“And your own computer?”
“Yes.” It’s right next to my cavewoman club and hair bone.
“Great.” He stood up, and I took his cue. Then he came around to my side of his desk and placed his hand on my arm. “Not everyone can write. But everyone can meet a deadline.” He narrowed his vigilant blue eyes at me. “You got it?”
“One hundred percent.”
“Excellent, then. You’ll see yourself out.” It wasn’t a question.
“Yes, and thank you again, Daniel. I won’t disappoint you.”
* * *
As soon as I was back in my car, I dialed Maggie’s number, and she picked up immediately.
“Hi! I have three minutes before my next client, and Amanda came home sick with a sore throat. If she has strep again, I swear I’ll kill myself. How’d it go?”
“I think it went pretty well.” I switched the call to Bluetooth and pressed the button to start the ignition. “And sorry about Amanda. Strep sucks.”
“She’ll live. Tell me more.”
“He said he’d assign me an article, but he also called me ‘old’ at least three times.”
“What?”
“Not outright, but it was insinuated.” I pulled onto the street and started driving in the direction of my house. “I’m headed to CVS to buy adult diapers; maybe I’ll throw in some dentures, too.”
“Fucker.”
“Yup. He actually asked me if I own my own computer and have email.”
“No way.”
“Yes way.”
“Typical narcissistic millennial. Great about the article, though.”
“Yeah, I guess. We’ll see.”
“Okay, listen, more on this later. I have to run. But I did want to mention one quick thing, since you brought it up this morning.”
“What?” I slammed my palm on the car horn. “You just cut me off, asshole!” I screamed at one of those zippy little coupes that was weaving in and out of my lane. The driver gave me the finger, and I did the same to him.
“Nice. Anyway, when Amanda got home, I asked her about Chloe. You know, if anything seems different.”
“And?”
“She said that Chloe has done a complete one-eighty. Apparently, she doesn’t even say hello to Amanda in the hallway anymore. And last week, Chloe and a group of girls drove right past her when she was walking home from school carrying a very heavy backpack and her cello. She said they were making fun of her.”
“No.”
“Yeah. Sorry, honey.”
“You’re sorry? I’m appalled. Please tell Amanda that. And let her know that I’ll get to the bottom of it immediately.”
“Don’t do that. I promised her I wouldn’t say anything. She’ll murder me if it gets back to Chloe. You know how that goes.”
“I do, but I can’t just say nothing. Chloe knows she can’t treat people that way, especially Amanda. At least she used to.”
“Shit, that’s my client now. I’ll call you tonight and we’ll talk more. For now, put a pin in it.”
“Okay.”
“Lips sealed?”
“Yeah, yeah.”
“Thank you.” Maggie hung up.
And I was left to wonder what the hell was going on with my daughter.
6 WARD
SIX MONTHS EARLIER
“Ms. DeFleur, we’re going to need you to sit down so we can ask you some questions,” Officer Canfield informed me, as I continued to patrol my living room, back and forth from one end to the other, as if the constant movement would spur progress.
The thought of sitting in one place seemed unconscionable, unless it would halt time, which it wouldn’t.
“What kind of questions?” I kept pacing. “I already told you that I have no idea where Stevie is. So my question is why are you here in my house rather than out there looking for her?” I pointed toward the large bay window overlooking my obsessively manicured front lawn.
“As we said, our colleagues are in the field searching for your daughter,” Canfield replied without expression. In his early sixties, with a stout frame, a full head of white hair, and an abundant mustache to match, he’d make an excellent Santa Claus, minus the blithe personality.
“And that’s supposed to make me feel better? She’s been missing for hours! Someone could have her. They could be hurting her.” I stopped abruptly in front of him and his cohort, Officer McNeil, a plain but comely woman in her late thirties, who appeared to be slightly more sympathetic than her superior.
“Please sit.” She smiled cautiously. “The sooner you cooperate, the sooner we’ll be out of here.” Grudgingly, I lowered myself onto the couch. I’ve written enough crime novels to know how these scenes play out.
“You said someone could have her and might be hurting her,” Canfield started. Standard repeat-my-own-words-back-to-me device.
“Isn’t that obvious?” I asked.
“Nothing is obvious, Ms. DeFleur. If it were, we wouldn’t be here,” he countered, as he wandered around the room, fingering my possessions, moving things two inches to the right and three inches to the left, sometimes displacing them completely.
Another common device. He’s trying to make me anxious. He wants me to protest. To jump to my feet and yell Don’t touch that! But as much as I dislike him handling my belongings, I won’t surrender to his blatant manipulation.
“Is there anyone you can think of who might want to harm your daughter?” McNeil reconfigured Canfield’s question to make it seem less accusatory. Good cop, bad cop. A tried-and-true technique meant to encourage me to trust McNeil and therefore confide in her.
I’m not sure why they can’t come up with a shrewder script. My editor would flag their platitudes as “too stereotypical,” which I find amusing, because there’s a reason that stereotypes are stereotypes. I bet Canfield has a box of jelly donuts in his car.
“Her name is Stevie.” I shook my head. “And no, I can’t imagine why anyone would want to hurt her. She’s just an innocent—”
“What about you?” Canfield interrupted.
“Of course not!” I objected. “She’s my child.”
“He didn’t mean did you harm her,” McNeil quickly corrected. “He was asking if there’s anyone who might have it out for you.”
“Oh, sorry.” A warm prickle crept up my neck.
“In other words, do you have any enemies? Someone who might be envious of your fame and fortune?”
“Not that I can think of,” I lied.
“Are you sure?” McNeil encouraged. “You’re an attractive, successful woman with a gorgeous home. It’s enough to make anyone jealous.”
“I’m sure.” I almost laughed at how predictable they were. They’re trying to butter me up like a warm croissant so they can flake away my layers. I won’t let it happen.
“Not even a friend or an employee?” I could tell she was rooting for me to come up with something, anything. Otherwise, the tables could be turned on me. I know that, and so does she.