“You crossed a line. You shouldn’t have told her about the forensics. Sometimes I think you forget she’s a child, let alone that she was attacked less than a year ago,” Mom whispers.
“Repeating what I heard on the news is hardly telling her forensics,” he says.
“She’s still at risk of retraumatization. Elaine Ricker says she presents as classic post-traumatic stress disorder.”
“You know Julia. She needs information. You told me she spent months researching like mad: kidnapping statistics, sociopathic tendencies, martyr complexes. Trying to apply game theory to her own abduction, for God’s sake. The girl is starving for information to make sense of what happened to her. If knowing more about the psychopath who stole her sense of security helps her in some way, I say go for it.”
“Then it’s a good thing we decided a long time ago that you don’t have a say. Or have you forgotten?”
Ding-dong!
Damn it, doorbell! The conversation pauses. Mom calls out, “Julia, do not get that!” She shifts to a rapid-fire whisper: “Parents from Brazil … decomposition hastened by so much rain … veterinary student, very promising … tasteless gossip about leading a double life … important to determine there isn’t another criminal wandering the woods.”
The doorbell rings again.
Erik must be making to answer, because Mom shouts, “No! I’m calling Elaine Ricker.”
Ding-dong!
I run for the door, swinging it open. A blast of air rushes in. The streetlights are out and the night is starless. Against a lacy backdrop of trees, a figure is making for a truck at the curb.
“Julia! Did you just open the door?” Mom calls.
Kellan turns and grins, warm and wide. As he lopes back toward me, I spy something in his hand. “Hope you don’t mind me dropping by without calling. I found this under the backseat of my car,” he says.
Even in the dark I recognize the squiggly black design on the cover of my notebook. Cold horror falls over me. Another half hour and I would’ve tried to download Erik’s intel onto its pages and found it missing.
“Julia?” Mom calls, urgently now.
I snatch the notebook from his hand and smile tightly. “My French. Thanks. Test tomorrow. I would’ve been screwed.”
“Tomorrow’s a teachers’ professional day. No school, remember?” he says.
I laugh, but it goes on way too long until it dwindles to a pitchy sigh. “You’re correct!” I shake my finger at him, like he’s a rascal. “Friday. I meant Friday.”
“Right. Glad I caught you at home.” Kellan turns and strolls down the walk. The door is halfway shut when he stops and turns.
“You’re some overachiever,” he calls.
I ease the door open. “Sorry?”
“Taking French, too. Because we’re in Spanish together.”
“Did I say French?” I bring the notebook to my nose, examining it as if I’ve uncovered some important missed detail. “This is my stats notebook.”
He half smiles, coming up the walk. “I take stats. Most of the coursework’s online. But you use a comp notebook. Old school. Nice.”
“I like to figure things out on the page, you know?”
“I do know.”
I frown.
“Julia!” Mom comes running into the front hall. Not being athletic and maybe because of the wine, she flails and skids. Erik races behind, his arms outstretched, like he’s trying to contain her. It’s a scene.
“Oh, wow. Okay. Mom, Erik, this is Kellan.”
“Hello.” Mom stuffs her hair behind her ears, composing herself. “Gwen Spunk. Nice to meet you.”
“I left my notebook in his car today. He came by to give it to me. In case I needed it tomorrow—I mean Friday—for school.”
Mom cocks her head. “In his car?”
“When the reporters came. He let me wait in his car until the crazy died down.”
Erik jabs his hand in front of Mom. “Erik Meijer. I work with Julia’s mom. It was exceptional of you to save Julia like that.”
“Yes, thank you, Kieran,” Mom says.
“It’s Kellan,” I say, turning to Kellan. “When you rang the doorbell Mom thought you were a reporter. She was about to rip you a new one.”
“Julia!” Mom says.
“I can understand, after this morning,” Kellan says. “I’m not a fan of reporters either.”
“Kellan’s dad is Detective Joe MacDougall.”
Mom’s face turns positively purple, like she doesn’t know whether to hug him or slam the door in his face. Joe MacDougall may have put Donald Jessup in jail, but according to Paula Papademetriou, he’s high up in the same police department that blew off babysitting Jessup. Also, his rough bedside manner when they first brought me into the hospital has to be on her mind. He came inside the exam room when the nurse was helping tie my johnny, asking for my version of what happened. The nurse blocked him with her body while she swabbed the cuts on my back with bacitracin. He took my clothes in a bag. They argued. Mom stood by, silent and straining against the awfulness of it all, squeezing my hand.
Erik cups Mom’s shoulders. “Would you like to come in, Kellan?”
“I should just go,” Kellan says.