of them. Instead, he played with the ideas, one after another, until he needed a refill on his coffee.

Walking to the break room, he remembered his prayer the night before, that God would help his daughter. He’d slept soundly, as if he were a small child handing over his biggest care to a parent. But with morning came a rush of anger and fear that had not left his side for a moment.

He’d thought he might talk to Jenna at breakfast, but she didn’t look in the mood for conversation, so he stayed silent. They all did.

Damien couldn’t just stand aside, though. He couldn’t watch his daughter be brutalized by other people’s words. As a kid who’d been bullied himself, he once wished they would’ve just beaten him with sticks and stones. It seemed far less painful than the words that followed him around like a torturing spirit.

It had lasted only one year, but it gave a lasting impression. In college he’d decided he would use words for good, not bad. That was the beginning of his journalism career.

Returning to his desk, he decided he was going to have to confront the principal and teachers and get this thing taken care of. Maybe these girls didn’t tie another girl up, but the fact that they continued to defend those who did was almost as disturbing.

He wondered if he should consult Kay. She wasn’t a confrontational person. But she also didn’t like having her children messed with. He hadn’t told Kay what he’d learned from Hunter. Not yet, anyway.

He grabbed his keys off the desk and lifted his jacket off the back of the chair. He couldn’t wait a second longer. He couldn’t watch his daughter suffer anymore.

His desk phone beeped, and a crackling voice came through. “Damien?”

“Yeah, Edgar?”

“I need you in my office.”

“Look, I was just getting ready to—”

“Now.”

***

Kay put on an aqua velour jogging suit. She messed with her hair for a moment and decided to take out her diamond earrings. She was not at all sure how to dress for this . . . whatever this was. She put on a small amount of makeup but no lipstick. She removed her watch and kept on only her wedding ring.

She lingered by the kitchen phone, wondering if she should call Damien, ask if this was the right thing to do. She picked up the phone but then heard a car in her driveway. Peeking through the kitchen window, she hung up the phone and grabbed her purse.

As Kay walked down the front steps of her home, her feet felt like lead. What was she doing? Why was she doing this? It seemed like such a bad idea, but here she was, opening the car door and sliding into the passenger’s seat like they were going for brunch.

“Hi,” Jill said with a sad smile.

“Hi.” Kay closed the door and clutched her purse on her lap.

“I’m so happy you said yes,” Jill said, reversing the car and backing out of the driveway. “I honestly didn’t think you would.”

Kay swallowed, trying to calm herself and rationalize this. Yet it still seemed like a bad idea. Perhaps it was curiosity that caused her to be here. Or maybe a hope that she could help solve Frank’s murder.

Kay tried to get comfortable. She was glad the windows were tinted.

“You don’t understand what it’s been like for me,” Jill said, staring forward as she drove. “Nobody will talk to me. People are leaving horrible messages on my answering machine, like I’m somehow involved. It’s been hell.”

“I’m sorry,” Kay said softly.

“And I hate him.” Her voice was steely, harsh. “I hate him so much.”

“You think he did it?”

Jill’s chin quivered. “Yes, I do. And that’s what we’re going to find out.”

Kay tried to take a silent, deep breath. “I’m here for you. I want to help in any way I can, but I still don’t understand why you asked me to come. How will this help?”

“You don’t understand the kind of man he is. He’s got this horrible, mean side to him. A side that’s out for himself and only himself. It’s what allows him to have this kind of affair without any regard for his family. It’s what makes me think he’s capable of doing what he did. But,” Jill said, glancing at Kay for an unusually long few seconds, “he is also someone else. He can be very charming. Very convincing. I’ve fallen for this side of him so many times.”

A pause in the conversation caused Kay to rethink this. She still had time to back out.

Then Jill continued. “I suspected, you know. That he was having an affair. I questioned him: ‘Where were you? What took you so long?’ But he has this charm. And so often it makes perfect sense. It only makes me look like a paranoid freak of a wife.”

“So, you think me being there is going to help?”

“He knows he can play me. He knows what I want to hear. But he doesn’t know you, so he doesn’t know how to play you.”

“I’m not sure I can be of any help,” Kay said.

“You don’t have to say anything,” Jill replied. “Just be there with me. I need someone by my side.”

It was a small thing to ask, to have someone stand by your side. How could she not? “Okay, sure. I understand.”

For the next five miles, they drove in silence, without even the radio on. The only sound in the car was the cold north wind vibrating against the windows. Jill looked lost in her thoughts, and Kay wondered if she should even be driving.

Then Kay said, “I’ve been reading that Web site.”

Jill glanced at her almost like she’d forgotten she was in the car. “What?”

“That Web site. I’ve been reading it. I think there are some things on there about me.”

Jill smirked. “For sure?”

“No, not for sure. But I’m pretty sure. A former friend . . .” Kay wondered if she should mention it was the same woman who had the affair with Mike. Maybe later.

Jill’s gaze stayed on the road. “Yeah, well, I know for sure there are things on there about me. Names me. People I thought were my friends.”

“I know. I should stop reading it.”

Jill nodded. “Could make you go insane.”

Kay sighed and stared out the window. “I once said something really bad about someone.” She felt Jill’s attention, but she couldn’t stop looking out the window. “I once had a good friend. She was married to my husband’s best friend. We did everything together. The boys would go do their thing and we’d hang out, talk for hours. But I was always bothered by . . . the way she dressed.”

“Dressed?”

“Yeah, low-cut blouses. A lot of low-cut blouses. I made a remark one day, offhandedly, to some people who knew her. It got back to her. She never spoke to me again.” Kay bit her lip, trying to keep the tears from coming. “For a long time I blamed her. Thought she should dress differently. But I realize now . . . I’m the one that judged. My hang-up about how she dressed came from my own past, my own hurts.” A certain heaviness lifted as she spoke. “One sentence changed my whole life. One sentence.”

Jill reached over and took her hand. “It’s okay. We all make mistakes.”

Kay looked at her. “I’ve even judged you for how you dress. And I’m really sorry. I shouldn’t jump to conclusions.”

Jill laughed and squeezed her hand. “I know I dress like I’m eighteen. I guess I just felt Mike pulling away, imagining what pretty woman he was interested in, and I thought if I tried to make myself look younger, I might win his affection back.”

Kay slumped into her seat. “See? A person never knows another’s motivations. How could I sit there and judge you for a tight tank top and not know what you’re going through?”

Jill pulled into the large parking lot of the county jail, parked, and turned to Kay. “It’s okay, my friend. Right now, how I look in a tight tank top is the least of my worries.”

Kay stared at the building. It wasn’t as tall as she’d imagined. They got out of the car and walked through the front doors. An officer behind a large black desk greeted them. They signed their names, emptied their pockets, and were led through several gated corridors until they came to a room with plastic tables and chairs. The floors looked warped and smelled like cheap Pine-Sol. One yellow sign alerted them to the wetness on the floor. They both stepped carefully toward the nearest table.

They huddled together on the far side of the room so they faced the door, their knees bumping each other with any small movement.

Kay glanced around, noticing the cameras and monitors. “I’m nervous.”