Things We Didn't Say_ A Novel - Kristina Riggle [9]
Casey had sent a new text: It’s important.
“Fine,” I mutter to myself, and dial the home phone.
“Hi,” Casey says, and then right away, “Dylan’s missing.”
“What? No, he’s not, I dropped him off at school myself.”
“Well, he’s not there now. The school called this morning to say he never showed up in class.”
I suck in a deep breath. It’s probably nothing. It almost always is nothing, just like a hot news tip usually fizzles upon investigation. I recall a time at the park when Dylan was five and Mallory lost sight of him and went screaming his name in the woods around the playground. Turns out he’d been sitting inside one of those plastic slide contraptions while Mallory and Angel had an argument, and had dozed off. The effect of that day had caused her to start drinking earlier than usual. She should have just checked the damn slide.
I sigh and pinch the bridge of my nose, where a headache is starting to throb. “He’s probably being a rebel.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean he’s fourteen years old. He’s hiding in someone’s car smoking pot or something. I’ll ground him for life when he turns up.”
“That doesn’t sound like Dylan. And you don’t sound worried.”
“Case, it’s only . . . 10:30. He’s probably just cutting class.”
“I don’t know.”
“Why, did he say something?”
“Not really, he’s just seemed distant. I tried to ruffle his hair this morning, and he ducked me.”
“He’s a teenager, not a four-year-old.”
“I know, but he never used to mind.”
“Just when you get used to kids, they change.”
“You don’t have to tell me that, it’s just—”
“Casey, look. I have to go. Call his cell and tell him to call us or he’s grounded forever.”
“I called it. Straight to voice mail.”
“See, he shut off his phone, which means he’s up to mischief. If he were dead in a ditch somewhere, it would ring. Anyway, he’s not dead in a ditch, because I drove him to school.”
“Not funny.”
“I didn’t say it was. Look, call me when he turns up, I really have to go.”
“Okay. Well. Bye, I guess.”
I guess. Casey’s classic hint, leaving the door open a crack, wanting me to walk through it and get into a long conversation. I guess means, Wait, don’t hang up, or Don’t walk away.
“He’s fine. He’s a boy being a boy. We’ll kill him later.”
She says “Bye” in a small voice that makes her sound like she’s twelve, a habit that sends a spark of irritation into my gut.
I’ve got ninety minutes to call mall managers before lunch with my father, the philanthropist, which means ninety minutes to figure out exactly what I’m going to say to his smug, mustached face about how he wasted my morning and embarrassed the hell out of me.
Dad always gets there first, always sits down first, every time we have lunch, and these days, since his semiretirement, he’s always having a Manhattan.
He acts like everything is utterly normal, sitting there in his salmon pink dress shirt. “Mikey!” he says, rising to greet me, but not entirely standing up, before settling back in his chair and snapping the cloth napkin out. “I’ve already ordered. I’m sure you must be busy, so I didn’t want to take up your time.”
“Why the hell didn’t you tell me that was your thing at the university?”
“I didn’t know it was the same press conference. Anyway, with the Herald being so short-staffed, can they afford to care who’s related to whom? It’s not like it’s much of a conflict of interest to type up quotes. I mean, really. What are you going to do? Make me sound heroic for giving a little money?”
He sips his Manhattan, a gleam in his eye, maybe imagining this hypothetical glowing article.
“You could have saved me a lot of grief.”
“You didn’t give me a chance, anyway, you rushed me off the phone so fast.”
He leans back in his chair, his subtle smile nearly masked by his gray mustache. His full head of hair is showing signs of curling at the edges, which means it’s been too long since his last haircut. He’s really cutting loose, now.
I slump back in my chair, defeated as ever by his surpassing confidence