no rest from bad news.
Still in my pajamas, I hurried downstairs and turned on the TV. Neither Mom nor Dad was in the kitchen. The channels were all doing the weather or commercials, so I made coffee and waited. Finally, one of the channels went to a reporter wearing a yellow rain slicker and standing in a wooded area blocked by police cars and crime scene tape: “Police here in Scranton, Pennsylvania, are reporting this morning the discovery of a badly decomposed body in a riverbank cave just outside the boundaries of a state park. Scranton chief of police Edward Naughton cautioned that it may take some time to get a positive ID, but he did acknowledge that the body appears to fit the description of Rebecca Parlin, an aspiring young model who disappeared from the area about a month ago.”
I slumped into a chair as the last glimmer of hope that the missing girls were still alive dissolved into the kitchen air. Maybe it had been a foolish hope to begin with, but until now it had felt like a possibility, no matter how slight. And that made it feel silly to cling to the other improbables—that maybe the other two girls were still alive, that maybe the disappearances had nothing to do with Dad or the people at his studio anyway.
Mom came into the kitchen in her robe, glanced at the TV as if she already knew what was on it, and poured herself a cup of coffee.
“Where’s Dad?” I asked.
“He left early.”
“Why?”
“Because of all those people outside.”
Oh, right, of course. Now that an actual body had been found, there was probably more media than ever. Having gone straight to the kitchen, I hadn’t yet looked out front that morning.
“Can’t we do something?” I asked. “What if we hire a private detective to help prove Dad is innocent?”
Mom gazed at me with sad eyes. “Why do you think a private detective could find something that all these other detectives can’t find?”
“Because they’re all too focused on Dad,” I said. “A private detective could take a different approach. Like focus on something or someone else.”
“Oh, darling, I’m sure they’re already doing that,” Mom said, then paused and studied me as if she’d just thought of something. “It’s best if we stay out of it. If your father is innocent, I’m sure they’ll—”
“ If he’s innocent?” I repeated, cutting her short. “Mom, how can you say that? Of course he’s innocent.”
Mom’s eyes widened as if she were as surprised by what she’d said as I was. “Oh, I’m so sorry, darling, that’s not what I meant.”
“You sure?” I asked.
She smiled reassuringly. “Yes.”
A little later, back upstairs, I talked to Roman about the dead girl in Scranton. “This is going to turn the heat way up on my dad.”
“Not necessarily,” she said.
“How can you say that? He’s the prime suspect. As far as I can tell, he’s the only suspect. And like you said, lie-detector tests don’t really count. The only way anyone’s going to believe he’s innocent is if I prove he is.”
“If you prove it?” Roman replied, alarmed. “Wait a minute, Shels, they’ve found a body with her hands and feet tied up. There’s a real murderer out there somewhere. This isn’t Nancy Drew anymore. You have to stay out of this.”
“But there’s definitely something strange about Gabriel,” I argued. “I mean, when it comes to those missing girls, he’s got zero empathy. All this means to him is that he’s not making any money. It’s almost like he’s a sociopath.”
“Thanks for the diagnosis, Dr. Sloan,” Roman said, making no effort to hide the sarcasm. “But if Gabriel’s involved in this, I don’t have to tell you why going anywhere near him is the totally worst idea ever. You tried it once; it didn’t work. That’s got to be the end of it.”
She was right, but she was also wrong.
And then I had an idea and realized I had to end the conversation. I let out a big sigh and said, “I guess
Still in my pajamas, I hurried downstairs and turned on the TV. Neither Mom nor Dad was in the kitchen. The channels were all doing the weather or commercials, so I made coffee and waited. Finally, one of the channels went to a reporter wearing a yellow rain slicker and standing in a wooded area blocked by police cars and crime scene tape: “Police here in Scranton, Pennsylvania, are reporting this morning the discovery of a badly decomposed body in a riverbank cave just outside the boundaries of a state park. Scranton chief of police Edward Naughton cautioned that it may take some time to get a positive ID, but he did acknowledge that the body appears to fit the description of Rebecca Parlin, an aspiring young model who disappeared from the area about a month ago.”
I slumped into a chair as the last glimmer of hope that the missing girls were still alive dissolved into the kitchen air. Maybe it had been a foolish hope to begin with, but until now it had felt like a possibility, no matter how slight. And that made it feel silly to cling to the other improbables—that maybe the other two girls were still alive, that maybe the disappearances had nothing to do with Dad or the people at his studio anyway.
Mom came into the kitchen in her robe, glanced at the TV as if she already knew what was on it, and poured herself a cup of coffee.
“Where’s Dad?” I asked.
“He left early.”
“Why?”
“Because of all those people outside.”
Oh, right, of course. Now that an actual body had been found, there was probably more media than ever. Having gone straight to the kitchen, I hadn’t yet looked out front that morning.
“Can’t we do something?” I asked. “What if we hire a private detective to help prove Dad is innocent?”
Mom gazed at me with sad eyes. “Why do you think a private detective could find something that all these other detectives can’t find?”
“Because they’re all too focused on Dad,” I said. “A private detective could take a different approach. Like focus on something or someone else.”
“Oh, darling, I’m sure they’re already doing that,” Mom said, then paused and studied me as if she’d just thought of something. “It’s best if we stay out of it. If your father is innocent, I’m sure they’ll—”
“ If he’s innocent?” I repeated, cutting her short. “Mom, how can you say that? Of course he’s innocent.”
Mom’s eyes widened as if she were as surprised by what she’d said as I was. “Oh, I’m so sorry, darling, that’s not what I meant.”
“You sure?” I asked.
She smiled reassuringly. “Yes.”
A little later, back upstairs, I talked to Roman about the dead girl in Scranton. “This is going to turn the heat way up on my dad.”
“Not necessarily,” she said.
“How can you say that? He’s the prime suspect. As far as I can tell, he’s the only suspect. And like you said, lie-detector tests don’t really count. The only way anyone’s going to believe he’s innocent is if I prove he is.”
“If you prove it?” Roman replied, alarmed. “Wait a minute, Shels, they’ve found a body with her hands and feet tied up. There’s a real murderer out there somewhere. This isn’t Nancy Drew anymore. You have to stay out of this.”
“But there’s definitely something strange about Gabriel,” I argued. “I mean, when it comes to those missing girls, he’s got zero empathy. All this means to him is that he’s not making any money. It’s almost like he’s a sociopath.”
“Thanks for the diagnosis, Dr. Sloan,” Roman said, making no effort to hide the sarcasm. “But if Gabriel’s involved in this, I don’t have to tell you why going anywhere near him is the totally worst idea ever. You tried it once; it didn’t work. That’s got to be the end of it.”
She was right, but she was also wrong.
And then I had an idea and realized I had to end the conversation. I let out a big sigh and said, “I guess
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