The school had grown tired of them, no longer knew what to do with Alfie and no longer wanted to know. She understood that too.
She had to choose. She couldn’t manage the hours and days that police work demanded and be there for her child. Sure, others did it, but they had a support system—spouses, parents, in-laws, siblings, friends who would step in and watch the children. Who did she have? Only Alfie.
And although she loved her job, adored being an undercover, treasured her alter egos, the trickery, the hunt, she cherished her son above all. And anyway, nothing felt right anymore at work. Nothing felt right anywhere. Moving away seemed the most logical step.
The next day, she put in her resignation. She’d be father, mother, protector, and friend to Alfie. He needed her, and nobody ever again would need her this way.
She sold her parents’ house, paid off the credit cards, and rented a three-bedroom colonial in Sylvan—a place she selected precisely for its schools, negative crime rate, and wild, soul-soothing beauty.
But the past lodged inside her, a splinter in her view of the world, shading her interactions with everyone, including her son. She’d let it come between them the last time he ran away, but God help her, she had no idea what she did wrong this time.
This morning after her walk with Holly, she showered, rubbed a little pomade into her dark curls, made sure her blouse and slacks were without stains and relatively wrinkle-free. She tried to remember what it was like to be on a case, where you had to focus on the details but not miss the big picture, hear everything, write everything down, cast a wide net and then see what got snagged.
As she paced outside Principal Gavin’s office, her eyes slid past the familiar display cases of sports awards, academic achievement awards, terrible high school art, a shelf of cockeyed ceramics made in pottery class.
“Mrs. Bird.” Principal Gavin opened his door and motioned her in. By the cautious way he assessed her, she knew the police had already spoken to him. “Have you heard anything more?” he asked after she sat down.
By unlucky coincidence, he’d been principal at Alfie’s middle school, then took the job as the high school principal just when Alfie entered ninth grade. Laney felt she’d been sitting across from this man way more times than she cared to. Which was about fifty-four times too many.
He’d started out kind and patient but over the years progressed to bewildered, then frustrated; settled for a while on resigned; and now was giving her the kind of look she’d only seen bestowed by judges upon hapless perps at arraignments. Unexpectedly, the fact that he didn’t greet her with the visit’s number rattled her, underscoring that everything was different today.
“No, Gerry, I haven’t heard anything else,” she said. At this point, not only were they on a first-name basis, but she’d made sure to send him, his staff, and his wife holiday baskets before every winter and spring break as appeasements. “I was wondering if you could shed light on some things for me, though.”
“Oh? You know, Laney, the police were already here. They’re doing a good job.” He spread his hands as if to say he was done, had nothing else to say.
“I know. They’re awesome.” She smiled, a quick flash of teeth. “I was just wondering if maybe I could talk to the people who saw Alfie last.” She shrugged. “Just, you know. Talk.”
“Well.” He folded his hands in front of him on his desk. “How do you mean exactly? You want to talk to his teachers?”
“Yeah. Starting with his band teacher.” Laney smiled again, but he didn’t. He wrinkled his brows and sighed.
“Laney, the police are already doing that. I can’t disrupt everyone’s day.”
But my son is missing, she wanted to scream.
“I know.” She leaned forward, gripped the armrests. “Well, doesn’t he have group therapy on Tuesdays? Did he go to that?”
Gerry Gavin looked at his laptop, nodded. “Let me check. Yes, he did. That would be Ms. MacDonnell in room two-oh-eight. I’ll ask her to come to the office next period, if you would wait outside.”
“Oh.” She stood up. “Okay. Thank you.”
“Laney. Is everything okay at home? Did you have a fight or something?” It was a natural question, and the implication that Alfie left on his own because of something she’d done or said was a gut punch, not least because it mirrored her own worries. She thought she detected the same condescension in his voice, the same glint of pity in his eyes she’d seen in Ed Boswell’s last night.
She looked away. Had they had a fight? Alfie had been taciturn for weeks. Calm, though, and quiet, and sweet. He’d set the table every night and washed the dishes. He did his laundry and his homework. When asked about his day, he said fine, good, no problems, no troubles. When asked about therapy, he said fine, good, we just talked about TV shows and school and music. He’d done well on his last few tests, handed in his projects on time.
She thought he’d been happy. She’d been happy. The night before he disappeared, they watched an episode of The Walking Dead, his lanky body draped along the length of the couch, his legs thrown carelessly, companionably over her lap, his stockinged feet dank but not so much that she kicked him off.
“No,” she said. “We didn’t fight. He seemed good.”
CHAPTER
5
WAITING FOR THE therapist in the school’s hallway gave Laney a chance to observe. Somebody in this school must know something. She was sure of it. She’d find out. Eyes narrowed, arms crossed, she tried to see these children the way her son saw them. She immediately dismissed the expensively dressed and coiffed, the overly beautiful, the cocky, the pushy, the loud. Certainly she didn’t know a lot about her son’s habits nowadays, but she knew his reticent nature.
A movement caught her eye and she tensed, her body responding to familiar signals before her brain had a chance to process. A skinny boy in a black sweatshirt had swiped his hand across the palm of a bulky jock wearing school colors as they walked past each other. A second, two, and then she was no longer sure if she’d seen what she thought. A hand-to-hand? What were the chances? Here? Illuminated by the pale, clear winter sunlight, in this middle-class school, in a hallway stuffed to the rafters with honor students and overachievers? She looked down the corridor at the skinny boy, who was now turning into a classroom, his head down and his fists stuffed into his jeans pockets. Her heart thumped a faster beat in reaction to what she’d seen, and for the second time in the past twenty-four hours she remembered her argument with Alfie and his dilated pupils, his sickly sheen.
She peeled away from the wall, all senses sharp and on alert, when the school’s counselor-in-training, Ann MacDonnell, trotted out of the therapist’s office. She had led Alfie’s group therapy this past year, presumably overseen by the school psychologist. Laney realized she didn’t know for sure. She had never seen a single document written by this woman, and Alfie’s own reports on his sessions consisted of generalities, grunts, and shrugs.
Ann was short, plump, dimpled, and looked like a high schooler herself in black stretchy leggings and a ruby-red sweater dress. Her nail polish was a sparkly purple (chipped), and her mascaraed lashes were thick and spiky over green eyes. Laney wondered what Alfie thought of this cream puff of a woman. He’d always been dismissive of trend chasers. But then again, she had no idea what he thought of women at all, or girls. For all she knew, he’d run off with a girl.
“Mrs. Bird,” said Ann, “you wanted to see me?”
She didn’t invite Laney into her office, didn’t offer a private place to talk. They stood by those absurd ceramics as the decreasing flow of students eddied past them. The bell rang again.
There was a time, her gun in her holster, her badge in her wallet, Laney would have insisted on privacy, but what gave her authority now? She was just another parent of a troublesome teen.
Nevertheless, she had some tricks she could deploy. Use the other person’s first name to put yourself on an even field, never apologize, don’t ask, make (polite) dem
ands. Act like you know what you’re doing. “I did want to see you, Ann. Did Alfie meet with you yesterday?”
“Yes, he did. We meet every Tuesday.”
“Just the two of you, or are there other kids?” She affected a cool professionalism, as if she were simply collecting data instead of desperately scrabbling for information she should have known. But she could beat herself up about this lack of knowledge later.
“There is one other boy.”
“I see. Did Alfie say anything to you about—” Laney paused. About what? Running away? Alfie loved being home. He loved his blue-walled room, and his oak desk, and his shelves stacked high with completed Lego sets. He loved the predictability, the safety of home. How could he have run away? A night, a few hours on his own, maybe, but nothing more. Her stomach churned. The alternative scenario was much more terrifying. “—how he was feeling?”
Ann put her hand lightly on Laney’s forearm. “He didn’t say anything that might lead me to believe he wanted to run away. Or harm himself. I’d tell you if that was the case.”
Useless. What did this woman do with him if he could take off and she wouldn’t know why? “Can I speak with the other boy?”
“I can’t tell you who it is. That would be breaking his confidence. But I can ask him if he’d speak with you, and I’ll give you a call if he says yes. I’d have to be in the room.”
“Right.” Laney nodded. “Of course. Well. Call me then.”
“Mrs. Bird?”
“Yes?”
“I was wondering if you’re familiar with the Pinelane school?”
Laney took a step back, shaking the woman’s hand from her arm. “What about it?”
“I think that when Alfie comes back, we should consider a transfer.” She smiled, all benevolence and compassion.
“What? Why? No! No way. No.” Laney had to clench her jaw or she would have screamed that last no. As it was, it came out muffled, spluttered between her teeth.
“It’s a very good school. And I think Alfie would be happy there.” Another commiserating smile, a sincere nod. “I mean, happier. Than here. We can talk more tomorrow after he’s returned home.”
“Pinelane doesn’t offer a proper high school diploma,” Laney finally managed to say.
The therapist’s smile wobbled, her eyes hardening slightly. “Mrs. Bird, it’s my professional opinion that Alfie may be a threat to this school. In this day and age, we need to consider all the children’s safety first, and particular children’s well-being second. I was going to speak with you about this anyway, and now that you’re here”—she spread her hands—“we might as well face it. I don’t think we can meet all of Alfie’s needs.”
This conversation had veered way off track. Laney’s hand felt weird, and she realized she’d been pressing it against her hip, looking for the gun she used to carry. For a second, she wondered what she would do with that gun if it miraculously coalesced in her pocket. Arrest this woman in front of her for expressing opinions dangerous to Alfie?
“Ms. MacDonnell. Ann. Must I remind you that my son is missing. In fact, from what I know, he went missing while on school premises. So, if we are to have any discussion about what we will be doing after he comes back, that discussion involves lawyers. And investigators. And a lawsuit.” Although somewhat shorter than the other woman, Laney managed to look down on her. “Are we absolutely clear on where we stand?”
The therapist stopped smiling, paled, and squared her shoulders and legs.
“Mrs. Bird. Let’s not forget the events of the fall semester. Your son set fire to the building. How do you think that went down at the PTA meeting?”
Laney didn’t need to think; she knew all about how it went down, seeing as she’d been there, sitting in the back, biting her lips bloody.
“It was a talent show,” Laney said. “It was an accident. And he did not set fire to the building. The stage curtains are not, the last time I checked, an entire building. That it was an accident was fully explained and proven beyond doubt to everyone.”
“And what I’m saying,” the woman barked back, “is that the kind of kid who thinks tricks with fire and blowtorches are acceptable for a school talent show belongs at Pinelane.”
“He didn’t have blowtorches!” Laney shouted, startling a student into dropping her bag.
They stood, facing each other, mirrored poses with arms akimbo, hands on hips, legs firmly planted and toes pointing at each other.
“Go to …” Laney stopped herself. Cleared her throat. Counted to ten. Rearranged her body. “Well, let’s do this. Let’s leave planning my son’s educational future for when he, as you say, comes back. Until then, I would very much appreciate your help with any insight you might have. And please do pass my request on to the other boy. I would really like to speak with him.”
Ann MacDonnell looked at the floor, color high in her cheeks. She seemed even more childlike now, almost sulky. “I will ask him,” she said. Then, in a conciliatory tone, “Do you have any sense where Alfie might have gone?”
Laney shook her head, her rage spent and a deep weariness taking its place. “I really don’t. I don’t think he likes being anywhere more than he likes being home. He likes camping, but it’s twenty degrees out.”
It was time to leave, the next bell was about to ring, and she wanted out of the school, away from this woman, away from the warm, living bodies of her son’s peers. She considered leaving through the side doors down the hall, which would take her past the classroom the skinny boy had entered earlier, but the therapist was staring at her, wouldn’t go back to her office, and Laney spun on her heel and left through the nearest exit.
As she walked the glacial expanse of the school’s white lawn, she wondered if Alfie’d really go camping in the winter. In the snow? He’d done winter backpacking trips with the Boy Scouts, and he enjoyed them, but.
Just in case though, once home, she called the police station and, after being transferred to Ed Boswell’s extension, told him about Alfie’s affinity for camping and listed the campsites he’d been to with the Scouts.
She did this while standing in front of his open closet, every bit of his camping gear accounted for and dry, stacked neatly on his two bottom shelves.
CHAPTER
6
IMPOSSIBLY, HER PHONE insisted it was only eleven AM when she finished speaking with Ed. She’d been aware of Alfie’s disappearance for almost twelve hours, and he’d been gone for anytime between that and twenty hours.
A lot can happen to a missing child in twenty hours. She paced the hallway, came down the stairs, stopped and listened to the absolute emptiness of the house. How could she live without her son? Was it possible that everyone would be taken from her? Parents, brother, husband, and now her boy? There’d be no way to go on living then.
And yet, somehow, when she had been a detective herself, she went days without seeing Alfie and was all right with it. She had trusted Theo—had loved her husband so intensely, so completely, that she felt his presence would make up for her absence, since surely her own love would flow through him to their child.
Those were days when she arose at four AM to get into the office by six, made an arrest in the afternoon, and rolled over into the next shift to process the perp and finish the paperwork. She missed Alfie, sure, but she knew Theo had him, cared for him, fed him, and played with him between bouts of painting.
Except, of course, Theo complained he had no time to paint. Couldn’t, he said, not after a day of hide-and-seek and story time and naps not taken.
Screw Theo.
Laney warmed another cup of coffee, opened her laptop, and found the Facebook page Holly started. It had already been shared 322 times (Holly was popular). Somehow Holly found a recent picture of Alfie, and he stared out from the page, a smile dimpling one cheek. He was a beautiful boy by any standard, Theo’s blinding good looks made delicate through Laney’s pixie bone structure and coloring—a sweet, heart-shaped face, small, neat nose, full l
ips and dark-blue eyes, all of it framed by soft, blond curls. There was something antique about him, as if he’d been molded from a nineteenth-century cookie tin illustration.
She scrolled through the comments, most of them generic, benign—hope he’s found okay!; Godspeed!; What a beautiful angel!; I’ll be praying! And then she paused, her fingers hovering over a comment from JP Spankthemonkey—yo, that kids a weeerdo. And another one from Bondage Balls—I bet he joined isis hes a freak.
Laney shut the laptop lid.
Then opened it and made herself read every comment. Five times in her career she’d caught criminals by following their posts on Facebook or Instagram or—on one whirlwind afternoon—Snapchat. People were stupid. She had one case where a kid posted a video of himself with the car he’d stolen two hours earlier. His handle was carfreak2000, and he continued to post updates with his location right up until Laney’s team knocked on his front door.
Fourteen comments caught her attention, and she clicked on each author, inspecting everything from the handle to the number of friends to the photographs associated with the profiles.
Then she signed into her undercover Facebook account.
She wasn’t supposed to still use it, of course. The NYPD had given her a set of ID cards when she became an undercover: a driver’s license, a social security card. On her own initiative, she’d obtained an AA card, an NA card, a key card for a rehab in upstate New York, and social media accounts. Kendra Wilkes, her alter ego, was a recovering alcoholic and heavy drug user, lived in a Coney Island housing project, and loved tweeting about her troubles. Laney had felt a weird sort of freedom when she became the wrecking ball that was Kendra Wilkes and had amassed hundreds of friends and followers in the online world.
When she resigned, she’d also quit Kendra. For a while, anyway. Then, in the midst of selling her house, divorcing, and packing, she had the sort of day where the only thing she wanted was to be someone else, if only for a few hours. Kendra had come to mind—angry, funny, say-anything-and-don’t-care Kendra—and Laney had signed in as her and spent a few hours venting about a fucked made-up life, which, paradoxically, made her feel much better about her fucked real life.
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