“He said your mom didn’t approve of this boy you were seeing and it ended in an argument. That you haven’t spoken in months. Is that true?”
Well, at least he didn’t mention the drugs.
“We got into a big fight a while ago. I went to Park Slope last night for dinner as a kind of peace offering,” I say. “My mom—for sure she drives me crazy sometimes. She can be really judgmental.” I cross my arms, even as I tell myself not to. “So yeah, we’re fighting about things.”
The detective nods, her face unreadable. “Mother-daughtershit is complicated,” she says. “I get that. I don’t have a daughter myself, no children. Not a life experience I’m particularly interested in, at least at the moment. I have a very immature husband and an exceptionally needy dog. But I do also have a mother. Averyopinionated one. My mom and I …” She brings her fists together like two cars colliding. “Like oil and water. Things can get pretty heated.” She looks at me pointedly. “In the heat of the moment, sometimes things happen that you never intended. We’re human. We all fuck up.”
“Are you asking me if I hurt my mom?”
“Isyour mom hurt, Cleo?” She turns to me. I can’t tell from her expression whether she thinks the answer might be yes—or if she’s only asking because it’s procedure. Maybe she needs to officially cross this off her list now that my dad added it there.
“I don’t know if she’s hurt.” I stare straight back at her. “Because I wasn’t there. But you’re the one who said it’s her blood on the floor. So sounds like she’s probably hurt, right?”
Detective Wilson considers this response.
“Like I said, what mother and daughter aren’t at each other’s throats? And for the record, I don’t think you were involved in this, Cleo,” she says. “But I was a little taken aback that your dad volunteered that information. Seeing as how it does kind of put the focus on you. Seemed worth you and me having a conversation about it. Or worth you knowing about it—maybe that’s a better way of putting it.”
My mouth is so dry. Like my lips are glued shut. “Right.” It’s not much more than a whisper.
“Anyway.” She stands, brushes off the backs of her navy slacks before heading toward Broadway. “We’ll keep looking into everything, Cleo, including these guys she was dating. I promise, we are keeping our eyes wide open. But when you’ve been in this job as long as I have, you come to realize that the simplest explanation is usually the right one.”
“And what’s the simplest explanation for what happened to my mom?”
“Your dad.”
When I get off the elevator, I can see that the door to the Veritas office is slightly open. I stop for a moment in the hall. I’m here for an explanation. But what if my dad has no excuse for throwing me under the bus? For telling a detective that my mom and I have a “volatile” relationship? I can’t pretend that won’t make him seem more guilty. That it won’t also break my heart.
Inside the office, it’s quiet and dark. No sign of my dad anywhere. Not in the conference room at the back or in his private office. Bella’s desk at the front is bare. I walk over and pull a few of her drawers open. Empty. It looks like she doesn’t work there anymore. I wonder if there could be some real connection between them. Would that make it better? You can’t help who you connect with—I know that better than anybody.
“Dad!” I call out, staring at the framed posters of his movies on the walls. “Are you here?”
No response.
Where are you?I text him.I’m at your office. I thought you said you were going to work?
Oh! I’m at a breakfast with HBO.That is followed by a bunch of emojis—tired ones, exploding brain ones, tongue hanging out ones. Ones that might be cute if my mom wasn’t missing or, you know, maybe dead.Is it an emergency? I can leave if you need me to …
I stare down at his text. I wonder if he and Bella are off having sex somewhere right now. I wish the possibility felt more absurd.
That’s okay. We can talk later,I write back—later, as in after I have some kind of evidence that somebody other than him is responsible for my mom’s disappearance.
Are you sure?
I’ve got to go anyway.
And I am about to go. I am. But then I find myself drifting over to his desk. I drop down into his desk chair, my hand taking hold of the mouse. I know I shouldn’t. That it’s a risk. But I guess I’m hoping that poking around a little will put my mind at ease. The computer comes to life, password-protected—even my not-good-with-details dad isn’t that dumb. But I’m guessing his password is going to be obvious. I try his birth month, day, and year. Sure enough, the computer unlocks, email in-box already open on the screen. A subject line catches my eye—Good News!!!!I click on the email; it’s from Javier Jameson, my dad’s coproducer. But it’s a reply, I realize, a response to an email my dad sent with that subject line a few hours ago.
What could possibly be good news right now?
I scroll down to my dad’s original message at 5:45 a.m.:Kat came through with the entire thing, 2.75! I knew she would. The cash is in my account as we speak.We are full steam ahead!
Fifteen minutes later I’m in Hudson River Park, staring down into the steely water, still trembling. First my mom, and now it’s like I’ve lost my dad, too. The world is gray and waterlogged, the humidity pressing in on my skull. I don’t even remember walking to the river.
Lauren said my mom wouldn’t lend my dad the money and that he was mad. And now she’s missing, and hehasthe money he wanted?Thatmuch money. I’m pretty sure that’s the kind of detail that could land him in handcuffs.
I pull out my phone and text Will:Can you meet?
A second later he replies:Sure. Where?
