“Piper . . .” Walter sets down the box of screws. “I know it’s hard to wait, but I think you should just let the detectives do their work.”
“I’m letting them do their work.” My pen flows in smooth letters across the line, emitting the comforting smell of ink. “They felt it necessary to question me, and Detective Cassano gave me their card. I’m just answering his questions more thoroughly.”
Matthew has been the LeVine family’s chauffeur for over a year—
“Where do you think she is?” Nick’s voice is a notch above a whisper.
I look at my brother, his blond hair tousled from his hat. Behind his spectacles, his eyes, blue like Father’s, spark with fear. I think of the way he had been looking at Lydia these last few months. It had been similar to how Lydia had looked at Matthew.
“I don’t know,” I say.
What if Nick had discovered how Lydia felt about Matthew? What if yesterday, instead of heading to school like he said, he had lingered outside and listened to our conversation? And what if he had decided to wait around the corner for Lydia to try and talk to her? Only it didn’t go well, and his hurt and jealousy made him—
No. This is my brother. He cares about Lydia. Yes, he’s temperamental and big-headed, but violent? No way.
“Where are you going?” Walter asks as I stand. The screw he’d been holding clatters back into the box.
“I’m going to use the telephone in Father’s office. I’ll be right back.”
Father used to spend most evenings at his desk, reviewing cases as he enjoyed a glass of scotch. But nine months ago, when he met the new-to-town court reporter, Jane Miller, all that changed. Now the cherry wood desk is frequently empty at night, and the framed portrait of Mother sits in the dark unless Joyce comes in to answer the telephone.
I close Father’s office door with a click. The room smells of tobacco and neglect, and the only sound in the office is the clock, ticking away seconds with frightening speed. Lydia’s absence has done peculiar things to my perception of time. In my heart, she’s been missing for an eternity, and minutes are being siphoned away far too rapidly.
I pull Detective Cassano’s card from the pocket of my skirt. I hold the earpiece in my left hand and move a trembling finger to dial the first number. There’s no need to be nervous. I’ll just be leaving a message asking him to please telephone me tomorrow.
“Detective division.” The female voice is abrupt and nasally.
“Hi. I’d like to leave a message for either Detective Cassano or O’Malley, please.”
“One moment.”
In the silence, I stare at my page, at the black dot where I started to write my brother’s name. It looks like an ordinary blot of ink, but I know better. How could I ever write my own brother’s name in here? What if he saw?
“Cassano.”
I blink at the notebook, at the blot of ink. He’s still at work?
“Hello?”
“Yes, hi, detective. This is Piper Sail. We spoke earlier at Presley’s about my friend Lydia LeVine, who—”
“I know who you are, Miss Sail.”
“Oh, okay.” I look at my notebook, at the list of people and their stories. A list of people whom Lydia loves.
“Is there something you need, Miss Sail?”
“Yes, actually. When we spoke at the school earlier, I wasn’t much help. It was the shock of the news, I suppose.”
“That’s very common.” Detective Cassano’s voice has a gentle quality to it, and it calls to mind the way he held my hand steady at school. “It’s why I carry cards with me, because it’s hard to think logically in the face of news like that.”
I glance at my notes again. Do any of the stories even make sense? Do any of them matter?
“I wondered if you or Detective O’Malley had any time tomorrow to meet me. I spent some time thinking through everyone Lydia interacts with, and I made some notes that may be helpful. I could come to the station if that’s more convenient.”
“That won’t be necessary. We’re meeting with Dr. and Mrs. LeVine tomorrow afternoon, and it would be easy to stop by your place as well. Say around three o’clock? Or will you still be at school?”
My eyes slide shut. That’s so far from now. “Three o’ clock is fine. Thank you.”
“I hear hesitancy in your voice, Miss Sail. Has something important come up?”
“No, I just . . . I hate waiting.” Tears reduce my voice to a scratchy whisper. “I’m so afraid for her. She would never take off on her own like this.”
“We’re going to do everything we can to get Miss LeVine back home with you and her family.”
“Detective Cassano . . .” I trace the blotter on Father’s desk. “Please be honest with me. You said these situations are frequently nothing. How often is that true?”
His silence pushes my tears over the rims of my eyes.
“You seem to be a very intelligent young woman, Miss Sail.” His words are husky and low. “And with your father’s profession, I’m sure you’re not ignorant of the crimes that occur in our city.”