“It’s Katrina McHugh,” I said. “I’m sorry to be calling so late, but I’ve got something for you. And it’s much, much better than Vivienne.”
I opened the car door and slid in next to McKinney, who was parked across the street from a row of immaculate brownstones. He was sipping coffee out of a paper cup. Handsome as usual, though visibly tired. I felt especially bad for dragging him out of bed at that hour. His wife, a nurse in the NYU NICU, was pregnant and they didn’t get much time together. Not to mention that McKinney could get in trouble for helping me. Getting fired by the NYPD certainly wouldn’t help with bar admission once he graduated from Fordham’s night school—no matter how glowing my recommendation had been.
“Thank you,” I said, waiting until he met my eyes. “Really, I know, this is not ideal …”
He nodded. McKinney never could stay mad for long. “It’snumber two thirty-four. I can’t tell which apartment, haven’t gotten a visual.”
“Thank you again for coming, McKinney. I’m so sorry that I had to bother you.”
He looked toward the brownstone. “You going to be okay?”
“Yeah—yes. You should get to your shift.”
I could feel McKinney staring at the side of my face. “You want to tell me what is really going on?”
As much as I wanted to tell McKinney about Darden, I couldn’t risk involving the police yet. Darden might see that as a reason to move more quickly or intensify the pressure. “It’s that same kid you helped me with before. I know it’s ridiculous that it’s come to this: staking out my own daughter. That’s why I didn’t want to say anything.”
McKinney’s eyes didn’t leave my face. “Okay, then,” he said. He did not sound like he believed me. Only that he had decided not to press. “You want me to get someone else on standby?”
I closed my eyes for a second. I hated having to ask McKinney for more help, but I did need it. “That would really help.”
He reached for his phone. “Consider it done.”
Cleo
FORTY-FIVE HOURS GONE
The woman seated at a desk behind the counter in the Yale registrar’s office peers at me over her reading glasses, eyebrows lifted. I’ve worked myself into tears, a play for sympathy. She does not appear the least bit moved.
Thanks to Rose, I have a name for the tutor: Reed Harding. But that’s all I have. I’m probably chasing a dead end. But if I go home now, I’m going to have to face the fact that what Detective Wilson said is true: When bad things like this happen, it’s almost always someone close to the victim who is responsible. Someone with a motive, like money or an affair.
The woman in the registrar’s office stands reluctantly, then lopes her way over. She folds her hands in front of her on the counter that separates us.
“And how can I help you?”
“I’m sorry,” I say, wiping at my eyes. “My mom is missing.”
She leans against the counter. “The security office is out the front door and on the left. They can help you.”
“No, that’s not—” My voice cuts out. I take a breath. “She didn’t disappear from here. We live in New York.”
“Uh-huh …” She draws it out.
“But I need help finding a student who went here a long time ago. He knows something and we need his help. I thought you’d have an address in your alumni files. His name is Reed—”
“No, no, no.”
“But it’s a—”
“No.” She wags a finger in my face. “I can’t even tell you if he went to school here,” she says. “That’s all private information. Legally. And these days people take all that legalityveryseriously. I can’t go around giving out people’s home addresses.”
“But my mom—”
“And I’m sorry for you. That sounds real upsetting.” She walks away from the counter and returns to her desk. “If I were you, I’d go to the police. If the police tell me I’ve got to give you that info, then I’ll hand it right over. But I won’t be breaking the law in the meantime.”
The Yale campus is beautiful, not only because of the Gothic architecture but also because, unlike NYU, it’s sogreen.The students even look more relaxed. I sit for a while on the grass, facing a huge library. I think of the last time I was in the NYU library. The smug look on Kyle’s face when he told me he’d gotten the money I’d left for him in his gym locker. That we were square. And then he’d gone and sent Geoff anyway. What a waste of time.
My phone buzzes. I see the message first.I’m sorry.I feel a sharp pang of relief: my dad, trying to make things right. But the apology isn’t from my dad; it’s from Will. I darken the screen. And I feel annoyed. I’m not even sure exactly why. When I look out instead across campus, I notice several people stopping to simultaneously take random selfies. These days, it’s a familiar sight. UNow photos being taken in the precise two-minute window and paired with a curated song.Vivienne.Maybe I’m not at a dead end after all.
