“Yeah, yeah,” I said quickly. Act normal. “I just—that was—thank you, Tom, really. What did you have to do? I hope I didn’t cost you any favors.”
“Oh, you know, I just had to make some empty threats, generally pretend I’m more important than I am,” he said.
“Typical Wednesday.”
“Typical Wednesday,” he said. “Roxane, are you okay?”
“I’m fine,” I said. “Just ready to be done with this portion of my day.”
I followed him to his car and sank into the passenger seat, which felt like the clouds of heaven after fifteen hours in that cell. I pulled the seat belt across me and the buckle rattled in my trembling hands as I tried to fasten it.
Tom turned to me, touched my forearm. “You’re shaking,” he said.
“I’m fine,” I said again, too quickly. “I think I’m just hungry,” I added. I wasn’t. My stomach felt like I had swallowed a bottle opener. “I haven’t really eaten since Monday.”
“Can I get you some breakfast?”
“No, no, that’s okay,” I said, “you’ve already done enough, coming down here in the middle of the freaking night.”
“I don’t mind,” Tom said as we turned onto Clover. “I’m in urgent need of coffee anyway. Today’s going to be rough.”
I didn’t want to have breakfast. I wanted to get back to my car, to the whiskey bottle that I had shoved under the passenger seat. “I thought cops were used to hours like this.”
“Coffee willing,” Tom said.
Inside the restaurant, I asked him to order me a cup of tea and the same as whatever he was having to eat. Then I went into the restroom and locked the door, leaning against it as I tried to breathe evenly. I caught sight of my reflection and winced—my cheekbone was a swatch of black and blue, the cut red and angry. My skin was pale and my hair was tangled and greasy. I hadn’t showered since Monday either. No wonder drunk Kira called me a trainwreck. I washed my hands and patted my face with a cool, damp paper towel.
An hour.
An hour, tops.
I could do that.
I went back into the restaurant and sat down across from him and gulped at the bitter black tea, then folded my hands in my lap so he couldn’t see them shaking.
“Are you going to tell me what started all this?” Tom said.
I looked at him. I didn’t want to talk about it. I didn’t want to talk at all. I wanted to put my head down on the table and weep from exhaustion and embarrassment. But Tom was in my corner, unlike the cops I’d been dealing with all night. “A girl is missing,” I said. “She didn’t come home Monday night. She’s actually a friend of the daughter of that woman I had you pull case info on. Frank’s case.”
He leaned on his hand, watching me. “Okay.”
“I know when we talked the other day, I was afraid I’d just found Sarah Cook’s body, that Brad Stockton had led me right to it. But it wasn’t her. It was another girl. She was thought to be a runaway, eight years ago. But she wasn’t. Someone killed her. While Stockton was in prison.”
The waitress brought our food, waffles and bacon and grits with a slick of neon yellow butter pooling on the top. I wanted to throw up. But I continued, “That made three girls—Frank’s case, Sarah, and the body I found. Now a fourth, with this girl who didn’t come home. It’s been nearly thirty-six hours. And there’s one guy who is connected to all of them, a piece of shit named Kenny Brayfield. But his parents paid for some city park in Belmont and now the police won’t even listen when I try to bring it up.”
Tom nodded, chewing. “So you got arrested for what, for criminal implying?”
I knew I was supposed to smile, so I did. “Well, that. While in the act of trying to see if I could fit through a fence.”
He looked at me like I should know better, which I should have. Which I did. Or maybe I didn’t. “Why?” he said.
I cut off a tiny piece of waffle and chewed it slowly but it was like a mouthful of sand. “I think he took this girl. Her name’s Veronica. I think he took her and if she’s not dead already, he’s keeping her somewhere. The police don’t care—”
“What’s your evidence? I mean, it’s a small town. I know you’re a city girl but connections abound in places like this.”
I looked up at the ceiling. I didn’t have any evidence, not really. Just a bunch of anecdotes and Kenny Brayfield appearing on the security tape at the Varsity Lounge, which wasn’t really proof of anything except the fact that he had been at that bar. I still had no clue where Sarah’s parents fit in. But taken as a whole, the collection of anecdotes told a very convincing story. Right? Things were getting blurry. I wouldn’t have been surprised to wake up and find myself at home in bed, or still in that cell, or ten years old, or dead.
Tom added, “I’m just saying, devil’s advocate, without evidence, you might just come off like a lunatic calling a tip line, right? Police departments, especially small ones, don’t like it when citizens try to tell them how to do their jobs.”
That annoyed me a little. I was clearly aware of this point. “I’m not telling them they need to install a traffic signal in front of my church,” I said, “I’m talking about a missing teenaged girl.”
“No, I know, I get it. She’s been gone how long?”
Then, on the table next to Tom’s plate, his phone lit up.
He glanced down at it, and so did I. A text, from Pam G. Is she okay?
“You told her about this?” I said, my voice coming out harsh.
Tom looked surprised. “I did,” he said. “I’m sorry—I didn’t know it was top secret.”
I sighed and shoved my plate away. “This is just—I hate that the first time she hears about me I’m calling you from jail.”
“Well, it’s hardly the first time she’s heard about you,” he said. “But it was a little hard not to tell her, I mean,” he added, “I was at her place when you called. Like, sleeping.”
Of course. I ran my hand over my face, forgetting about the bruise again. “Why did you answer the phone then?” I said.
“What?” Tom said. Now he looked confused. “I assume you wanted me to answer.”
“Only if you weren’t busy,” I said. I didn’t know what I would have done if Tom hadn’t answered. But that did not seem important at this moment. “You’re not supposed to answer the phone when someone you’re fucking calls you, if you’re in bed with someone else you’re fucking.”
His eyebrows went up. “Roxane, I seriously don’t understand how you’re mad at me.”
“I’m not,” I said. I tried breathing slowly but even that wasn’t working now. I needed that drink. “I’m not. You’re right. I did want you to answer. You can tell her I’m fine, I’m fucking fantastic.”
He was looking at me like he could tell something wasn’t right here. He was a detective, after all. “What happened?” he said. “Really.”
“I need to get my car,” I said, unable to deal. “Now. Can you give me a ride or should I call a cab?”