Now he’s home again, checking the voice mail in the futile hope of finding a message that will put his mind at ease.
Frustrated, he tries—-yet again—-to call Rick. No answer.
Bob scrolls through his recent calls, finds the number he dialed last night, and hits redial. So what if Rick’s stepson thinks he’s a pain in the ass?
The phone is answered with an automated outgoing message.
At the beep, Bob says simply, “Casey, it’s Bob again. Did you check in on Rick? Call me back as soon as you can.”
The Gravitron spins on.
An hour ago, Rowan would have bet her life that there was nothing—-absolutely nothing—-that could make what had happened with Jake, and with Rick Walker, seem insignificant.
She’d have lost.
Visiting the high school principal’s office for the first time in thirty years, she’s reverted right back to the bad old days: full--blown denial.
“No,” she says, shaking her head vehemently. “No way. Absolutely not. There’s just no way.”
“Rowan, we have a witness,” Ron Calhoun, the chief of police, gently tells her. They’ve known each other all their lives; he graduated with her brother Danny and was both Braden and Mick’s soccer coach. He doesn’t want to believe this any more than she does, and yet—-he seems to. So does Joe, who is saying very little and nervously toying with a pen.
Beyond the closed door, Mick is waiting in the reception area with Officer Greenlea, who was once a fourth--grader known as Ryan G. There were two other Ryans in Rowan’s class that year: Ryan K. and Ryan L. Ryan G. was the round--faced one who lisped and smelled like Fritos.
Now, in a bizarre twist, he’s armed with a badge and standing guard over her son.
Of course, Rowan didn’t realize that when she walked in. Her heart lurched when she saw the cop, but she assumed Mick had done something mischievous, not . . .
Not what they think.
This is crazy. There’s no way.
“One of the neighbors was out walking her dog,” Ron is saying, “and she saw Mick lurking around the Armbrusters’ house late Monday afternoon, looking suspicious.”
“He has other friends who live on Prospect Street. It doesn’t mean that he—-”
“He was on their driveway, and when the neighbor spoke to him, he was acting strange and evasive.”
“He’s a sixteen-year--old boy! They all act strange and evasive around adults.”
“Look, no one is saying that he’s responsible for Brianna’s disappearance,” Ron says. “But a clerk at Vernon’s confirmed that he bought the beads that were anonymously left for Brianna.”
Spinning . . . faster . . .
Back against the wall . . .
“But you said yourself that they were from a Secret Santa!” she protests.
“As far as anyone knows, Brianna wasn’t involved in any kind of Secret Santa exchange.”
She remembers the day she explained to Mick what a Secret Santa is; remembers the bizarre gift supposedly left by her own Secret Santa . . .
What if . . .
Can Brianna’s disappearance possibly be connected to Rick?
It seems crazy, but right now, what doesn’t?
Spinning . . . faster . . .
She’ll have to tell Ron about Rick Walker. Just in case. Privately. Now that Jake knows.
Oh God. Jake knows. He knows about her and Rick—-but not about Mick’s trouble at school.
She’d tried calling him as she drove over here from the elementary school parking lot. It went directly into voice mail every time. She didn’t leave a message, not wanting to tell him there was a problem with Mick until she knew how serious it was.
Dammit. It may be more serious than she ever imagined.
Spinning . . . spinning . . .
She needs to be with her son. She needs to hug him and let him know that someone is on his side, and . . . yes, and hear what he has to say for himself. And after that, she can pull Ron aside and tell him about Rick.
Rick, who’s on his way to her house right now.
Noreen can deal with it.
She can deal with anything.
So can you.