Unfazed by their mother’s mistreatment, eyeing us with far too much curiosity, the girls start across the living room. No one speaks, as if in deference to their presence. The things we’ll be discussing are not suited for young ears, despite the probability they’ve already heard far worse. They’re wearing shorts with T-shirts that are too tight and too revealing for such a tender age. That’s when I notice the Ace bandage on the taller girl’s left wrist. My eyes sweep lower and I notice a bruise the size of a fist on her left thigh, a second bruise on the back of her arm, and I wonder who put them there. I wonder how integral violence is to this family.
The back door slams. I look up, to see a tall, dark-haired young man appear in the kitchen doorway. I know immediately he’s Justin Treece. He’s nearly six feet tall. Skinny, the way so many young males are, but he’s got some sinew in his arms and the rangy look of a street fighter—one who knows how to fight dirty. He’s wearing baggy jeans with a drooping crotch—perfect for secreting a weapon—and a dirty T-shirt. Well-worn Doc Martens cover his feet. Newish-looking tats entwine both arms from shoulder to elbow. A single gold chain hangs around his neck, and he has gold hoops in both ears. He’s looking at us as if we’ve interrupted something important and he needs to get back to it ASAP.
“What’s going on?” he asks, wiping grease from his hands onto an orange shop towel.
Trina twists her head around to look at him. “I don’t know what you did, but these cops want to talk to you.”
“I didn’t do shit.” His gaze lingers on his mother, and for an instant I see a flash of raw hatred before he directs his attention to us. “What do you guys want?”
Justin Treece is not what I expected. He’s attractive, with dark, intelligent eyes that have the same cunning light as his mother’s. Someone less schooled in all the wicked ways of the human animal might presume he’s a decent, hardworking young man. But I’ve never put much weight in appearances, especially when I know they’re false.
Goddard doesn’t waste time on preliminaries. “When’s the last time you saw Annie King?”
An emotion I can’t quite identify flickers in his eyes; then his expression goes hard. “I was wondering when you were going to show up.”
Tomasetti flips out his identification, holds it up for Justin to see. “Why is that?”
Justin gives him a dismissive once-over. “When something bad happens around here, the cops come calling. I’m their go-to man.”
“When a girl goes missing, the boyfriend is usually one of the first people the police talk to,” Goddard tells him.
“That’s your problem,” Justin says.
Tomasetti never takes his eyes from the teen. “Stop acting like a dipshit and answer the sheriff’s question.”
“I ain’t seen her in a couple days.” He shrugs a little too casually, as if a missing girl is of no great concern, girlfriend or not. “I heard she was missing, though.”
“You don’t seem too worried,” Tomasetti says.
“I figured she left.”
“Why would you think that?”
Justin rolls his eyes. “Anyone under eighteen with a brain is thinking about leaving this fuckin’ dump. Besides, she hates those Bible-thumping freaks.”
“You mean the Amish?” I ask.
He gives me his full attention. Curiosity flickers in his eyes. He’s wondering who I am and why I’m here. I tug out my identification and show it to him.
“Yeah, man, the Amish. They treat her like shit, and she was sick of all their self-righteous crap.”
“She told you that?” I ask.
“All the time. They’re always judging her, telling her what she can and can’t do. She has no freedom and can’t do shit without one of them pointing their holier-than-thou fingers.” That he’s speaking of her in the present tense doesn’t elude me. “I’m glad she finally got out. Good for her.”
“How close are you?” I ask.
“We’re friends. You know, tight.”
“Since you’re so tight, Justin, did it bother you that she left without saying good-bye?” I ask.
The kid surprises me by looking down, and I realize the question hit a raw spot he doesn’t want us to see. “It’s a free country. I always told her if she got the chance, she should take it.” He laughs. “I figured I’d be the one to go first.”
“Did she mention a destination?” Tomasetti asks.
He thinks about that a moment. “We used to talk about Florida. She hates the cold. Never even seen the ocean. But I can’t see her just picking up and going with no apartment. No job.”
“Her parents are worried,” I tell him.
“They shoulda treated her better,” he shoots back.
“We think she could be in trouble,” Goddard says.
His eyes narrow on the sheriff. “You mean like someone … hurting her?”
“That’s exactly what we mean.” Tomasetti stares hard at him. “Do you know anything about that?”
“What? You think I did something to her?”
“You ever lose your temper with her?” Tomasetti asks, pressing him. “Ever hit her?”
Trina Treece heaves her frame up off the sofa with the grace of a gymnast. “What kind of question is that?”
“The kind he has to answer.” But Tomasetti doesn’t take his eyes off the boy.
Justin holds his gaze. “I never touched her.”
“Did you buy her a cell phone?” Goddard asks.
“Her parents wouldn’t do it, so I did. Last I heard, that wasn’t against the law.”
“She use it?” I ask.
“Sure. We talk all the time.”
“When’s the last time you heard from her?” Tomasetti asks.