None of us says a word. Connor looks around in a daze, then dashes to check his room in the basement. Heart racing, I run upstairs.
I push through my bedroom door, which has been left ajar, and lose my breath because all my dresser drawers have been yanked open. I’m sickenedto imagine policemen rummaging through my socks and underwear. I don’t know what they thought they were looking for, until I remember my diary in my bedside table. I move quickly to retrieve it, but it’s gone.
I stifle a cry. How could they have taken my diary? It’s private!
I scramble to remember what I’ve written lately. Mostly stuff about Jeff, which I wouldn’t want my parents to read. But if the cops go back a few weeks, they’ll find things I wrote when I was angry at Dad for ignoring my texts about Marissa, my stalker, and not being here when I needed him.
What if they use that to judge and convict him?
Why did I write those things? I don’t want to get him in trouble!
At least I didn’t write anything about what happened to Mom and how I’ve blamed Dad. I haven’t written in my diary since before the accident.
A shadow appears in the doorway, and I turn.
It’s Dad. He looks stricken. “You okay?”
“Not really,” I reply. “They took my diary.”
He nods with understanding. “They took my laptop and papers from our filing cabinet.”
I don’t know what Dad was keeping in those files, but it sounds like the police will know everything about us as a family.
“It’s not fair,” I say, fighting tears. “Mom’s in the hospital. Isn’t that enough? Why is this happening to us?”
He strides quickly toward me and pulls me into his arms. “Everything’s going to be okay.”
“No, it won’t. What if I wrote something bad about you?” I bury my face in his shoulder.
“Is that a possibility?” he asks.
“I don’t know. Maybe. I was upset when you didn’t call me the night when we went to the police station to report that girl.”
He rubs his hand in circles over my shoulder blade. “I’m sorry about that. I wish I could’ve trusted my staff to look after things at the restaurant that night.”
I take a step back and wipe at my tears. “Are they not good workers?”
“They’re fine,” he tells me. “But I’m a control freak because I don’t want to fail. I’ve wanted the restaurant to be the best in the city, and it’s become an obsession for me.”
I look at him through the blur of my tear-streaked lashes. “But how can that matter to you more than we do?”
“Because I’m an idiot. Mom thinks I should go to therapy. That was the last thing she said to me, actually, and I’m never going to forget that.”
It takes a moment for me to digest this, because my brain isn’t working like it should.
In that moment, my phone chimes, and I dig it out of my back pocket. “It’s Becky. She’s here, and she brought Oscar.”
I can’t wait to see him. I turn and dash downstairs to greet them at the front door. At the same time, Connor runs upstairs from the basement.
“They didn’t take any of my stuff,” he tells me, “but they made a mess of my closet.”
“It was already a mess, you dork,” I reply as I grab hold of his arm and drag him with me. “Becky’s here with Oscar.”
We go outside to the veranda, where the winter wind hits me like a smack in the face. I hug myself and shiver as I watch Becky get out of her car. Oscar leaps out. He runs and tugs at his leash to reach us.
“He really missed you guys,” Becky says, jogging to keep up. “He was sitting at my front door all day with his chin on his paws, looking depressed.”
Connor and I squat to greet him. Oscar bolts up the steps, and I laugh as he nuzzles my face and spins around in circles.
