He’s just frustrated. And scared. They both are.
It’s totally out of their hands at this point.
And all they can do is wait.
CHAPTER 62
I’M BACK AT THE HARRISONS’ house the following night. Lily and Amber are still away. Ben’s out, of course. And Hailey’s out too. She never tells me where she’s going, and I never quite believe her when she tells me where she’s been. I would say that nobody in this house is all that interested in me, but that’s not entirely true. Tonight, I’m lying on the den couch under a cozy chenille blanket watching a movie—and I’m not alone.
I’ve got two warm bodies keeping me company.
Jane and Austen, under the blanket with me, are wiggling and jiggling around, trying to get comfortable. Does Amber even allow them on the couch? Who cares? She’s not here. Tonight, I’m in charge.
I’m watchingMr. Skeffington,an old Bette Davis film from the 1940s that I’ve seen a hundred times. We’re close to the heartbreaking final scene: Bette Davis, her face ravaged by smallpox, nervously makes her way down a staircase to welcome her husband home from the war. How will he react when he sees how the disease has scarred her? Pretty well, actually. The good news: He’s now totally blind. They embrace. They declare their undying love. Cue the violins and pass the tissues.
But not tonight. Tonight, the dogs are making me laugh. Jane, checking me out from head to toe, finally decides to lie across my feet like a pair of skis. It tickles. Little Austen (I’d never call him that to his face—he’d be insulted) is determined to find a comfortable spot on Foam Mountain (my stomach). He climbs up, slides off, wags his tail, and tries again. Austen might be tiny, but his ego is huge.
When the end credits start to roll, I scan the live TV channels, looking for something else to watch. I pause onLaw & Order. I’m a big fan, for obvious reasons, but it’s seven twenty-five (they’ve probably identified the perp by now) and too early for the next episode.
Suddenly, a caption floats across the bottom of the screen:BREAKING NEWS. The newscaster introduces herself as Rosetta something. She’s dressed, coiffed, and camera-ready perfect, as if she were created by AI. But Rosetta is as serious as humanly possible when she says: “This just in. Police confirmed they may have found the body of a local artist who was reported missing last night. Graham Loxton.”
Wait. What?
As I jump up in surprise to get closer to the TV, Austen slides off my stomach and onto the floor. He growls and barks in protest so loud, I almost miss the next line.
“Loxton was reported missing by a friend he was supposed to meet,” she continues. “But he never showed up.”
Now we see footage of a man about Loxton’s age. The new super readsBENNO HUFFNAGEL, MISSING MAN’S FRIEND.
“Loxton, miss the playoffs?” Benno says. “Not in a million years. He would never not show. Something must have happened!”
I think I’ve been holding my breath all this time. Loxton, missing? Now dead?
Does Metcalf know about this? I text him:News about Loxton! What’s going on?
Rosetta continues: “Police confirm that when they searched Loxton’s apartment, they found drawers emptied and their contents tossed on the floor. There was drug paraphernalia next to the body. They think the death may have been due to an overdose, something Loxton’s sister vehemently denies.”
New clip, a woman identified asMARCELLA LOXTON, SISTER OF GRAHAM LOXTON. She looks just like Loxton but with a nose job and a nose ring. “Drugs? Never! Graham’s been clean twelve, thirteen years,” she says, teary-eyed. “He mentors young people about drugs. No way would he be using again.”
Rosetta again: “Neighbors say they heard yelling coming from Loxton’s apartment the night before, totally out of character for the man they knew.”
Cut to an older lady:ROSE GELBAUM, NEIGHBOR.“This is a terrible building—you can hear everything from everyone. But never a peep from him. All he did was paint. How noisy is that?”
I check my phone. No response yet from Metcalf. Odd.
The newscaster has one last comment: “Police are trying to figure out who might have been the last to see him. Meanwhile, they’ve set up a hotline…”
Still no response from Metcalf. I call him, but I get his voicemail. I leave a message, short and sweet: “About Loxton. Call me.”
Does Metcalf know anything?
More important: Did he or anyone in the FBI get a chance to interview Loxton before he died?
CHAPTER 63
I’M ALL ALONE IN a big empty house.
It’s giving my anxieties far too much room to expand.
