Girl Last Seen Page 11

Somehow I manage to take a cigarette without spilling the entire pack on the wet asphalt under our feet. He takes out a cheap BIC lighter and lights mine first. The nicotine jump-starts my brain—as much as possible anyway.

  “I’m sorry you had to go through that.” Sean avoids meeting my gaze.

  “It was kind of my own fault though, wasn’t it?”

  I draw smoke into my lungs, breathe it out, letting it billow in front of my face. Sweet, smoky death.

  “Is it still…” When he speaks, his voice is hoarse. He’s looking for the right words—I can tell by the anguish on his face—except there are no right words, not for this. “Do you still remember it all? Every minute? Even after ten years?”

  “Thirteen.” I exhale another cloud. “Yes. Every minute.”

  “Shit.”

  “I didn’t have rich parents to pay my shrink bills. At the children’s psych ward, they were happy enough to pump us full of drugs till we were docile, and that was it.”

  “Fuck, Laine. I’m—”

  “Don’t say you’re sorry. Please. They’re all sorry in there.” I nod at the building behind us. “So terribly sorry. If they all stopped saying sorry and used the energy to actually find the guy, maybe they would have by now.”

  For a few moments, he stays silent. Then he crushes the cigarette into the pavement with his shoe.

  “Everything?” he asks softly.

  I see it on his face, the real questions he wants to ask but doesn’t dare. How do you live like this? How do you get through the days? How are you still alive?

  I don’t have answers to those either. Or if I do, he wouldn’t like them.

  “The first thing I remember is waking up there. Maybe he drugged me or chloroformed me or whatever, or maybe I just blacked out. But I remember waking up in the basement. My foot was tied to the heater and my hands were tied together and he’d stuffed some kind of cloth in my mouth till I could barely breathe.”

  I see him flinch as he struggles to keep facing me, to not let his gaze leave mine.

  “And you don’t remember what happened before that? Not a thing?”

  “Shit, is that what this is about? Unofficial interview?” I toss my unfinished cigarette away from me like it’s burning my fingers.

  “No. Nothing like that.” He rests his hand on my forearm, but I throw it off. “Sean,” I say, no longer trying to hide the exhaustion in my voice, “I’m finished here.”

  He lowers his head. “Of course.”

  We head for the car in silence. When the car beeps in greeting, Sean suddenly speaks.

  “I checked out Olivia’s school records, like I told you.”

  The sound of her name jolts me awake much better than the cigarette did. I look up.

  “And you were right. She did go to a private school two years ago. Except her parents pulled her halfway through the year and enrolled her at the public school.”

  “Why?” I climb into the passenger seat. Restlessness sets in, and I pick at a hangnail until it comes off, leaving behind a bloody stripe. Without thinking about it, I stick my finger in my mouth and taste copper.

  “That’s what I’m going to find out. I left a message with Tom Shaw and called the school this morning. I’m going to see the principal.”

  “Do you think…” I look at my finger. Bright-red blood keeps welling up no matter how many times I lick it off. It gushes in little bursts. A red crescent spreads over my cuticle and under my nail like a smile. “Do you think there’s anything new they can tell you?”

  “I don’t know.” He starts the engine then glances sideways at me, and his eyes widen. “Whoa, what happened? You okay?”

  I glance down and realize he’s talking about my finger. Blood has dripped onto my jeans. Good thing they’re black and you almost can’t see it.

  “N-nothing. I just ripped off a hangnail. Nerves.”

  “It’s bleeding all over the place. Did you peel your whole finger by accident?”

  “I was—distracted.”

  He reaches into the glove compartment and throws a small first-aid kit into my lap. I fumble with the clasp, trying not to bleed all over it, then clean the cut with a disinfecting wipe. It’s half an inch long and deep. It does look like I was trying to peel my finger.

  Except I couldn’t feel a damn thing. Thanks to the fucking Dilaudid.

  I curse under my breath and wrap gauze around my finger, securing it with a piece of tape. Blood is already seeping into the fibers, tinting the gauze a deep crimson. I wrap my other hand around it and try to put it out of my mind. But when I glance up at Sean, the frown line between his eyebrows only deepens.

  “Do you even own a first-aid kit?”

  “I have some Band-Aids,” I say with a shrug. “It’s fine.”

  “Do you want me to stop by a drugstore on the way?”

  “No.”

  “Are you sure?”

  I draw in a breath and blurt out, “I want to go with you.”

  He frowns, uncomprehending. “What?”

  “I want to go with you. To the school.”

  “I can’t bring you with me, Laine.”

  “Why not?”

  “For one, it’s against every rule in the book. Second, it’s just unethical. A breach of privacy, both yours and—”

  “Privacy? You’re not seriously going to lecture me about respecting privacy.” I glance over my shoulder, at the precinct building looming behind us.

  He heaves a sigh. He knows I’m right, and I know I hit a sore spot. He feels bad. And that means he’ll give me what I want.

  “Just, for the love of God, no stupid stuff this time. Think you can manage that?”

  I don’t know. But for Olivia’s sake, I can try.

  Before I can answer, he’s driving onto the highway.

  Looks like I won.

  * * *

  The school is how I pictured the kind of place Olivia would go to: an enormous building with marble stairs, some kind of crest over the entrance and a designation like “academy,” even though it’s meant for ages five to twelve. It’s facing a large park with neat rows of trees and clean-swept lanes. Every step I take across the property, I’m less and less convinced this was a good idea. Apprehensive, I follow Sean up the stairs and through the front door.

  We must have arrived in the middle of class—the hallways are empty and pristine. The front lobby has high ceilings with skylights. Shelves full of trophies and photographs line the walls. I look them over: winner of this, first runner-up of that. All with pictures of different smiling children behind them. Aren’t you supposed to play with blocks at that age, not compete for trophies? Seems like it’s not just the poor kids who have to grow up too fast. A grim chuckle escapes from me, echoing in the empty space. Sean turns to me, frowning.

  “Nothing,” I say. “I was just seeing if I could find Olivia. Jacqueline said she was a math whiz, didn’t she?”

  He follows me down the wall of awards to the mathematics section. The dates on the trophies go back a couple years, but no Olivia anywhere.

  Hurried steps echo through the lobby, and I turn to see a woman in a tailored suit hurrying toward us. When she gets close enough, I see the school’s crest-logo thing emblazoned on her lapel. I wonder if even the teachers have to wear a uniform here.

  She calls out a hello. She can’t be older than Sean, and when she sees him, a smile blossoms on her face. She has really white, straight teeth. Her dark hair is tied back in a simple low ponytail, and her skin is a touch darker than mine. And flawless.

  Behind my back, I squeeze my injured finger until I feel something.

  “You must be Detective Ortiz,” she says, beaming. She’s wearing a lot of mascara, I notice. At least it has to be mascara. Except there are no clumps and no smudged line on her lower eyelids. “Principal Chaney told me to expect you. I’m Eva Marquez, his assistant.” She holds out her hand.

  He takes it. “Could you please show us in right away? This is a time-sensitive matter.
”

  She nods. Her smile dampens a little—like Ms. Flirty Lashes finally clues in that this is about a missing ten-year-old girl. I hate her already.

  “Of course. Absolutely.”

  Sean follows her, and I follow in his steps. She has yet to acknowledge that I exist.

  We walk up a giant stairwell to the third floor, then turn into a hallway. I crane my neck, but the doors on either side of us are closed. I hear someone’s voice, loud and clear—a teacher, dictating a text in slow, measured syllables.

  I wonder if I could spell any of these words without a hundred mistakes. Probably not.

  The principal of the Academy for Rich Young Geniuses resides in an office that wouldn’t be out of place in the White House. What I originally thought was the office is just the antechamber, with Flirty Lashes Marquez’s desk in the corner. With a picture of her cat. Aww.

  She says a few words into the speaker on her desk then leads us to the double doors across the room. Only when I’m on the threshold does she seem to take notice.

  “Excuse me, but Mr. Chaney has an appointment with Detective Ortiz only,” she says in a carefully measured voice, gazing down at me with a look of serene superiority.

  “Ms. Moreno is my assistant,” Sean says without missing a beat. She looks thrown, like she’s trying to figure out if he’s messing with her or detectives really have assistants.

  Well, I guess they need someone to bring them coffee too. I give her my widest, most insincere smile.

  She leaves me be. I follow Sean into the principal’s office, and the woman closes the doors behind us with a clang.

  This is starting well.

  Principal Chaney looks like he belongs in a TV commercial. For toothpaste. Or Viagra. One of those wiry older men who still has all his hair, neatly cropped and completely white. And a smile. As wide, white, and straight as Ms. Marquez’s. Do they all go to the same dentist here? Or the same lobotomist.

  His gaze travels from Sean to me and back, confused. I hope Sean gives him the same assistant line. I want to see if he buys it. But luckily for all of us, Chaney decides not to ask questions.

  “I’ve been following the story,” he says. He gets up and shakes hands with Sean, acknowledging me with a nod before settling back into his chair. Better than nothing. “It’s a terrible tragedy. Olivia was one of our more promising students, and we miss her greatly.”

  Talking about her like she’s dead already. I realize I’m clenching my jaw when my facial muscles start to ache.

  Calm down. Don’t wig out. Sean won’t like it.

  “According to my information, Olivia was enrolled here—”

  “From first grade to third,” he says. “That’s exact.”

  “I understand she only did half of third grade at this school though.”

  Chaney nods, solemn. “Only the first semester, yes.”

  “Is it common?”

  I study the office. There are pictures of graduating classes, a good decade’s worth. More trophies, award certificates, except these are for the school and not the students. Award for General Excellence in Teaching and such. The window takes up half a wall, and the rest are bookcases piled with heavy leather tomes.

  “Is what common?”

  “For a student to leave halfway through the year.”

  I glance from Chaney to Sean. Chaney has that wide-eyed look, ask me whatever you want, but something about it is just too forced. He never relaxes into the office chair, as if points of rusted nails were hiding right beneath the cushioned leather. I’m sure Sean notices too.

  “It was Olivia’s parents’ decision, and it’s not up to me to argue.”

  “And they didn’t give you any reasons? Didn’t say what wasn’t up to their expectations?”

  “We exceed expectations, Mr. Ortiz. It’s our job here, and we pride ourselves on it.”

  This was meant to shut Sean up, I can tell. Well, he doesn’t know who he’s dealing with.

  “Mr. Chaney—”

  “Doctor,” Chaney cuts in. “Dr. Chaney.” He regards Sean with an air of well-concealed condescension.

  “Dr. Chaney.” Sean doesn’t bat an eyelash. “Just out of curiosity, what’s the cost of a year’s tuition at this school?”

  Calmly, Chaney folds his hands in front of him and names a sum that’s more than I’ll ever see in one place and probably half of what Sean makes in a year. “That’s standard. Extracurricular activities and equipment are calculated separately. Why? Are you considering it for your child?”

  “No, not exactly. How do the methods of payment work?”

  “Payment must be made before the start of the school year, in full.”

  “And in case the child decides to leave?”

  “The child doesn’t decide to leave, Mr. Ortiz.”

  Sean ever so subtly rolls his eyes. “I mean if her parents decide to pull her. Are they given a refund?”

  “I see what you’re getting at. Well, it might seem like a large sum of money to some people”—his sly glance darts from Sean to me, and it’s abundantly clear he means people like us—“but trust me, for the kind of head start our education will provide, it’s worth every penny.”

  “Well, did the Shaws ever try to get a refund?”

  He gives a single, sharp laugh. “We screen all our applicants, and with an income like that of the Shaw family, such a sum hardly registers.”

  I have no trouble believing that. I’ve seen their house.

  “Still. That seems like a wasteful thing to do for no reason at all. And as far as I know, Tom Shaw is hardly wasteful. His companies—”

  “I’m aware. Like I said, we screen our applicants. But I’m sorry, I don’t know any more about this than you do. I wasn’t told. Maybe you should ask Mr. Shaw himself.”

  “I intend to.”

  Chaney nods. A self-satisfied smile floats on his thin lips. I glance sideways at Sean.

  “Feel free to contact me if you have any more questions, Detective Ortiz.” Chaney leans back in his chair. “Ms. Marquez will give you my contact number.”

  This is supposed to mean, unequivocally, that the interview is over. A surge of panic wells up in me. “Sean—” I start in a low hiss.

  He shushes me with a gesture and shakes hands with Chaney. “I appreciate your help. You realize how important this is. A ten-year-old girl’s life may be at stake.”

  “It’s nothing,” says Chaney with a wide grin.

  I want to punch him in his perfect set of veneers.

  “Come on,” Sean says quietly to me over his shoulder. “Let’s go.”

  I follow him out through the large doors, through Ms. Marquez’s office. She gives Sean a card with Chaney’s number next to an embossed logo of the academy. I’m surprised she didn’t scribble her own number on the back, with xoxoxo and a heart.

  We walk downstairs by ourselves, our steps echoing down the staircase.

  “Well?” I snap. I feel like I’m in church. My words resonate under the high ceiling. “What was that? Did you see his smug expression the whole time? Old perv.”

  “Laine,” he says, but underneath the fatigue and irritation, I hear an amused note.

  “What now? I mean, you’re not going to leave it like this.”

  “No. Of course not. Don’t worry about it.”

  We don’t make it to the front door when I hear the familiar clacking of hurried steps. Ms. Flirty Lashes Marquez. When she catches up with us, she’s panting, her smile is gone, and her perfect hair is disheveled, strands escaping from her ponytail in a halo around her head.

  “I’m sorry,” she gasps. “Detective Ortiz.”

  Great, I think. Here comes the phone number.

  “I left the intercom on. By accident.” She clears her throat, lowering those clumpless eyelashes. “I overheard.”

  Sean patiently waits. My heart starts to hammer, and my upper lip is sweaty. Oh hell, the meds must be wearing off.

  They sure know their timing.

/>   “Well, I…” She twists her hands. “I don’t know, maybe it’s wrong of me; I mean, it was so long ago, and I don’t really believe it has anything to do with…with…” She stops for a breath. “I just thought I should tell you.”

  “Tell me?” He sounds genuinely caring, curious. He reaches out and puts his hand on her arm. I feel a pang, but predictably enough, her face softens.

  “I mean, I remember Olivia; she was such a sweet girl. This whole thing is a horror.” She gulps nervously.

  “Sweet girl?” he echoes. “At her new school, she had behavior problems.”

  Ms. Marquez sighs. “She did here too. I mean, nothing too bad. Even if they expect them to act like PhD students in this place, they’re still just kids. So she got into a couple of fights. She was a smart girl.”

  Is, I correct mentally. The back of my head is starting to hurt.

  “But there’s a reason her parents pulled her,” she finally blurts.

  “Because she attacked someone.”

  “No. Yes. Not exactly.” She throws a glance around like someone might be eavesdropping.

  “Maybe we can talk outside,” Sean suggests casually. She gives me a look brimming with mistrust.

  “I’ll only talk to you.”

  Sean heaves a patient sigh. “Look, Eva—is it okay if I call you Eva? If you’re willing to talk to me even though your boss won’t, I appreciate your honesty, and I owe you as much. This is Lainey Moreno. She’s Olivia’s biological mother.”

  Eva Marquez gapes at me in stunned silence.

  “You knew she was adopted, right? It would have been in the school records?”

  “It wasn’t,” Eva finally says. “But I did know. Everyone knew.”

  The bell goes off, and seconds later the din of children’s voices fills the building like the hum of bees in a giant marble hive. Without a word, she leads us outside, down the paved path to the entrance, and out the gate and into the empty park.

  Eva hurries down the main lane, to a small fountain walled off with a spiked grille. I have to break into a jog to keep up with her and Sean.

  “I’m supposed to be on lunch break,” she says with a neurotic little laugh. “So I hope he doesn’t find out.”

  “If you get into trouble, I’ll assume full responsibility,” Sean assures her. But she’s hardly listening. She’s still staring at me like I’m about to bite her.