“Then why my daughter?”
“Because you need me.”
More tears now. She grabs a tissue from the end table and wipes her eyes.
“And the reason cops don’t answer questions like the one you were about to ask is simply because they can’t. Not because they’re not allowed to; it’s just an answer they don’t have. Any answer I might come up with would just be bullshit.”
She smiles kindly.
“Would you mind if I asked you something very personal?”
“You can ask.”
“How is your marriage?”
It takes her a moment. “Are you married, Detective?”
“No, ma’am. I never got around to it.”
“Well, after time, marriage becomes something comfortable. Ours was always comfortable, but then it got shaken up by a terrible storm.”
“So your daughter saw that it was comfortable?”
“Yes, yes, she did,” she says, like she understands why I asked. “We fought like most families fight. Never talk of divorce. My husband has to travel a lot because of the work he does. He can also be emotionally distant at times, and has a hard time showing affection, but he loves Miriam and I know Miriam knows he loves her. So she didn’t run away, if that’s what you’re getting at. I know the police detective here thought that is what happened, but she didn’t. I hope you don’t think that, especially after you were the one to rescue that other girl and the situation is so similar.”
“The similarities between the two are another reason I took on this case, but I still had to ask.”
“I understand.”
“Would you like to show me Miriam’s room?”
Thirty
I’m checking out the room, and it’s what I would imagine a typical teenage girl’s room to be like. Maybe a bit too tidy, like the rest of this house, but I’m sure Mrs. Gregory straightened it up.
There’s a twin bed with several stuffed animals on it. There’s a little nightstand with a single drawer and a bedside lamp. There’s a study desk with three drawers and a laptop, and beside it a dresser with four drawers and a vanity mirror. There’s a sliding door that opens to the closet and to the right of that a small bookcase.
“Would you like me to stay?”
“Only if you want to. It’s not necessary, though. But tell me first, did the police find anything they thought might be useful, like a diary or maybe something on her laptop?”
“She hasn’t had a diary since she was eleven years old and she only uses the laptop for schoolwork. Everything the police have, you have. It’s on the list we gave you. I know it’s not much, but she only had a few close friends.”
“Will I need a password for the laptop?”
“No.”
“Thank you. I shouldn’t be long.”
“I’ll be right downstairs, then.”
“Okay.”
I’m used to looking for drug stashes, sometimes secreted where you’d least expect to find them, so how hard can it be to find a teenage girl’s secret hiding place?
I look everywhere I would normally look, including areas of the carpet that look like they may have been pulled up. After squeezing all her stuffed animals, I go through the drawers, including, admittedly, the drawer containing her underwear, which is something I’m not comfortable with but had to be done. I dig through the closet, her clothing, boxes, and even shoes. I move to the bookcase and go through all the books, hoping to find photographs or pieces of papers with notes or phone numbers.
Nothing.
I find a high school yearbook for last year. She would have been a freshman. I search the pages and find her picture. She looks a lot younger. I guess these are the years they grow quickly. I search through the M’s and see Amanda’s photo.
I tear off a piece of paper from my notepad and mark the page with it, then I set the yearbook on my notepad.
I go to the desk, search through the few papers she has, and then the drawers.
Nothing.
The last thing I do is go through the laptop.
I check the icons for anything that might indicate an account for email or social media, but don’t find anything.
I click the icon for Google hoping I will find something useful on the bookmarks bar or in the browsing history.
It’s another dead end.
I’m not surprised, though. If I wanted to hide something from my parents, the laptop they gave me would be the last thing I’d use.
So much for that secret hiding spot and that smoking gun of a diary I was hoping to find.
I walk downstairs with the yearbook, find Mrs. Gregory sitting on the sofa. She sees me and stands.
“It took a little longer than I thought,” I tell her.
“Please, have a seat.”
“That’s all right. I’m meeting with one of your daughter’s friends from the list you gave me. I don’t want to be late.”