“It means he could be anywhere, pretty much. Must be staying out of trouble, though. He hasn’t even gotten a parking ticket in five years.”
“Five years?” Ginny hadn’t said her dad left the year my sister and the other girls died.
“Yep. Looks like he skipped town before a scheduled court appearance. He never showed.”
“When was his court date?” I ask.
“Gimme a sec.” The sound of keys clacking on Mike’s end mimics my heartbeat. “October thirtieth.”
Three days after Juliana and Susan were murdered. I have to sit. “What was the court appearance for?”
“Something he probably would have done some time for. I don’t feel right telling you more than that, Monica.” Mike sighs. “Bottom line is, this guy disappeared. And it was probably a blessing in disguise for your friend.”
But she says she knows where he is. Either Ginny lied, or she knows where her dad is holed up and she’s protecting him.
“Well, I’ve got to get back to work. I’m pulling a double while everyone sleeps off their PBA dinner hangovers,” Mike says. “I’m sorry I couldn’t help more.”
“No. Thank you.” My thoughts are blurring together—I don’t want him to hang up. Not when something he said is needling me.
“Wait,” I say. “You said Phil Cordero drove a truck. Do you know what type?”
“A 2005 GMC Sierra,” Mike says. “Leased.”
“Is that a pickup truck?”
“That it is,” he confirms. “A crap one too.”
“Thanks,” I force out, a sick feeling gathering in my stomach.
“I can try to help her if your friend’s serious about tracking him down,” Mike says. “But it might be best if she doesn’t pursue this. When a family member takes off…Well, if you look hard enough, you’ll probably find something that makes you wish you hadn’t.”
I don’t know what to say. Ginny told me she knew where her father was.
“Monica? You there?”
“Yeah. I’ve gotta go. Thank you, though.”
“No problem. By the way, thanks for spilling a large Diet Coke in my office.”
I force out a laugh to match his, and he ends the call.
I open my email and pull up the email chain with Daphne Furman. I open a new page.
Hey, Daphne,
Do you think your private investigator friend might be able to look someone up for me? His name is Phil Cordero and he lived in Sunnybrook until five years ago.
My fingertips are humming; this is so wrong, doing this without Ginny knowing.
But she lied to me about knowing where her dad is. Either that, or she really does know where he is, and she’s covering for him, even though he skipped out on his court appearance.
I close my eyes and comb through every interaction I’ve had with Ginny. Her words from the other day haunt me. It’s not really you I’m helping.
What if she already suspected that Jack Canning didn’t kill Susan and Juliana? What if she was helping me to clear up the doubt in her mind that her own father was involved, and in the process, found something she wished she hadn’t?
I hit send, Mike’s voice echoing in my head. If you look hard enough, you’ll probably find something that makes you wish you hadn’t.
We have another Saturday practice today. My mom drops me off at the school on her way to the playhouse for the two o’clock matinee of The Importance of Being Earnest. As she drives away from the curb, Ginny’s mom pulls up. She gives Ginny a quick kiss on the cheek, and I’m struck by how young she looks.
Just from watching them for a few moments, you can see that there’s no wall of tension between Ginny and her mom, like there is between me and mine. Everything about their interaction looks easy.
As Ginny gets out of the car, her mom catches me staring, and before she drives away, she waves at both of us, smiling like I’m an old friend, even though she has no idea who I am.
I smile back at Ginny’s mom.
“Your mom’s really pretty,” I say, once Ginny has reached me.
“Most people assume she’s my sister.” Ginny hikes her messenger bag up her shoulder. “She was twenty-one when she had me.”
I restrain myself from needling her for more information about her family, about her dad. I look over at her as we head through the side gym door; Coach left it propped open for us. Ginny is looking down at her hands, rubbing at the scar on her knuckle.
Where did she get it? Who is she, really?
Who the hell am I, for doubting her just because her father drove a pickup truck?
The mood in the gym is somber. One of the sophomore girls stands in front of Coach on crutches. She can’t even look at Coach as she chokes out the words: “I f-f-fell.”
A sprained ankle, obtained when the boy giving her a piggyback at a party last night dropped her. A week sitting out of practice. A lifetime, in competition prep. Coach barely looks her.
My eyes connect with Rachel’s; she’s standing in the corner, looking white in the face. I make my way toward her; she grabs me by the arms and whispers, “Alexa texted me. She just fucking woke up.”
Coach makes the rest of us pay for it. Fifty sit-ups and several laps around the gym. When Alexa rushes into the gym fifteen minutes later, everyone is shooting daggers at her. This is Coach’s MO. Punish the group for the sins of the few. Make us turn on each other.
Coach tells us to take a five-minute break. Even Rachel refuses to look at Alexa as she heads off to fill her water bottle at the fountain in the hall. While Lex practically throws herself at Coach’s feet, sputtering excuses, I look for Ginny.
She’s sitting on the bleachers, downing Gatorade. I plop down next to her, aggravating a brutal stomach cramp. “Hey.”
She swallows her gulp of Gatorade and wipes away the red it leaves on her upper lip. “Hey.”
We’re both watching Coach, standing by the speakers, arms crossed, surveying us like we’re a bunch of particularly disappointing zoo animals. Alexa is on the bench below, lacing up her shoes, despondent. I didn’t expect her conversation with Coach to be a very long one. Several feet away from Lex, the sophomore who hurt herself sits on the bleachers, her bandaged ankle propped up on the bench. Next to her, another sophomore is bent over, forearms resting on her knees, looking like she’s dry heaving.
I turn to Ginny. “Coach is going to put us all in the grave before we even get to regionals.”
She takes another sip of Gatorade. “She obviously does not understand the Geneva Conventions. We’re not responsible for their crimes.”
Ginny nods toward Alexa and the sophomore. Her deadpan elicits a nervous laugh from me. For some reason, my hands are trembling. I stick them under my thighs.
Ginny pauses, her Gatorade bottle inches from her mouth. “What is it? You’re nervous.”
Ginny told me I could ask Mike to look up her dad. But emailing Daphne about him crossed a line. I’m not sure she’ll forgive me if I tell her.
I take a breath. Opt for the half-truth. “My stepdad’s partner, Mike, called me this morning.”
Ginny glances around. Lowers her voice: “Does he know what we—”
“No, nothing like that.”
Ginny picks at the label of her Gatorade bottle. Waiting.
“He called me about your dad,” I say. “He looked him up.”
Her fingers go still. “What did he tell you?”
“Nothing.” My heartbeat quickens. “He just said he ran his information and he couldn’t find him.”
Ginny’s jaw goes rigid; I realize it sounds like I’m accusing her of lying.
Coach’s voice fills the gym. “Two more minutes!”
I’m scrambling to rephrase what I said, when down the bleachers from us, Kelsey B lets her foot drop to the bench with a thunk. “It totally hasn’t been five minutes yet.”
I wince. Watch as Coach looks at Kelsey with an eerily calm face. “Ten more laps.”
A groan ripples across the gym. Next to me, Ginny shows no indication she heard Coach. Her voice is barely above a whisper. “What else did Mike say about my dad?”