“Judge Dennett, it’s been eight days since the investigation began,” I state. “Nine since Mia was last seen. According to co-workers, she rarely missed work. According to your wife, this behavior—shiftlessness, irresponsibility—is not in sync with Mia’s character.”
He sips from the scotch and sets it down too quickly on the island. Eve jumps from the sound. “Of course, there’s the disorderly conduct. Trespassing and vandalism. Possession of marijuana,” he says and then, to piss me off, adds, “to name just a few.” The expression on his face is complacent, holier-than-thou. I stare at him, unable to comment. I despise his bravado.
“I checked the police records,” I say. “There was nothing on Mia.” In fact her record was squeaky clean. Not even a speeding ticket.
“Well, there wouldn’t be, now would there?” he asks and I understand: he made them disappear. He excuses himself long enough to get a refill. Mrs. Dennett is still scrubbing away at the dishes. I stray to the sink and nudge the faucet toward cold so the poor woman’s hands will no longer burn.
She glances at me, taken aback, as if she just caught the first whiff of burning flesh and whispers, “I should have told you,” her eyes filling with sadness. Yes, I think, you should have told me, but I bite my tongue as she goes on. “I wish I could say he was in denial. I wish I could say he was so overcome with grief that he’s refusing to believe Mia is really gone.”
Judge Dennett returns just in time to overhear the last few words of his wife’s confession. It’s quiet in the room and for a split second I brace myself for the wrath of God. But there’s none of it; it doesn’t come.
“This behavior of Mia’s isn’t as unexpected as you’ve led the detective to believe, now is it, Eve?” he asks.
“Oh, James,” she cries. She’s drying her hands on a tea towel when she says, “That was years ago. She was in high school. She made her fair share of mistakes. But that was years ago.”
“And what do you know of this Mia, Eve? It’s been years since we’ve had a relationship with our daughter. We hardly know her anymore.”
“And you, Your Honor,” I say, to take Mrs. Dennett off the hot seat. I hate the way he stares at her, his eyes making her feel stupid. “What do you know of this Mia? Any misdemeanors that have recently been expunged from her record?” I ask. “Traffic citations? Prostitution? Public intoxication?” I don’t have to think twice as to why her youthful transgressions disappeared from the record. “That wouldn’t look good for the Dennett name, now would it? And this whole thing—if Mia is out there screwing around at the end of the investigation, if she’s perfectly fine and just out for a good time, that doesn’t look good, either, does it?”
I watch the news; I’m generally up on politics. This November Judge Dennett is up for reelection.
And yet I find myself wondering if Mia’s misconduct is limited to her youth alone, or if there’s more to it than that.
“You’d better watch yourself,” the judge warns, but in the background, Eve whimpers, “Prostitution? James?” Though it was never anything more than a hypothetical.
He ignores her. I suppose we both do.
“I’m just trying to find your daughter,” I say. “Because maybe she is off doing something stupid. But consider for a minute that maybe she’s not. Just think about it. What then? I’m certain you’ll be asking for my badge if she winds up dead.”
“James,” his wife hisses. She’s nearly in tears from my use of daughter and dead in the same sentence.
“Let me get this straight, Hoffman,” he says to me. “You find my daughter and you bring her home. Alive. You just make sure you cover your bases because there’s more to Mia than meets the eye,” he concludes and, with that, takes his scotch and walks out of the room.
Colin
Before
I catch her staring at herself in the bathroom mirror. She doesn’t recognize the reflection: the wiry hair and dowdy skin, the bruises that are beginning to heal. They’re yellow now with gaps between instead of bulging and purple.
When she comes from the bathroom, I’m waiting for her. I’m leaned against the frame of the door. She steps out and bumps into me, staring at me, like some beast hovering over her, stealing her air. “I wasn’t going to hit you,” I say, reading her thoughts, but she doesn’t speak.
I brush a cold hand across her cheek. She winces and pulls back, away from my touch. “It’s better,” I say about the bruises.
She moves past me and walks away.