JULIE: I still think I should tell him about the Jeep.
ME: If he’s good, he’ll work it out.
JULIE: I guess.
ME: ’Night, Julie.
JULIE. ’Night, Cass.
ME: (pause)
JULIE: We’ll get this ******, right? We’ll get Paris back?
ME: Yes. Yes, we will.
JULIE: (sounding suddenly like a child) You promise?
ME: I promise.
CLICK. AND THE LINE GOES DEAD.
BLACKNESS.
FADE OUT.
I had no right to do that. No right to promise something I couldn’t deliver.
The next day was a Monday. I had breakfast with Dad—I had nut-free toast, and he had Pop-Tarts. Dad was reading the paper.
“Oh, ****, Cass,” he said suddenly.
I looked up. “What?”
“Oh, Cass, I’m sorry.”
Now I knew what was in the paper. “Why?” I asked, as if I didn’t know. For some reason, by some instinct, I didn’t want Dad knowing about Agent Horowitz, about Julie, about any of it.
Some helpful instinct, as it turned out.
Dad turned the paper around. There was a photo of Paris—it must have been taken before she was ill; she looked plump and happy. Fifteen, maybe. She was standing by a pool.
“That’s your friend, right? The one from the hospital?”
“Yeah,” I said.
“I’m so sorry, honey. They say she’s disappeared, that they think …” He went silent, scanning the page upside down.
Oh.
Oh ****.
“Cassandra,” said Dad, and it was never a good sign when he used my full name. “Cassandra, were you hanging out with a stripper?”
“Um.”
“Cassandra?”
“Um, yeah. But she didn’t do touching, she—”
He turned the paper, showing me a picture from Paris’s Instagram. It showed her with stars over her nipples, smoking.
“Are you ******* insane?” he shouted. “Oh no, wait. Yes! You are ****** insane! Jesus, Cass, I’m trying here, I’m trying to protect you, like your mom would have wanted, and you’re just …”
“She was nice,” I said quietly. “She was my friend.”
Dad shook his head. He was looking at me as if I came with instructions in another language. “She was a … she was this”—he indicated the paper—“and look where it got her.”
“You’re saying girls who take their clothes off are asking to be killed?”
“That’s not what I’m saying, and you know it!”
“Do I?” I said. “Do I, Dad? Because it sounds to me like you’re saying that being taken by the Houdini Killer is some kind of moral punishment for being a stripper.”
A long pause.
“I don’t know what to do with you anymore,” said Dad.
“Tell him to **** off,” said the voice. “Tell him you don’t give a **** what he thinks.”
“Sorry, Dad,” I said.
He grunted. Then there was a knock on the door. Dad went to open it.
“Hey,” you said. I couldn’t see you, but I recognized your voice. I went to the kitchen door, but Dad was blocking the doorway.
“Hi,” said Dad. “You need something?”
“I was wondering … if Cass could come out.”
“No,” said Dad.
“Oh,” you said. “Uh … oh.”
“Have a good day,” said Dad. “Shouldn’t you be getting to work?”
“Yeah,” you said. And Dad closed the door on you.
Sorry about that.
Dad came back to the kitchen. “No going out today, okay?”
“Okay,” I said.
“I have to know you’re safe, Cass.”
“Yeah.”
“Good.”
He went upstairs and I heard the shower start. “Your own father hates you,” said the voice dully.
“After six p.m.,” I said automatically.
The voice shut up. Ever since I didn’t cut off my toe, it had lost some of its power. It didn’t push things anymore. It was more like an irritation—a wasp that circles back to your picnic table intermittently. I could mostly ignore it.
Dad came back downstairs, put on a thin jacket, and pocketed his keys from the monkey’s little tray. Then he went out. “Remember: stay here,” he said.
“Sure, Dad.”
Ten minutes later there was another knock at the door.
“I know your dad’s angry, but you want to ride to work with me?” you said. “We can talk about stuff. I have an idea I think we could—”
“Yes,” I said.
I grabbed my keys and closed the door behind me.
You started the engine and pulled out, took Ocean and then Maple, driving to the center of town. As we drove, you turned to me. “Get anywhere with Julie?” you asked.
I rocked my hand; an equivocal gesture. “Maybe. She thinks it was a Jeep. One of the V8 sport models.”
“An SRT8?” you asked.
I looked at you, surprised. I hadn’t figured you for a car head. “Yeah. You know cars?”
You shook your head. “Nah. My dad is into them.”
“Mine too.” There were always magazines on our coffee table. Muscle Car. American Auto.
You smiled. “Something we have in common, then.”
You made a couple of turns, getting closer to the center. We pulled up at a stop sign. “Could be enough,” you said, almost to yourself.
“Huh?”
“The model. Gives us something to go on.”