“If anything occurs to you, or if you are suspicious of anything or anyone, even if you just want to talk, you get in touch with me,” he says. “Don’t hesitate. That’s my cell number. Call or text me anytime.”
“Okay,” I say. “Thanks.”
He looks at me like he wants to say something else, but then he just gives me a tight-lipped smile. “You have nothing to worry about, Delia. We are going to do everything we can to find out who did this, and we will put your mind at ease.”
I snort. At ease. As if anything they do can put me at ease.
“What happens now, Detective?” asks my mother.
“We’re having a press conference tomorrow evening,” he says, “and we’ll be organizing a search in the woods as soon as the weather cooperates.” He turns and glances out the window at the snow. “This obviously isn’t ideal, but unfortunately we’re stuck with it.”
Avery makes his goodbyes, and I stand with my parents in the front window, watching as he gets into his car and pulls away.
“I’m sure there’s nothing to worry about,” says my father. “I mean, yes about that poor girl, of course. But this has nothing to do with you, Dee.”
“What were you talking about back there?” asks my mother. There’s a funny tone in her voice. “All those questions about copycats and unsolved crimes. Delia, have you been obsessing over Sibby online?”
“No,” I say quickly. “Not at all. I’ve never looked into that online.”
She looks at me skeptically.
“Seriously, Mom,” I say. “I have no interest in reopening that can of worms. I’m better off forgetting about it as much as I can.”
I can tell by the look on her face that she believes me and is relieved.
“That’s good, honey,” she says. “I think that’s very wise of you. You have your own life to live, and you’ve come so far.”
She embraces me, and I let her. I feel my father come in from the side, and soon we’re sharing a giant, obnoxious family hug. Part of me wants to cringe at the sitcom moment, but the rest of me can’t help but lean into the comfort it gives me.
I wonder what my parents would think if they knew the whole truth. It’s true that I haven’t been reading about Sibby’s disappearance online, but that hasn’t stopped me from digging into other cases, to put it lightly.
“I think I’m going to head up to my room and do some homework,” I say, pulling away from the love fest.
“You sure?” my dad asks. “I could make us all hot chocolate. Maybe we could watch a movie?”
“I’d love to, but I have an essay due for poli sci next week, and I haven’t even started researching yet.” They both look so frazzled and concerned that I force a smile onto my face. “You guys don’t need to worry about me. I’ll be fine.”
I’m not fine. Back in my room, I drop into my desk chair and do some controlled breathing. I think of Layla, and a hundred different outcomes run through my mind, one after the other. It’s a mystery just like the ones I’ve been covering on Radio Silent, but I didn’t ask for this one, and just like the one that got its claws into my almost ten years ago, it’s far too close to home.
I think back to the note Avery showed us. Playing with fire. It was a warning for the Gerrards, but it might as well have been directed at me.
I shake my head to remove the invasive thoughts. Desperate to shift focus, I turn to my laptop and check my email. Waiting at the top of my inbox is a message from Carla Garcia in Houston. She’s sent me the information I requested about her friend Vanessa, along with a whole lot more.
This is just the kind of distraction I need at the moment.
12.
Carla’s email is a podcaster’s dream. Not only has she taped a video of herself and a friend walking the route between Vanessa’s work and her house, and made a list of the people Vanessa interacts with on a regular basis, she’s gone to the trouble of recording high-quality interviews with several of Vanessa’s closest contacts, each of whom state their explicit permission for me to include their recordings on Radio Silent.
I sift through the information and begin to make notes, and it isn’t long before I’m ready to record the first episode about the disappearance of Vanessa Rodriguez.
I’ve just set up my recording equipment when I hear the doorbell ring downstairs. It’s an antique doorbell, an ancient contraption that my dad found on eBay and arrived a week later in two boxes. It took him weeks to put together and install, and it sounds like an off-key gong in the center of the house. The twins call it the “horror movie chime.”
I hear my parents talking to someone downstairs. For a moment, I worry that I’m going to have to talk to more police, but the voices sound cheerful, if muffled, and soon they move down the hallway toward the kitchen and out of earshot. It seems weird that anyone would choose tonight to stop by for a visit, but at least it’ll keep Mom and Dad from stressing out about me for a little while. I turn back to my computer and am about to turn my headphones on when there’s a knock on the door at the bottom of my stairs and the door opens.
“Hello?” an unfamiliar voice calls up the stairs.
I scramble to shove my microphone back into my desk drawer as someone ascends the steps. I slam my computer closed and spin around in my chair just as, to my immense surprise, Sarah Cash appears at the top of the stairs.
“Hi,” she says.
“Hi,” I say. I must be unable to disguise my confusion because she laughs and takes a final step into my room.
“Sorry to just pop in on you like this, but my parents decided we should visit the neighbors. I told them it wasn’t cool to just show up unannounced, but they said that’s how people do things in small towns and insisted that I come along. I’m Sarah, by the way. I know we’re in the same class, but we haven’t really met exactly.”
“Come on in,” I say, somehow managing to compose myself. “I’m Dee.”
She gazes around the room. “The truth is, my father has had a boner for this place since the minute we moved in. He and your dad are downstairs talking about renovations while our moms drink wine in the kitchen.”
“Sounds like a match made in heaven,” I say. “Dad loves to talk about this house.”
“No kidding,” she says. “I didn’t realize houses had genders,” said Sarah. “But he called it she. Just like a sailboat, I guess.” She glances at me, amused. “Have you always lived here?”
“No. We’ve always lived in Redfields, but we moved into this house when I was eight.”
There’s no sense playing coy about it. “My room’s pretty great,” I admit. “I’m lucky they let me have it.”
She stands for a moment longer, just looking around. “This might be the coolest bedroom I’ve ever seen,” she says.
I feel a rush of pride at the way I have it set up. The only other person outside my family who ever comes here is Burke, and he’s never even commented on it. I might make fun of my father for his renovation obsession, but I’ve inherited his love of interior design, and over the years, he’s helped me collect a few cool things. On the worn wooden floorboards, I’ve laid a bunch of faded multicolored rugs that we’ve found at yard sales and antique shops. There’s a beat-up old leather couch against one wall, and my bed sits in the gable opposite the big octagonal window. I try to keep the walls mostly bare, but there are a couple of posters neatly tacked onto the angled ceiling, an “I’m With Her” poster from when my mother and I went to a Hillary rally in the city back during the ’16 election and a vintage Runaways poster that I bought on eBay.