Whisper to Me(103)

“Oh. I don’t know. But he’s a cop. Here. His name is Dwight.”

The woman tapped her long fingernails on her desk. The desk was pitted, made of cheap wood. Everything about the station was cheap. “We have two Dwights. One’s in traffic. The other’s in homicide.”

“Homicide,” I said.

She raised her eyebrows. “You sure?”

I held her gaze. “Yes.”

She nodded slowly. “I’ll call up. See if he’s available. Your name was …?”

I hadn’t told her my name. “Cass,” I said. “He knows me.”

She dialed a number and waited while it rang. She told whoever was on the other line—Dwight, I guess—that I was there to see him. She listened for a moment, said “uh-huh”, and then put down the phone.

“Third floor, right-hand side,” she said. “There’s an elevator just there.”

I walked past a dead potted plant and got in the elevator, rode up to the third floor. I came out onto a utilitarian corridor, like you’d find in any office building, or at least any office building of a company that has seen better times. There were motivational posters on the wall—BE THE BEST YOU CAN BE. Also missing-person posters, and advertisements for charity barbecues and touch football.

I turned right and followed the corridor until I came to an open-plan office. I could see the ocean from up here—far off, a couple of recreational fishing boats. There was a haze over the water and the beach, the rides of the piers like smudged watercolor. Inside the office there were people sitting at desks, others standing and talking to each other—a whiteboard in a corner had some scribbled notes and questions on it. A few rooms with doors lined the side wall.

Dwight put his phone down, stood up from a desk, and walked over to me. “Cass,” he said. His tone was … wary. “What are you doing here?”

“I need for you to tell me what you know,” I said.

“About what?”

“About Paris. And about the cops. You went all weird when we were talking about it. I know there’s something.”

He took my arm and steered me back toward the corridor. “There isn’t, Cass. Leave it, okay?”

I looked over his shoulder at the other cops working; a couple of them had turned to watch us, and this is the part I’m not proud of.

“Do they know?” I said.

He stopped, so we were standing just in and just out of the open-plan room. “Do they know what?”

“About group. About Dr. Lewis.”

His eyes widened. He was looking at me like I had disappeared and some other, scarier person had been dropped down in front of him instead. Like I was an alien. “Keep your voice d—”

“Do they?”

“What do you think?” he hissed.

“I think they don’t. Not all of them anyway. Your boss, maybe, because I guess you had to tell him. Her? Him or her. I have no idea.”

“You’re babbling, Cass,” said the voice.

“Time to leave,” said Dwight.

“No.”

“What’s your deal anyway?” he said. “You hardly even knew Paris. Why are you so obsessed with this?”

I took a step back, like I’d been gut-punched. “What? She was my friend.”

He held his hands up. “Fine, fine. Just get out of here. I can’t have you here.”

“No,” I said. “Time to tell me what you’re holding back.”

“Jesus, Cass! I could lose my job. I’m not being blackmailed by some teenage girl into—”

“I’m not blackmailing you,” I said.

“Oh yeah, sure.” His breath was bad: coffee and cigarettes. It was not helping with the nausea in the pit of my stomach, the self-hatred. But the voice was egging me on. “Look, I’m not even working the case,” he said. “I don’t talk to anyone about it. I don’t know what they’re doing. Anything I said … it would just be a personal hunch.”

“Please, Dwight,” I said. “Please. I’m sorry about … about what I said, about your colleagues. For mentioning group. But I need to know. I need to find Paris.”

Dwight looked into my eyes for what felt like minutes.

“Cass,” he said slowly. “Please understand. I cannot do what you’re asking.”

“But—”

He shook his head, more sad than anything else. “No buts,” he said. “I’m a police officer. I’m not going to give you information. I’m not compromising our investigation, and I’m not supporting you in going on some vigilante mission of your own.”

“She’d want you to help me,” I said.

He flinched. “Low blow, Cassie,” he said. Then he put his hands on my shoulders. “Listen. You have to drop this. Promise me you’re going to drop this.”

“I promise,” I lied.

Dwight put his head in his hands. “****,” he said. “****.”

I should probably send him an apology letter too.





A picture, in my head:

Paris enters a dark house by the ocean. She thinks she’s meeting some guys for a bachelor party.

Then … what?