Run the Risk by Scott Frost Page A

half over and we had already found another body, my daughter’s life had been threatened, I was entertaining thoughts that she was somehow remotely connected to the rest of the investigation, and I had been hit in the side of the head with a slab of oak from the Arts and Crafts movement.
    I got in the car and sank back into the seat. Harrison walked around and slid in behind the wheel. The jolt from the closing of the door went through my head like another shot from Sweeny.
    â€œSorry,” Harrison said, seeing the corners of my mouth wince from pain.
    â€œCall Fraser and get them over here to execute the search warrant. If Sweeny didn’t find what he was looking for, I want to.”
    â€œWhere we going?”
    â€œMy daughter’s school. I’m supposed to meet her there at . . .” I checked myself. “She’ll be there at one.”

7
    PRINCIPAL PARKS WAS in his late forties, with the trim build of a runner. He favored the pressed collars of Brooks Brothers to the casual dress most of his teachers wore. Whatever high-minded tone he may have contemplated using with me vanished the moment I walked into his office and he saw my bruised face and the blood on my shirt collar. Nothing kills a party like blood.
    He stood dumbfounded for a moment like a passing motorist staring at a wreck.
    â€œHave you had an accident?” he asked.
    â€œYes,” I said. “I was hit with a door.”
    He seemed to have trouble getting his mind around what I assumed was a first for a parent conference.
    â€œA Craftsman door,” I said, trying to sharpen his understanding.
    He sat silently for a moment, then seemed to have a breakthrough.
    â€œI love Green and Green,” he said, as if we were on a walking tour of Pasadena’s most famous Arts and Crafts houses and he was trying to impress me with his knowledge of these two architects. The absurdity of his wordsstruck him a second later and he added, “If you would like to do this another time . . .”
    â€œThis is the only time I have,” I said.
    His eyes looked as if they were pleading for me to leave his office until it dawned on him I wasn’t moving.
    â€œDid you bring Lacy?” he asked.
    â€œNo one has seen my daughter since you sent her home,” I said.
    â€œI don’t understand.”
    â€œWhat part of ‘No one has seen her’ do you not understand?” I replied.
    He shifted uneasily in his chair.
    â€œI’m sure it’s just a misunderstanding.”
    I wanted to agree with him, I wanted to agree with him more than I’ve wanted anything in my entire life.
    â€œI’m not sure,” I said.
    Parks stared at me like someone who had drifted off the map with no idea where he was headed. Rather than talk, he sat strangely quiet, shuffling papers and occasionally glancing at my gun as we waited for Lacy.
    Ten minutes after one, he finally spoke up.
    â€œIs she often late?” he asked nervously.
    In truth she was chronically late, but I didn’t think that was it, no matter how much I wanted it to be.
    â€œNo,” I said.
    My imagination began to outpace actual events, leading me down paths every mother has visited in nightmares, but thankfully very few ever visit in reality.
    Why had she spoken to me when I was drifting in and out of consciousness at Finley’s? Was she reaching out to me? Was she calling for help? I began to search madly for meaning in things where none could possibly be found. I replayed the phone conversation I had had with her in my office, examining every word for something guarded or hidden. I tried to picture how much gas was in her car, what clothes she had chosen that day, what coffee she had ordered at Starbucks, as if they would all lead to her walking through the office door.
    Five minutes passed and Parks began checking his watch. Two minutes after that he cleared his throat and tentatively spoke.
    â€œMaybe we