The Girls Are Missing by Caroline Crane

her. She could not see what it said.
    “Ma’am, I understand your daughter was one of the kids who found the first body. Is she here? Could I talk to her for a minute?”
    It ended in a plea. Joyce’s face had frozen.
    “Who are you?” she demanded.
    “From the News Item” He took out his card again and held it while she read every word.
    “I’m afraid not.” She hoped Gail was in the house and not outside where he might find her. “She’s been very upset by this whole thing, and she wouldn’t want to talk about it.”
    “You’re speaking for her, ma’am. Could I have her opinion on that?”
    “You could not. I’m her mother and I know how she feels. You won’t get anything from her anyway. She didn’t see a thing. Now please go.”
    “Just for a minute. Just a—”
    “No! I said no! I don’t give a damn about the public’s right to information, or about your career. I care about my child, and if I have to get violent, I will.”
    She stood glaring at him. He was young and thin with an air of sincerity, but also the brashness of someone determined to get a news story. He bowed his head in mock capitulation, then stood away from the house and looked up at the second-story windows. Apparently seeing nothing, he returned to his car.
    “I’ll be back,” he promised as he drove away.
    He had gone only a short distance down the driveway when he had to stop for another car coming in.
    This time it was the police. The reporter had to back up to let them enter the parking area, and then once again he drove off.
    She felt an odd anticipation as Chief D’Amico got out of the car. This was something familiar, something reassuringly secure.
    He had a partner with him, a young man with very curly blond hair that made her think of soap bubbles. D’Amico introduced him as Art Finneran.
    “I’m glad you came,” she told them. “Do I have any legal protection against reporters? That man who just left was hell-bent on bothering my daughter, and I don’t think she can take much more of this.”
    “There’s nothing that says you have to talk to them,” D’Amico replied.
    “I didn’t. You found that girl, didn’t you? The one who was missing the other day? I saw an ambulance.”
    “We found her.” He sounded grim and yet resigned. “We’re going around the neighborhood, asking if anybody noticed anything unusual that night. It doesn’t have to seem related. Just anything different from the ordinary.”
    “Which night?” She could not remember when the girl had disappeared.
    “Monday. She never came home from work that night—she worked in the city—but obviously she got back to Cedarville.”
    “Monday. That was the night my stepdaughter was out. Found a boyfriend and went out on his motorcycle without telling me. I was so worried I wouldn’t have noticed an earthquake.” She went on to describe the evening. It had been unusual, but only for the Gilwood family.
    “Why don’t you come inside?” she suggested. “It’s cooler in the house. I usually close the blinds on days like this.”
    They followed her in and sat at the kitchen table, where the girls could not hear them. She offered them iced tea, which they declined.
    D’Amico set his cap upside down on the table and twirled it slowly as he talked. “Mrs. Gilwood, how well do you know the neighbors?”
    Her head jerked upright at his question. “Not very well. You get to know people who have children the same age as your children. They aren’t the closest neighbors, but you know, the Farands—”
    “Yes, I know them.”
    “Her cousin is one of your men.”
    “Right. So you haven’t had much to do with anybody except the Farands?”
    “And Bruce and Pam Cheskill.”
    “Nobody, for instance, on this road?”
    “No, they’re all older, or their children are older. Why do you want to know? It can’t be—”
    “In a very close-knit community,” he said, “where everyone knows everyone else, and feels responsible for them, a