Whisper to Me(89)

JULIE: Look, Cass, I’m going to go now. I’m going to call the agent. Tell him about the car.

ME: Don’t do that.

JULIE: What? Why?

ME: You know people blame the cops for not finding the guy? The killer?

JULIE: Yeah.

ME: But what if it’s not just not finding him? What if they are him?

JULIE: The cops … are … the killer?

ME: Or a cop, I don’t know. But think about it. They could suppress evidence.

JULIE: Keep it quiet. Keep their prints off stuff.

ME: Yeah.

JULIE: Jesus.

ME: Give me a couple of days. Then we’ll talk to Horowitz about the car.

JULIE: Okay. You think it’s him?

ME: (thinking about this) No. Not him. But could be someone else.

JULIE: I still think I should tell him about the Jeep.

ME: If he’s good, he’ll work it out.

JULIE: I guess.

ME: ’Night, Julie.

JULIE. ’Night, Cass.

ME: (pause)

JULIE: We’ll get this ******, right? We’ll get Paris back?

ME: Yes. Yes, we will.

JULIE: (sounding suddenly like a child) You promise?

ME: I promise.

CLICK. AND THE LINE GOES DEAD.

BLACKNESS.

FADE OUT.





I had no right to do that. No right to promise something I couldn’t deliver.





The next day was a Monday. I had breakfast with Dad—I had nut-free toast, and he had Pop-Tarts. Dad was reading the paper.

“Oh, ****, Cass,” he said suddenly.

I looked up. “What?”

“Oh, Cass, I’m sorry.”

Now I knew what was in the paper. “Why?” I asked, as if I didn’t know. For some reason, by some instinct, I didn’t want Dad knowing about Agent Horowitz, about Julie, about any of it.

Some helpful instinct, as it turned out.

Dad turned the paper around. There was a photo of Paris—it must have been taken before she was ill; she looked plump and happy. Fifteen, maybe. She was standing by a pool.

“That’s your friend, right? The one from the hospital?”

“Yeah,” I said.

“I’m so sorry, honey. They say she’s disappeared, that they think …” He went silent, scanning the page upside down.

Oh.

Oh ****.

“Cassandra,” said Dad, and it was never a good sign when he used my full name. “Cassandra, were you hanging out with a stripper?”

“Um.”

“Cassandra?”

“Um, yeah. But she didn’t do touching, she—”

He turned the paper, showing me a picture from Paris’s Instagram. It showed her with stars over her nipples, smoking.

“Are you ******* insane?” he shouted. “Oh no, wait. Yes! You are ****** insane! Jesus, Cass, I’m trying here, I’m trying to protect you, like your mom would have wanted, and you’re just …”

“She was nice,” I said quietly. “She was my friend.”

Dad shook his head. He was looking at me as if I came with instructions in another language. “She was a … she was this”—he indicated the paper—“and look where it got her.”

“You’re saying girls who take their clothes off are asking to be killed?”

“That’s not what I’m saying, and you know it!”

“Do I?” I said. “Do I, Dad? Because it sounds to me like you’re saying that being taken by the Houdini Killer is some kind of moral punishment for being a stripper.”

A long pause.

“I don’t know what to do with you anymore,” said Dad.

“Tell him to **** off,” said the voice. “Tell him you don’t give a **** what he thinks.”

“Sorry, Dad,” I said.

He grunted. Then there was a knock on the door. Dad went to open it.

“Hey,” you said. I couldn’t see you, but I recognized your voice. I went to the kitchen door, but Dad was blocking the doorway.

“Hi,” said Dad. “You need something?”

“I was wondering … if Cass could come out.”

“No,” said Dad.

“Oh,” you said. “Uh … oh.”

“Have a good day,” said Dad. “Shouldn’t you be getting to work?”

“Yeah,” you said. And Dad closed the door on you.

Sorry about that.

Dad came back to the kitchen. “No going out today, okay?”

“Okay,” I said.

“I have to know you’re safe, Cass.”

“Yeah.”

“Good.”

He went upstairs and I heard the shower start. “Your own father hates you,” said the voice dully.

“After six p.m.,” I said automatically.

The voice shut up. Ever since I didn’t cut off my toe, it had lost some of its power. It didn’t push things anymore. It was more like an irritation—a wasp that circles back to your picnic table intermittently. I could mostly ignore it.

Dad came back downstairs, put on a thin jacket, and pocketed his keys from the monkey’s little tray. Then he went out. “Remember: stay here,” he said.