He obviously reads my discomfort with the thought. “The search is still a good idea,” he says. “It will generate a lot of media coverage and that’s always helpful. Someone hears about it on the news and it jogs a memory . . . or you pull on some heartstrings and someone turns in a brother or something. That’s the way these cases get solved a lot of the time. We instructed your father’s PR guy to make sure everyone signs in and provides some contact information. We’ll cross-reference the names and phone numbers to see if they have any connection to Charlotte we didn’t already know about. I’m not saying that the criminal always returns to the scene of the crime, but it’s a cliché for a reason.”
It is true, although I’ve never understood why people are so stupid. A shrink or criminal profiler might say it’s all about power. There’s some psychosis in the perp—he or she is convinced of their superiority, and seeing the cops fumble around reinforces it. Others get off on the chaos and pain they’re inflicting on the family, a way to commit the killing all over again. And still others find it’s a way to shadow the investigation. Coming to these types of things allows them to see the evidence the cops are uncovering in real time, so they can figure out if they’re at any risk of getting caught.
None of the psychology behind it matters to me in the least, of course. All I care about is that, if it’s true, my sister’s killer might show up.
Phillip strategically places my father in front of the flower garden on Ninety-Sixth, so that the plantings are in the foreground. After my father gets into position, Phillip hands him the microphone.
My father squints in the bright sun. Then he turns to me and tries to force out a smile. After my father’s inability to speak at the police press conference, I stand close by, ready to step in if needed even though I doubt my father will falter again.
“Thank you all for coming today,” he begins. “I can’t tell you how touched I am by the outpouring of love for Charlotte. Of course, it doesn’t surprise me. Everyone who met Charlotte instantly fell in love with her. So thank you. Thank you all from the bottom of my heart.”
He hands the microphone to Phillip. “Everyone,” Phillip says, “you were each given numbers when you arrived. On the back is the location where you should check in. Go to that spot, and your group leader will be waiting with further instructions. Once again, on behalf of the Broden family, thank you all very much.”
A few of the faces in the crowd I recognize as Charlotte’s friends. Brooke actually gives me a cheerful wave before she realizes it’s inappropriate for the setting. Josh and Zach are on opposite ends of the crowd, and I can’t help but wonder whether it’s intentional on their parts to stay as far away from each other as possible, but realize that it must be a coincidence because they’ve never met. I wonder too if either is really here because they’re murdering sociopaths and want to watch the police fumble around and witness my father and me suffer, or to stay abreast of the investigation.
For the next two hours, we all parade up and down Riverside Park, searching for something no one wants to find. Rows of people walking straight lines, like some grim military exercise.
Every so often, the shrill sound of a whistle rings out, the signal that someone has found something that requires further attention. Despite Gabriel’s confidence that no one will discover Charlotte, my heart stops with each blare. But then I hear the two rapid-fire whistles declaring the first interruption to be a false alarm.
In the end, no one locates Charlotte or anything belonging to her. I take the failure as good news, but can’t deny a part of me wants this to be over. It has been more than three days now. Surely, Charlotte is dead.
Everyone meets back at Ninety-Sixth Street for refreshments. Phillip tells me to stand in front of the tent, to welcome each volunteer with a smile and a thank you. While I’m waiting for the last of them to report, I see a familiar face approach.
I’m beyond shocked. It’s Dylan Perry, my one-night stand from Lava.
“Dylan?”
“Hello . . . Ella,” he says.
I can feel my cheeks flush. I’ve finally been outed by someone who knows that Cassidy is actually Ella Broden. At the same time, I’m pleased that if anyone’s going to crack my secret identity, it’s Dylan. I’ve definitely wanted to see him again, but hadn’t realized just how much until this moment.
“I wanted to get in touch with you,” he says, “but I’m such an idiot. I never got your number the other night, and you never gave me your last name—and, as I since learned, Cassidy is a stage name. I thought about dropping by your apartment building, but that seemed kind of stalkerish. I was just about to leave you a note at Lava when I saw you on the news and decided that I’d come here to see you. I hope that was okay.”
“Yes. I’m really glad you came, Dylan.”
“I’m so sorry about your sister,” he says. “I can’t imagine what a nightmare this must be.”
“Thank you,” I say. “It’s been really awful.”
“I know this is going to sound odd because we don’t really know each other at all, but if there’s anything I can do, please just ask. Even if it’s just to talk.”
“That’s very sweet. Thank you. I appreciate your coming out today, and wearing the bracelet.”
He lifts his arm up to show off the accessory. “Normally I’d ask for your number, but I don’t want to reach out to you until you’re ready, so why don’t I give you my number instead? That way, you can call me whenever you want. No pressure, though.”
He smiles at me, and I’m instantly jolted the same way I was at Lava.
I take out my cell phone. “Ready.”
He recites the numbers, and I punch them into my phone. When I’m finished, I hit “Dial.”
His ringtone is “Under Pressure”—the same song he sang at Lava.
“No pressure, huh?” I say, laughing.
It’s the first time I’ve laughed in days.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
My sister Emily is many things that I’m not. All of them good. She’s honest, loyal, and cares about other people more than herself. She’s also brilliant and beautiful. The apple of our father’s eye, and our mother’s favorite too, while she was alive.
I know that comes across like I’m jealous, but I’m not. If I were our parents, I’d favor Emily over me too. When our mother was diagnosed with cancer, Emily stepped up and took care of me and, truth be told, our father too. In many ways, it’s Emily who actually reared me. She’s the voice in my head—not my mother, whose voice I sometimes have trouble even remembering, or my father—who expresses the profound disappointment in the person I’ve become.
Not that Emily knows the depths to which I’ve sunk. I keep my issues secret from her due to my own shortcomings, not hers. I’m certain that if I confided in her, she’d provide me with good counsel. The reason I don’t talk to her about it is that I’m even more certain that I’d reject her advice.