filming earlier than I expected and then, of course, they found that poor woman—”
“I found her.”
Mom gasped. “Oh, honey, are you okay?” She leaned forward to put a hand on my knee.
I wasn’t, actually; I kept seeing the dead Zoë on the bathroom floor. “I’m coping. Her name was Zoë Winters. Did you know her?”
Mom seemed to still, then smoothed a hand down her already perfect hair. “Um, I don’t think so. Your father may have mentioned her once or twice. She did something with props, right?”
“Exactly.” I let the silence lengthen.
“Where could Christopher have gotten to?” Mom asked, shifting as if she was going to go in search of him.
“He’s swilling champagne with the kitchen workers to celebrate your order,” I said. “He’ll be back. Why were you at the mall so early?” There. I’d asked her straight-on.
She gave me a puzzled look. “What are you getting at, EJ? You know I frequently visit your father on his sets.”
True, but. “That doesn’t explain why you were
in
the mall instead of in his trailer, or why you went down the very corridor where I found Zoë.”
“She was killed in
that
bathroom?” Mom asked, eyes opening wider. “Oh, my.”
“The men’s room.”
“Oh, I was never in—You know, I don’t like what you’re implying, EJ.” Anger and hurt showed in her eyes and tone.
• • •
Christopher returned then, handing my mother’s credit card to her and reiterating how happy he was to have her business. He held a large white box that contained, he said, an assortment of dessert samples for her to take home. She thanked him graciously and let him walk her to the door. I trailed half a step behind, wondering if she was using the caterer as a shield. I knew she was when she invited him to carry the box to her Mercedes and slide it gently onto the floor.
“Thanks for helping,” she said, giving me a quick hug while Christopher held her door open. “Come to dinner tomorrow night. Your father and I will need help eating all these yummy desserts. You know he won’t eat more than a morsel when he’s filming. Your grandfather’s coming, too.” Putting on her sunglasses, she slid into the car. “Ciao.”
I watched as she drove off. Christopher returned to the building without a word, and I stood alone in the parking lot, chilled by a breeze, unhappily aware that my mother hadn’t come clean with me.
Twelve
• • •
Wednesday began with a chance encounter in the mall parking lot. I’d spent a virtually sleepless night, awakened every time I dozed off by images of Zoë on the bathroom floor. Only, in my dreams the floor was coated with wall-to-wall blood. The third time that I drifted into the same dream and dragged myself awake, at four fifteen, I crawled out of bed and huddled in the chair by the window, a blanket draped around my shoulders. Fubar joined me for a while, and I stroked his rusty fur, waiting for morning. I’d spent too many nights like this after returning from Afghanistan, and I hoped that finding Zoë wasn’t going to send me back to the ugly place I’d been in then.
As I walked toward the mall entrance, I spotted someone trudging toward a car parked a few rows away. A chilly wind blew, making it feel more like winter than spring, and I huddled into the bomber jacket I was using until I could replace my uniform Windbreaker. I knit my brow, trying to place the man’s walk, and then realized it was Mr. Willard, Jesse’s father. What in the world was he doing here three hours before mall opening time?
“Mr. Willard!” I hailed him.
He turned, showing me a startled face, but started toward me when he recognized me. His gait was little more than a shuffle and he seemed to have aged since I last saw him two days ago. “Officer Ferris,” he said. He tucked a long plaid scarf more securely around his neck.
“Has Jesse turned up?”
He shook his head, the weight of his worry making it sag forward. “No. I was
“I found her.”
Mom gasped. “Oh, honey, are you okay?” She leaned forward to put a hand on my knee.
I wasn’t, actually; I kept seeing the dead Zoë on the bathroom floor. “I’m coping. Her name was Zoë Winters. Did you know her?”
Mom seemed to still, then smoothed a hand down her already perfect hair. “Um, I don’t think so. Your father may have mentioned her once or twice. She did something with props, right?”
“Exactly.” I let the silence lengthen.
“Where could Christopher have gotten to?” Mom asked, shifting as if she was going to go in search of him.
“He’s swilling champagne with the kitchen workers to celebrate your order,” I said. “He’ll be back. Why were you at the mall so early?” There. I’d asked her straight-on.
She gave me a puzzled look. “What are you getting at, EJ? You know I frequently visit your father on his sets.”
True, but. “That doesn’t explain why you were
in
the mall instead of in his trailer, or why you went down the very corridor where I found Zoë.”
“She was killed in
that
bathroom?” Mom asked, eyes opening wider. “Oh, my.”
“The men’s room.”
“Oh, I was never in—You know, I don’t like what you’re implying, EJ.” Anger and hurt showed in her eyes and tone.
• • •
Christopher returned then, handing my mother’s credit card to her and reiterating how happy he was to have her business. He held a large white box that contained, he said, an assortment of dessert samples for her to take home. She thanked him graciously and let him walk her to the door. I trailed half a step behind, wondering if she was using the caterer as a shield. I knew she was when she invited him to carry the box to her Mercedes and slide it gently onto the floor.
“Thanks for helping,” she said, giving me a quick hug while Christopher held her door open. “Come to dinner tomorrow night. Your father and I will need help eating all these yummy desserts. You know he won’t eat more than a morsel when he’s filming. Your grandfather’s coming, too.” Putting on her sunglasses, she slid into the car. “Ciao.”
I watched as she drove off. Christopher returned to the building without a word, and I stood alone in the parking lot, chilled by a breeze, unhappily aware that my mother hadn’t come clean with me.
Twelve
• • •
Wednesday began with a chance encounter in the mall parking lot. I’d spent a virtually sleepless night, awakened every time I dozed off by images of Zoë on the bathroom floor. Only, in my dreams the floor was coated with wall-to-wall blood. The third time that I drifted into the same dream and dragged myself awake, at four fifteen, I crawled out of bed and huddled in the chair by the window, a blanket draped around my shoulders. Fubar joined me for a while, and I stroked his rusty fur, waiting for morning. I’d spent too many nights like this after returning from Afghanistan, and I hoped that finding Zoë wasn’t going to send me back to the ugly place I’d been in then.
As I walked toward the mall entrance, I spotted someone trudging toward a car parked a few rows away. A chilly wind blew, making it feel more like winter than spring, and I huddled into the bomber jacket I was using until I could replace my uniform Windbreaker. I knit my brow, trying to place the man’s walk, and then realized it was Mr. Willard, Jesse’s father. What in the world was he doing here three hours before mall opening time?
“Mr. Willard!” I hailed him.
He turned, showing me a startled face, but started toward me when he recognized me. His gait was little more than a shuffle and he seemed to have aged since I last saw him two days ago. “Officer Ferris,” he said. He tucked a long plaid scarf more securely around his neck.
“Has Jesse turned up?”
He shook his head, the weight of his worry making it sag forward. “No. I was
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