I look at him, the fellow who’s antagonized me on a regular basis for the last year, yet now extends comfort in some of the darkest days I’ve ever known. “I need Lydia.”
The words are raw, and if I had more sense of myself, I would probably want to snatch them back and shove them away. But I don’t care that Jeremiah looks at me with pity or that Emma’s eyes shine with tears. My sense of pride is so far gone that I don’t even care that they might still be able to hear me when I close the front door behind them, slide to the floor, and sob.
CHAPTER
EIGHT
Lots of Presley’s girls take the L.”
But Father only repeats, “Walter will drive you,” and underlines a sentence on the document he’s reading.
“But—”
Father sits up straight in his desk chair and gives me a stern look. “I know you’re practically a grown woman, and that before too many more months you’ll be away at college, but for now, I need to know you’re being watched over at all times. Can you understand that?”
His face may be stern, but his eyes are full of fear.
“Yes, Father,” I murmur.
“Thank you.” He reaches for his cup of black coffee. “Is there anything else?”
I think of him slack-jawed with sleep, a gun at his side, and his chair swiveled expectantly toward the front door. If I don’t ask him, the questions will keep pestering me.
“The first night we knew about Lydia, I came downstairs in the middle of the night.” I glance at him. He’s watching me, mouth pressed in a line. “You were asleep in your chair. You had your gun with you.”
He takes a long drink of his coffee. The steam curls into the air between us. “And that scared you, didn’t it?”
“Yes, sir.”
Father sighs and rests his cup on his desk. “I’m sorry to have scared you, Piper. But I was scared. I’m a single father, with a daughter whose best friend has vanished from the neighborhood. I guess it made me feel better to have the gun with me. I was overreacting, of course.” He reaches across his desk for my hand. “As a lawyer, I sometimes make men angry. Very nasty men. And my imagination ran wild.”
“What were you imagining?” I can’t seem to make my words louder than a whisper.
He regards me a moment. “Nothing that I could substantiate with evidence. It was just farfetched worrying, okay?”
“Okay, Daddy.” I haven’t called him that in years, but with my tiny hand pressed inside his large one, the term seems to fit the moment.
He squeezes my fingers before releasing me. “I hope your school day goes well. I know it’ll be a hard one for you.”
It will. But not for the reason he thinks.
He glances at the leather shopping bag on my shoulder, and I suck in a breath as I anticipate him asking about it. But I leave without any questions. Perhaps he thinks carrying a shopping bag instead of a handbag is some new rage among the secondary-school crowd.
Walter is quiet on the drive until he pulls alongside the front sidewalk of Presley’s. He puts on the brake and watches the crowd of girls heading up to the doors. “I wish I could go in there with you. I hate that you have to do this alone.”
It’s not hard to fake the wobble in my voice. “I can handle it.”
If I tell Walter what I have planned for today, he won’t let me out of his sight, and this is something I need to do.
I slide out of the car, my shopping bag thumping against my calf in a way that seems incriminating. But Walter only says, “See you at three” as I shut the door.
I wave good-bye and start up the sidewalk.
I dawdle my way to the front doors, keeping an eye on the Ford as Walter inches through Presley’s traffic. The girls stream around me, walking in content pairs or groups. They beat their gums about parties and summer plans, but their chatter fades to a whisper when they brush past me.
No one says a word to me. I wouldn’t have expected this to hurt so deeply.
I had hoped I could slink away once Walter was out of sight, but there are far too many eyes trained on me for that. I’ll have to go inside and try to use a telephone in there.
I stroll through the doors, becoming one of the many girls in saddle shoes and an ankle-length black skirt. Several glance at the shopping bag hanging off my shoulder—they know it’s out of place—but still no one breathes a word to me. And as the time draws near for class to begin, when I know Headmistress Robinson is in the chapel for morning prayers, I slip into her office.
The room hasn’t changed since the last time I was in here, “borrowing” several sheets of her personalized stationery. The same photographs are gathered on the edge of the desk, the same cup of sharpened pencils, and the same candlestick telephone.
I pull out the card and dial the number.
“Detective Cassano.” His words have a gruff, almost sleepy sound.
“Hi, it’s Piper.”
There’s a pause. “Are you not at school today?”
“I am, actually, but I needed to let you know something. Before I tell you this”—I suck in a swift, fortifying breath—“I want to make it clear that I’m not calling to ask permission.”