“I did not panic,” I said. “I went out looking for her. I knew where Pool Boy lived—he lives with his parents—and what kind of car he drove, so I drove over there, and the whole house is dark, except for one light in the basement.”
“Not a good sign,” Harley said, nodding slightly.
“Yeah, well, I got out of my car, looked around his, then went up to the house.”
“You knocked on the door at, what, nearly three in the morning?”
“No, I kind of didn’t want to do that unless I knew for sure Angie was there, since I was probably going to be waking up Pool Boy’s mom and dad, so I thought I’d just have a look in the basement window. I had to get down on my knees—they’re these shallow windows, only come up about a foot from ground level.”
Harley sighed, closed his eyes.
“There was a bit of a gap in the curtains, and I could see it was your basic rec room, wood paneling on the walls, old couch.”
“And who was on the couch, I’m afraid to ask,” Harley said.
“No one,” I said. “Look, you need to understand, I don’t want to violate Angie’s privacy, I know what kids are up to today, but it’s a safety thing, okay? I just needed to know that she was okay.”
“So you didn’t see her in the window,” Harley said. “Was Pool Boy there?”
“Not inside,” I said. “But when I got up from looking in the window, I noticed that he was standing next to me.”
“Awkward,” said Harley.
“And his dad was next to him. I guess the dad heard the car, his son was still up, they came out to investigate.”
“Was this before or after they called the cops?”
“After. But by the time they arrived, we’d sorted it out. I mean, they realized who I was. Pool Boy said he’d dropped off Angie around twelve-thirty, and asked if I’d checked her bedroom before I’d come to his place.”
“Which you hadn’t.”
“I was sure I’d hear her when she came in. But she says she tiptoed, didn’t want to wake me.”
“How long ago was this?”
“About a month. Before school started up again. Angie’s still hardly speaking to me. And the thing is, now I think she’s got some sort of stalker.”
Harley dropped into the other chair in the small examining room. He was looking pretty exhausted. I seem to have that effect on people at times. “A stalker.”
“Not the Pool Boy. I think they’ve broken up.”
“There’s a surprise,” Harley said.
“Is this part of the new medicine?” I asked. “Crack wise while your patients open up to you?”
“Of course not. Go ahead. I shall remain nonjudgmental.”
“She calls him a stalker, but you know how kids talk. Anyone who’s interested in them they don’t like is categorized a stalker. But he calls her a lot, shows up unexpectedly wherever she is. I’m just worried this guy may be some kind of a nutcase. But I’m kind of in a bad spot now, what with the Pool Boy incident being so fresh in everyone’s mind, that anything I say or do looks like some kind of hysterical overreaction.”
“Just because a guy calls her a few times and shows up where your daughter hangs out doesn’t make him a serial killer.”
“I know that. But I get, jeez, I get this knot in my chest, worrying about my family. It’s not like we haven’t had some problems in the past.”
“That was then. That was an isolated incident.” Harley leaned forward a bit in his chair, like he wanted our conversation to be more intimate. “Zack,” he said slowly, “I don’t want to put you on anything unless you feel it’s absolutely necessary. It’s better to work out your problems without medications.”
“I totally agree,” I said. “I’m not asking for a prescription. It’s not like I’m a hypochondriac or something, although, if you did diagnose something, I’d have to conclude it was fatal.”
“Maybe you need to focus your attention on work, get your mind off what’s happening at home. What you’re going through isn’t any different than what every other parent goes through. We all worry about our kids, but we have to let them live their own lives, you know.”
“Sure.”
“So, when you’re writing, doing your work, doesn’t that help get your mind off other things? Isn’t that a good way to reduce your anxiety level?”
I nodded. “For the most part.”
“So, what are you working on now? Another book?”
“Well, I’m back with a paper now, The Metropolitan, doing features. You can’t exactly make a living writing books.”
“I liked that one you did, about the guy goes back in time to kill the inventor of those hot-air hand dryers in men’s rooms before he’s born. That wasn’t a bestseller?”
“No,” I said.
Harley looked surprised. I continued, “I’m doing a feature right now on this private eye, and the last few nights, I’ve been with him on this, like, well, a stakeout I guess you’d call it, hoping to catch some gang that’s been smashing into high-end men’s shops, making off with hundreds of thousands of dollars’ worth of stuff.”