“This one would’ve been just two or three years ago. Um, she had brown hair and hazel eyes. She was small. And . . . I guess she might’ve been a little sick at the time. Or just . . . troubled?”
It’s not much, as vital statistics go, but Hilda surprises me by answering, “There was one girl he went around with. She was trouble. Made his father so upset, it broke his heart. She was a pretty little white girl, but she was crazier than a sack of raccoons, would borrow money from Todd because she didn’t work. Crashed this truck he had at the time. All kinds of problems. But I thought that was a while back. My nephew passed when that second Bush was still president. Or was that my cousin’s son? Oh, there’s too many of them to keep track.”
So Hilda’s not the most reliable source. But I don’t want her sketchy memory for details to distract me from the big picture. “Do you think it’s possible Todd kept in touch with her?”
“Well, I don’t know why he would. His mother says he’s married now, to a lovely woman in New York. But who knows? He doesn’t come home much. Doesn’t report in to me. I don’t even have his number.”
“You mean Connecticut?”
“What’s that?”
“He’s in Connecticut, not New York. Right? I thought he worked at UConn.”
“Sure, maybe he does.”
“All right, that’s . . . helpful. Thanks.”
Having heard the whole conversation, Tilly sips her seltzer primly and says when I’ve hung up, “You know, ever since Siobhan went off the rails, I knew her little girl was headed for a hard time.”
We can’t get out of there fast enough.
We head back to Sugarbrook as the sky really opens up and icy raindrops the size of pebbles pelt the car roof. We drive in silence, deafened. But I’m not sulking. We’re closing in on Sidonie Faye. When Dad and I find her, it won’t matter that she quit a few jobs and crashed her ex-boyfriend’s truck and went a little off the rails. She’ll have her family to help her out. Besides, I knew she was troubled waters from the start. This was never going to be easy.
Without thinking, I smile over at Chad. “Want to help us track down Todd Malachai?”
“That’s the spirit!” he says, and shakes me gently by the neck the way he does when we play video games. His hand is big and dry and warm.
When we’re almost home we drive ahead of the weather, and the clouds turn white all at once and the last bit of sun streaks through. I think there must be a rainbow somewhere, with the road still glittering. While we’re stopped at a light I crane my neck around to search the gray block of sky behind me, but there’s nothing there.
FIFTEEN
“You’re spending quite a lot of time with them.” Lindy works to free the zipper where it’s caught on the black plastic. “I don’t want you getting in their hair . . . Oh, Immy!” She gasps. Red fabric tumbles out of the bag. “You’re going to look so beautiful! Did you try it on? Do you love it?”
Is it my imagination, or are my stepmother’s cool blue eyes a little dewy? “I guess. It’s no big deal or anything.”
“It is a big deal,” she corrects me. “I just can’t believe how mature you are. You’re almost a grown-up.”
I don’t like the “almost” part—I’m the grown-up who’s hot on my dad’s trail. Not Lindy, not Officer Griffin, not anybody older or supposedly more mature than me. But it doesn’t help my case to argue the compliment. “Thanks, Lindy.”
Running her fingers over the skirt of the dress, the slightly plunging neckline, and the thick red halter straps, she sighs. “I want you to know how proud I am of you, Immy. Of how you’re handling yourself in all of this. And I know your dad . . .” She covers her mouth with a shaking hand and coughs out an ugly half sob.
It’s totally horrifying. I have no idea what to do, what to say. I get awkward around tears, embarrassed; for the crier or for myself as the cried-upon, I don’t know. Probably both. I almost always knew how to handle Dad in his bad times. I could lead him to bed when he’d drunk too much on a very not-great night, make myself breakfast the next morning, get myself to the school bus and leave a list of things for him to do that day, because sometimes he needed a reason to climb out of bed. I’m well-equipped for that. But crying? Usually I would fall back on a bad joke: Hey, Dad, two cows were standing in a field. The first said, ‘What do you think about this mad cow disease?’ The second said, ‘Doesn’t bother me, I’m a duck.’ Get it? Because he’s crazy? Come on, Dad, that’s funny.
I can’t think of a joke to tell Lindy, and the moment drags on. And on.
“I’m sorry, Immy.” She thumbs a tear from the corner of her eye. “Don’t pay attention to me. I’m just . . . This is a beautiful dress. Maybe we can find an updo to match—something old-fashioned and romantic?”
“Yeah.” I smile for her. “Maybe.”