Bait dropped.
Wait. Dropped? Dangled? What does one do with bait? Or am I thinking of a lure?
If someone went fishing for a Juniper fish, all they’d need is a bag of chips and a big tub of fresh guac.
“I assure you,” Tonya says with a breezy laugh, “that’s not something you need to worry about. Girls who are involved with pageants are often involved with other charitable activities that actually increase their college opportunities.”
“Oh, is that so?” Aiden says, and it sounds like he’s struggling big time to keep his voice neutral and friendly rather than overtly hostile. He wraps his arm around my shoulders, pulling me into his side with more force than is strictly necessary. “Mywifeis so concerned about this kind of thing.”
“Yes, definitely,” Tonya says with a nod that sends her silver earrings jingling. “Many pageants are even part of larger scholarship programs.”
Do not make aMiss Congenialityjoke,I tell myself firmly.Resist the urge. You are a strong woman with impeccable impulse control.
Well. That might be stretching things a bit much.
I can for sure keep my marginally funny jokes to myself, though.
“If you don’t mind me asking,” I say, leaning forward a little, “have you had good experiences putting your daughter in pageants?” Then I realize that leaning forward causes the front of Caroline’s silky blouse to gape open, and I sit up straight again. Tonya has not earned that visual, and I don’t think she notices anyway.
Aiden definitely notices, though. His eyes drop before he yanks them away again, his cheeks turning the most intriguing shade of red.
I can’t figure this man out. I really can’t. Sometimes he seems to dislike me; sometimes the opposite seems true. He held my hand with no complaint. And right now, despite the fact that he’s not looking at me,his arm is still around my shoulder, no longer squeezing so tightly. His thumb rubs back and forth, back and forth, little patterns that I can feel despite the blazer separating my skin from his touch.
No time to think about that, though. My attention is riveted on Tonya as I wait for her to answer the question. She seems to be choosing her words carefully. Finally she speaks.
“The pageant life can be difficult on the girls, I admit?—”
“But your daughter was okay with that?” Aiden cuts her off, and I elbow him as discreetly as possible. He needs to dial back the aggressiveness by like 200 percent.
“She’s been in pageants all her life. She doesn’t know any different. When she was a little girl I told her it would be fun—like playing dress-up. But ultimately she’s learned and grown so much.”
“So you lied to her.”
“Parents lie to their children if they think it’s what’s best for them,” Tonya says to Aiden, the words clipped. “I’m sure the two of you are no different.”
A strange prickle of foreboding plays over my skin when she says this; somewhere deep down inside, an uncomfortable chord twinges. But I force a smile and nod. “Of course,” I say.
The ice in Tonya’s expression thaws a bit as she goes on, “And my daughter has had lovely experiences for the most part. She’s very beautiful and very intelligent?—”
“So her time in the pageants will help with her college applications as well,” Aiden says; he clearly can tell that he needs to tone it down a bit.
“Oh, yes,” Tonya says, nodding. “In fact, she’s currently touring schools and speaking to admissions faculty. She’s going Ivy League, of course?—”
“Of course,” Aiden echoes with a hearty smile that doesn’t suit him at all.
“And she told me just yesterday that the interviews have been going very well. The thing is, these girls learn social skills, grace, poise under pressure—all highly relevant skills.”
“Ah,” I say, swallowing. The velvet friction of the couch tugs uncomfortably against the fabric of my pants as I shift. “So she’s been keeping you updated; that’s wonderful. How does she sound when you talk to her on the phone?”
And for the first time, Tonya von Meller’s immaculate expression falters. “I—well—we haven’t spoken on the phone yet,” she says with a tinkling laugh that falls just shy of convincing. “I’ve called, of course, but she’s a responsible girl, so she doesn’t like to talk while driving, and of course she’s very tired at the end of the day.”
“Oh, dear,” I say, letting overt concern drip from my words. “I do hope everything is all right.” A stab of guilt hits me squarein the gut on that one; everything isnotall right, and Tonya has no idea, and I’m here pretending anyway.
But it truly would be helpful to see exactly what Sandy’s killer has been texting her mother. Pictures especially would be good; any information we can glean will only help at this point. Even better would be convincing Sandy’s mom that something might be wrong.
“Of course everything is fine,” Tonya says with another one of those laughs. She doesn’t believe her own words, though; she’s starting to fidget, her bony fingers fiddling with the gaudy silver bracelet draped over her wrist.
And my heart breaks unexpectedly for her. Because all the worries that might be going through her mind, all of the worst-case scenarios she might be talking herself out of—they’re true. They’ve happened.
