“Wow. Have you seen him since?”
“Couple times, but only in the store, far as I know.”
“He sounds perfect. Do you know his name or where he works?”
“His first name is Andrew,” he said. “Last name starts with an M, because that’s what he asked me to call him. I don’t know his last name. I guess if that’s important, I could look for his registration? In the glove box? I think maybe he’s retired. Or maybe just a consultant. Something part-time, you know. He sits on a board, I know that. But all these guys do. I always thought it was because they were guilty, you know? Like if they did some good somewhere for free, it would make up for something bad they did for money.”
Emma paused and took that in for a moment. It struck her as both wise and cynical, and Michael didn’t really seem like either of those things. It made her wonder about his father, his mother. If he was quoting them. If they were good people, and he was a good son.
“Oh, and one more thing. I know he’s a widower. That’s why, you know, he ended up going there. He was lonely. I remember him buying a new suit for the funeral. Cancer.”
“It sounds like you’ve been a good friend to him,” she said.
“That’s funny you should say that. I told my mom once that’s what I try to do. Be the friend they know they can trust with their car.”
“I love that sentiment.”
“I mean, wealthy peoples’ cars are one of the most valuable things they own, after their home or their, you know, watch. Some of those guys, man, those watches are worth more than my parents’ house, that’s for sure.”
They were nearly back at the store, and Emma realized she’d been walking slowly, extending their time together.
She said she’d try to find this customer on her own, but if she couldn’t and Michael ran into him, would he be able to mention it, gently, to him? And he said sure, he could. “I know you’ll take good care of him, just like me with his car.”
“I like the way you look at things.”
“Well, you’re easy to talk to, Mary.”
“One more thing,” she said. “Please don’t be mad, but…my name isn’t Mary.”
“Wow,” he said. “What is it?”
“I don’t think I should tell you quite yet. For both of our sakes.”
“Wow. That’s some heavy shit. Pardon my French.”
“Yeah, maybe I’m being paranoid, but I don’t want you to get in any trouble.”
“Okay, so…you’re working undercover.”
“I guess.”
“Well, you know what that means?”
“What?”
“We’re under the covers together now.”
She laughed, and he laughed, too, a kind of giggle that reminded her of a child, like someone she’d known forever.
Twenty-Five
Maggie
Maggie was disappointed. The last number she’d allowed herself to call had reached a business, not a person. She’d foolishly chosen the one number that actually was what Emma said it was—a valet service. Still, she waited for the recorded message to finish—If you need valet service for an upcoming event, feel free to text us anytime. If you need more information about rates or hours of service, visit mrvalet.com—and followed the instructions.
She looked at the website and found that MR not only meant mister, but the founder’s name, Michael Redmond. Clever. There were testimonials from CEOs, the mayor, even the former governor, and a few photos of cars being buffed, keys being handed over, and a nameplate on a uniform with the logo. But no faces. That meant, she thought, that the owner was young. Too young to inspire confidence on a website, because who wanted a kid driving their expensive car? A kid who’d probably never seen a stick shift or parallel parked without a backup camera?
The website said to text him, so she texted him, saying she needed help with an event. This was technically true. There would be a search for Emma and a gathering of people to help. That’s an event, she thought. Then added “in the city.” And then “a fund-raiser.” She’d have to raise some money for a reward, right?
She thought of Frank suddenly, laughing at her because she couldn’t tell a lie, even a white one, without crossing herself and confessing on Sunday. She contorted the truth regularly to make up for this, and he thought it was ridiculous. As a cop, she knew, he had had to lie to people all the time. For their own protection, he used to say. But really, it had been for his. That was what being a cop was all about—living to serve another day. If you had to tell a lie, fool someone, use someone? That was part of the job. Once you realized that and accepted it, it made everything clearer. But Maggie was different from her husband. She was a blurter, a truth teller. She could not be a cop, ever.
He texted her back within minutes. Friendly. Asked date and time, if she wanted him to reserve it. Said he could hold the slot for twenty-four hours and could discuss details at 5:00 p.m.
Can we talk now? she texted back.
Sorry, on a job.
She signed off, accepted his terms. What choice did she have? And who wouldn’t reward someone for staying focused on the job at hand?
She got in the shower, washed her hair, put it up in a topknot. The salon was quiet downstairs, no water running, no blow-dryer. Midafternoon during the week was always slow, post lunch hour, before happy hour. She expected to find Chloe playing Candy Crush, but when she opened the door, she was dusting, wiping down surfaces. God bless her, she thought and then laughed to herself. She probably heard her coming downstairs.
Chloe immediately ran to her, hugged her, asked her if she needed help. Maggie told her that keeping the salon open was more than enough help. She showed her the posters, asked her to post some around town, and maybe at the high school. Chloe nodded, said of course. Then Maggie told her about the Facebook page and asked her to share it.
“You got it,” she said. “Have you done any ads yet?”
“Ads?”
“Yeah, Facebook ads from the page? Asking for leads?”
Maggie shook her head, professed ignorance. Chloe told her that this was the newest thing, targeting people on Facebook. She could wait until there was surveillance video and a reward, and she could spend a little money and target the whole university. It costs almost nothing, Chloe added.
“But are kids even on Facebook anymore?” Maggie asked.
“Sometimes. They post stuff for their parents or in albums. Plus you want teachers, faculty, and staff, right? Those people are on for sure. I mean, there’s a hospital there, a security center, thousands of employees. And you want kids’ parents. They’ll ask, be nosy. They’ll want to help. I can do it for you, set it up.”
“You’re a genius, Chloe.”
“No, I’m not,” she said and sighed. “I’m a single thirty-year-old woman with too much time on her hands who reads all the People magazines in the salon cover to cover.”
Chloe was being modest. She was kind and funny, and the customers loved her like a big sister. And she had great hair she was always tinkering with—a blond, wavy bob with highlights in the summer, strawberry-blond when she was feeling low, sometimes caramel and gold in winter. Half the girls who came in requested the same exact look for themselves. Maggie believed Chloe would leave her one day to start her own salon; Chloe believed she was going to meet Mr. Right, get married, and never work again.
As she drove to campus, Maggie went over all the conversations she’d had, tallied what she knew. All in all, she felt a little better and wondered if that was real or just her body’s need to calm down.
Maybe Valet Boy worked in the city. Maybe he’d agree to meet her. Maybe he was just a kid Emma knew from school and this was his number and it all meant nothing. Maybe she’d thrown a charity event for one of those organizations she’d signed up for the first day of school. What were they? Maggie tried to remember. Those d
ays, such an exciting blur. How she’d tried to gather all of it in, the roommates, the parents, the hallways, the excitement. What an idiot she’d been, not remembering the right things.
She parked in the main lot, paying with her credit card perfunctorily. Then it hit her—the debit card. She had access to Emma’s account. She could check the activity, withdrawals, payments. She didn’t need the police to do this. But she was a “go to the branch” person, not an online person. But she had no online account set up. Chloe could help with that, she thought; she did all the banking for the salon.
She walked to the cafeteria, where Sarah had said she’d meet her in front of the fountain. Sarah was there first, one of those kids who was always on time. She hugged her, asked her if there was any news, and Maggie told her about the dorm room being processed and surveillance video being pulled. Sarah nodded her approval and then said the Take Back the Night girls were meeting in a conference room at the computer center to distribute everything and to talk about next steps.
“Some of them have experience with this kind of thing,” she said.
“What do you mean? Have other girls gone missing here?”
“No, I mean in their past. Two of them have sisters who—”
“Oh my God,” Maggie said, holding up her hand. “Don’t tell me. Seriously.”
“Okay,” Sarah said. “The important thing was, they’ve been through this process before and can help.”
“Great,” she said. “In the group, do they have an advisor?”
“Yes, Dr. Woodruff. But she’s mostly just on call and is the liaison to the college administration. She takes the heat for us, basically.”
“Heat? What kind of heat?”
“Like when we run a rapist off campus and his parents complain that #MeToo is ruining boys’ reputations.”
“There’s a rapist here?”
“Mrs. O’Farrell, there are rapists on every college campus in America. People just don’t know about them. They don’t put that in the brochures and the videos.”
“A rapist,” she repeated. “Here? This semester?”
“First week of school.”
“Wow.”
“Tell me about it. We signed up and thought we’d just sit around talking about replacing lights on walking paths and coordinating rides home from parties and then boom. Major event.”
“And that boy is gone?”
“Oh, no, he’s back,” she sighed.
“What dorm? What’s his name?”
“Darcy McLaren. Lives off campus.”
“Darcy?”
“I know. Doesn’t suit him at all. But he’s not connected to Emma. I doubt it anyway. He’s on probation, has a curfew. Probably has an ankle monitor.”
“Could that…could that have been the story she was working on, though? That sounds controversial.”
“I don’t think so. She knows I’m with the group. She would have asked me about that.”
“Right. You’re probably right.”
“But wait, didn’t the people at the newspaper say what she was working on? I know she wasn’t technically on staff—”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean, they told her to look for a story.”
“Well, she apparently found one, and they won’t tell me what it is.”
“That has to be illegal. Right?”
“Wrong. They won’t reveal their sources.”
“That’s fucked up. Pardon my language.”
“No, I agree. It’s very fucked up.”
“I think one of the girls who’s meeting with us is from the paper. We’ll ask her what’s up.”
They walked the block to the computer building, and Maggie was struck, yet again, by how separate everyone looked from one another—the earbuds in, the backpacks on. In their own worlds. Flocks of boys who weren’t together, just moving in the same direction. Heads down, hair in their eyes. Pretty girls not making eye contact, unpretty girls not either, no one smiling, no one frowning, faces set. Only a few in pairs, talking, interacting. But mostly, a crowd full of what looked like lonely people. How did anyone connect under these circumstances? How did anyone know anyone? Alone and sober by day and then let loose, drunk, by night? And what were they listening to all the time in their heads? Who wanted that much music? Who needed a perpetual soundtrack to their lives?
Sometimes when Maggie got home from the salon, she wanted to scrub the day’s Sonos out of her mind; she wanted silence, white noise. She wanted nothing, nothing. Empty nest, empty bed, empty air. Why did people want to fill it? She just wanted it gone, so she could rest. So she could be. Now, she’d gotten her horrible wish. There was nothing at home for her now. Nothing.
Inside, on the second floor. A group of perhaps ten girls waiting around a large table, all on their phones. They looked almost identical in their postures, and Maggie resisted the urge to treat them all like she’d treat Emma and tell them to sit up straight.
One of the girls at the end lifted her eyes slowly as Maggie and Sarah walked in. She nodded solemnly, and suddenly Maggie’s heart lifted. The blond girl from the party. The girl with the shoes. Maggie smiled at her, a small smile, a smile that wouldn’t embarrass her, wouldn’t let her know how happy it made her that someone had listened to her. Someone had actually heard.
Sarah greeted them all, introduced Maggie, and distributed a sign-up sheet. Someone needed to organize a search, as soon as the police could narrow some things down, give them direction. Everyone needed to distribute posters and sign up for certain areas to be covered. Someone needed to be in charge of social media follow-up or distributing video if they got a description of a suspect. Maggie listened as Sarah and an older student, Liz, informed the group calmly. Maggie was there to answer any questions, they said. They didn’t say that Maggie was there because she had no life and didn’t trust the police. Didn’t say that Emma was her only child, her only hope, her only hobby. Didn’t say that being here was the only productive, organized thing she’d done since the police knocked on her door and that she’d just been desperately bouncing between dorms, parties, stolen phones, and calling people she didn’t know to find out more of what she didn’t know. Only one girl in this room knew how desperate she could be. Until the door opened and another girl walked in.
“I’m sooo sorry I’m late,” she said breezily. “I’m one of Emma’s roommates, and we’re all so grateful for your help. They wanted to be here, too, but I’m representing the dorm. Anything I can do, anything at all. I’m here to help,” she smiled broadly, her teeth glistening.
Ten thousand dollars of orthodontia, the smile of a model, the smile of an actress.
Taylor.
Twenty-Six
Emma
Emma didn’t mind that she’d wasted three evenings in a row following a man who was doing absolutely nothing wrong or odd or unusual—he was merely taking the train home to the suburbs. Three times, she’d watched him not get off at Suburban Station, not get off at Thirtieth Street either. Three times, she’d hoped he’d get off at one of the right stops to walk to the club, which was located between those stations, and three times, she’d been disappointed. She’d waited until the last possible second, then jumped off with the gaggle of other college students and Amtrak travelers switching at Thirtieth Street. She did not want to be stuck on his train line and pay for another ticket back to campus.
She knew Professor Grady was heading out to Wayne, where he lived, to mow his tidy lawn or rake the leaves that were starting to fall now or relax in the huge renovated space she’d seen on Google Maps. No, she was becoming used to the wasted time and effort. What she minded was paying for the train tickets. She hated wasting the money and hated that she cared about it, thought about it. Sometimes she felt like she was the only girl on campus with limited spending money that she’d earned herself. Everyone else got money
transferred every month from their parents. They called it an allowance, as if they were five years old and buying gum.
Emma knew Maggie would send her money for anything she needed if she ran out. Books, fine. New shoes, gloves, a charger for her laptop, anything like that, anything with a name, Maggie would pay for. But not just a random ask. She wasn’t built that way. It defied the way her family worked, and Emma wasn’t going to start changing that now and become one of those girls who whined and begged and said everything was sooo expensive, even though it was. Ubers, public transportation, bike rentals, food, and yes, alcohol—all cost more than she expected. Not to mention Magic Markers or crepe paper or poster board, things other girls bought from the school store without a moment’s thought whenever they needed to decorate or celebrate. And sweatshirts and sweat pants, purchased whenever theirs were ripped or vomited on or too nasty to deal with. In the garbage bag, out the door. No one took care of anything. The same girls who carefully recycled cans and wouldn’t drink from a plastic straw, like, ever, because it hurts the animals, threw away their stained clothes in a dumpster whenever vomit or blood touched them. Emma was stunned the first time she’d seen this, Taylor drunk, wobbly, hitting her chin against the table and then vomiting. The blood and vomit mingling at the top of her sweatshirt, staining the fuzzy embroidered S of Semper. Fiona yanking her clothes off her, wadding them up, putting them in the trash. Emma wanted to ask her how she’d gotten through life with her period. Had she thrown away every pair of underwear she’d soiled?
Later the next day, she’d fished out that sweatshirt, holding her nose. She’d rinsed it in the sink, rubbed the stain with a bar of soap, then thrown it into a hot water wash cycle with another load of clothes. All the stains came out; all the school colors stayed true. She’d dried it, folded it, and put it in Taylor’s room before the other girls had even woken up. But Taylor hadn’t even noticed.
Where She Went Page 15