Things We Didn't Say_ A Novel - Kristina Riggle [52]
“Not what?”
“He’s not worldly. He’s quiet, a little awkward around new people. He has this stammer that comes out sometimes—”
“Yeah. I get it.” Tony taps his steering wheel. “So what are you going to do? Anything I can do to help?”
I tip my head back on the seat. “I don’t know. I’m not sure why I wanted you to come, even. I just had to get out of there for a bit.”
“Yeah. Oh, hey, why don’t you send me a picture? I can send it to some of my trucker friends. They can keep an eye out. Rest stops and whatever. Hell, maybe he’ll stick out a thumb and one of my friends’ll pick him up. You never know.”
I smile at him, and just then my head feels swimmy with cigarettes and lack of sleep and food. I pull out my phone. “I’m sending you a cell phone pic I’ve got. It’s not the best, but it will help.” I send it to Tony’s phone, and he looks to make sure he got it.
“Great. Need a lift back?”
I shake my head, hard. Tony doesn’t know that Angel read my journal, that a sighting of him now would be almost the worst possible thing.
“Stay warm, kiddo,” he tells me as I get out of the car, before I shut the door. “They say there’s a blizzard coming.” He squeezes my hand before I step back into the cold.
I wonder if the blizzard will hit Ohio. I don’t think Dylan has his warm coat.
I hurry back to the house, because I’ve been gone too long for a walk around the block. No one seems to have noticed my absence.
Michael is at the computer, the Web site of the National Center for the Missing open in front of him.
Three small pictures on the screen have the mottled blue backgrounds and strained smiles of school photos. They have “missing” dates and cities attached.
One day these kids were posing for a photographer, having greasy school lunch pizza, getting scraped knees on the playground. Now they’re gone.
How would we know where to find a girl from Greeley, Colorado?
And how would anyone else know how to find Dylan?
“Time to call the hotline,” Michael murmurs, and picks up his phone.
From my end of the conversation, it’s clear the person on the other end is well trained in reassurance and warmth. Michael repeats, “Yes, exactly,” and “We’re very worried,” and keeps pinching the bridge of his nose.
He lets go of his nose long enough to grab a narrow spiral notebook out of his desk drawer and starts writing in pencil. But he shoots me a look, shaking his head slowly. I walk around him to look at what he’s writing. There are things that we’ve already done, like break into his computer, search his room, call his friends. There are things the police already said they cannot do for us. We can’t use GPS to track down his cell, because he didn’t take it.
Michael has written, Missing poster—(like for lost cat?!).
Now Michael is nodding as if the other person can see him. He seems to be holding his breath.
He drops the pencil and crumples down to the desk, putting his head on his arms. He lets the phone receiver roll out of his hand.
I wrap my arms around him, feeling his body heave with the effort of holding everything in. This close I can hear the woman on the phone saying, “Hello? Mr. Turner? Are you there? Hello?”
Chapter 20
Michael
Casey doesn’t understand that her attempt at soothing me is making this worse. I don’t want soothing, I want answers. Action. Results.
I swallow hard, exhale, shake off Casey like a dog shaking off the rain and pick up the phone again, finishing up my conversation with the well-meaning woman on the other end who won’t stop expressing sympathy.
The phone rings again. It’s not a hopeful sound anymore.
“Hello.”
“Are you the father of Dylan Turner?”
“Yes.” I sit up straight at this, my ears pricked, my hand reaching by rote for the notebook.
“Your goddamn son has run off with my daughter. I’m pressing charges on him when they find that sonofabitch.”
“My son did not coerce your daughter anywhere. In fact, we have e-mails that show this whole stunt was her idea.”
“I’ll just bet. I know