Hold Tight
“We’re coordinating with Target’s home office as we speak. Probably take a couple of hours, no more. Something else. Maybe important, maybe not. We were able to figure out what she bought at Target. Some kid DVDs, some kid underwear, clothes—all stuff for kids.”
“Not what you buy if you plan on running away with a paramour.”
“Exactly, unless you’re taking the kids, which she didn’t. And more than that, we opened her Acura in the hotel lot, and there is no Target bag inside. The husband checked the house, in case she stopped home. No Target stuff there either.”
A cold shiver started up near the base of Muse’s neck.
“What?” he asked.
“I want that report from the security office. Get the guy’s phone number—the one who reported seeing her get in a van. See what else he remembers—vehicles, descriptions of the passengers, anything. I’m sure the security guard didn’t go over all that with him. I want to know everything.”
“Okay.”
They talked another minute or two, but her mind whirred and her pulse raced. When Clarence left, Muse picked up her phone and hit the cell phone for her boss, Paul Copeland.
“Hello?”
“Where are you?” Muse asked.
“I just dropped Cara off.”
“I need to bounce something off you, Cope.”
“When?”
“Soon as possible.”
“I’m supposed to meet my bride-to-be at some restaurant to final- ize the seating chart.”
“The seating chart?”
“Yeah, Muse. The seating chart. It’s this thing that tells people where to sit.”
“And you care about this?”
“Not even a little.”
“Let Lucy do it, then.”
“Right, like she doesn’t already. She drags me to all these things, but I’m not allowed to speak. She says I’m just eye candy.”
“You are, Cope.”
“Yes, true, but I have a brain too.”
“That’s the part of you I need,” she said.
“Why, what’s up?”
“I’m having one of my crazier hunches, and I need you to tell me if I’m on to something or going off the deep end.”
“Is it more important than who sits at the same table as Aunt Carol and Uncle Jerry?”
“No, this is just a homicide.”
“I’ll make the sacrifice. On my way.”
THE sound of the phone woke Jill up.
She was in Yasmin’s bedroom. Yasmin was trying too hard to fit in with the other girls by pretending to be extra boy-crazy. There was a poster of Zac Efron, the hottie from the High School Musical movies on one wall, and another of the Sprouse twins from The Suite Life. There was one of Miley Cyrus from Hannah Montana—okay, a girl, not a hottie, but still. It all seemed so desperate.
Yasmin’s bed was near the door while Jill slept by the window. Both beds were blanketed with stuffed animals. Yasmin once told Jill that the best part about divorce was the competitive spoiling—both parents go out of their way with the gifts. Yasmin only saw her mom maybe four, five times a year, but she sent stuff constantly. There were at least two dozen Build-A-Bears, including one dressed like a cheerleader and another, perched next to Jill’s pillow, that was done up like a pop star with rhinestone shorts, a halter top, and a wire microphone wrapped around her furry face. A ton of Webkinz animals, including three hippos alone, spilled onto the floor. Back issues of J-14 and Teen People and Popstar! magazines littered the nightstand. The carpet was deep shag, something her parents told her had gone out in the 1970s but seemed to be making an odd comeback in teen bedrooms. There was a brand-new iMac on the desk.
Yasmin was good with computers. So was Jill.
Jill sat up. Yasmin blinked and looked over at her. In the distance, Jill could hear a rumbling voice on the phone. Mr. Novak. There was a Homer Simpson clock on the nightstand between them. It read seven fifteen A.M.
Early for a call, Jill knew, especially on a weekend.
The girls had stayed up late last night. First they went out for dinner and ice cream with Mr. Novak and his annoying new girlfriend, Beth. Beth was probably forty years old and laughed at everything Mr. Novak said like, well, like the annoying boy-crazy girls at their school did to make a boy like them. Jill thought you outgrew that at some stage. Maybe not.
Yasmin had a plasma TV in her room. Her father let them watch as many movies as they wanted. “It’s the weekend,” Guy Novak said with a big smile. “Have at it.” So they microwaved some popcorn and watched PG-13 and even one R-rated film that would probably have freaked out Jill’s parents.
Jill got out of bed. She had to pee, but right now she wondered about last night, what had happened, if her father had tracked Adam down. She was worried. She had called Adam’s phone herself. If he was keeping away from Mom and Dad, okay, that made sense. But she had never considered the possibility that he wouldn’t respond to calls and texts from his little sister. Adam always responded to her.
But not this time.
And that made Jill worry even more.
She checked her cell phone.
“What are you doing?” Yasmin asked.
“Checking to see if Adam called me back.”
“Did he?”
“No. Nothing.”
Yasmin fell silent.
There was a light rap on the door and then it opened. Mr. Novak popped his head in and whispered, “Hey, why are you guys awake?”
“The phone woke us,” Yasmin said.
“Who was it?” Jill asked.
Mr. Novak looked at her. “That was your mommy.”
Jill’s body stiffened. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing’s wrong, sweetheart,” Mr. Novak said, and Jill could see it was a great big lie. “She just asked if we could keep you today. I figured we’d go to the mall later or maybe a movie. How does that sound?”
“Why does she want me to stay?” Jill asked.
“I don’t know, honey. She just said something’s come up and asked the favor. But she said to tell you that she loves you and everything is fine.”
Jill said nothing. He was lying. She knew it. Yasmin knew it. She looked over at Yasmin. It wouldn’t do to press the issue. He wouldn’t tell them. He was protecting them because their eleven-year-old minds couldn’t handle the truth or whatever nonsense adults use to excuse lying.
“I’m going to run out for a while,” Mr. Novak said.