Paranoid(106)

“So you didn’t give him a chance.”

Moretti closed his eyes. “I tried . . . I did . . . but . . .”

“You let him die.”

*

Rachel’s phone hadn’t stopped buzzing all afternoon as text after text had come through: Lila: I heard Nate is missing! Is it true? I can’t believe it. It’s like our whole class is under attack. What’s going on? Call me!!

She was shocked and would have thought Lila was overreacting to some gossip that had no foundation until she read the subsequent texts: Brit: Friends of Nate’s came into the coffee shop. I overheard them saying that he’s missing, didn’t show up at work, that the police are looking for him. Do you know anything?

Of course, Mercedes was all over it. Not only had she left a couple of voice messages asking Rachel and Harper for an interview, but also texted: Do you know anything about Moretti going missing? I have a source who says he was supposed to meet Annessa last night. Is that true? Does this have anything to do with Annessa’s murder? Did Harper see him? I NEED to talk to you! Anytime. I sent you an e-mail, but please, CALL ME!

Even Billy Dee had texted: What’s up with Moretti? What’s going on? His dad called me. Said he’s missing. Got any info? Kinda worried.

“Me too,” Rachel said aloud, then texted Cade: Just heard Nate Moretti might be missing. True?

After laying down the law when she’d gotten home, her kids had surprised her. Dylan had actually tackled his room, and though it wasn’t up to her white-glove standards, at least it wasn’t a biohazard waste dump site any longer. Harper was doing homework.

“Trying to get a better grade in chemistry,” she’d said when Rachel had checked in on her daughter. Harper actually had been seated on her bed, books spread around her, as she typed on a laptop. “Maybe make the honor roll.”

“That would be great,” Rachel had said, and as Harper had turned back to her studies, she’d closed the door and stepped into the hall. Since when had Harper cared about her GPA? Probably the end of her freshman year, so why the sudden interest . . . ?

Oh.

It hit then.

Xander Vale was attending the University of Oregon and Harper’s GPA was hovering near, but not quite at, the admission standards. Maybe Cade was right and Xander wasn’t such a bad influence after all.

Or maybe you should just trust that your daughter is finally growing up, becoming that adult she’s so fond of mentioning.

It was odd, this feeling that both kids were doing exactly as she’d asked.

It was almost as if they were being too good, she thought, then kicked herself for being so suspicious. They’d done what she’d asked and Harper, if a little more serious than usual, seemed fine, her more studious and subdued attitude explained by the ordeal she’d been through.

After glancing at the clock, she warmed what was left of the lasagna in the oven, and after tossing together a quick salad, headed upstairs to check her e-mail. No responses today from any of the jobs she’d applied for and, of course, the e-mail from Mercedes.

“Give it up,” she muttered under her breath, then decided, her curiosity getting the better of her, to open and read it:



Rachel, I would love to interview you for the last of the articles, give you a chance to tell your side of what happened the night that Luke Hollander died. I’m hoping to get perspectives from some of the other people who were there. I want to do an in-depth feature on who Luke really was, behind the mask of high school athlete (and heartbreaker), and so some insight on his life growing up would help, too. Your mother and father seem to be stonewalling me, but I hope you could add something and convince them to contribute. Please call me. Mercedes





Along with the e-mail were three attachments, all photographs. One was a family shot that Rachel remembered as being on a Christmas card they’d sent when Rachel was around eleven. She remembered the ugly red sweater that her mother had made her wear, while Luke was in green. At that point in time the family still had been pretty tight and looking at it brought back memories of happier days. The second shot was one of Luke’s senior pictures, one where he was staring straight into the camera, a mischievous smile tugging at the corners of his mouth, and the third was of a stranger, a mug shot identified as being Bruce Hollander. “Oh, no,” she whispered. Mercy couldn’t drag her mother’s first marriage into these articles. “Shit.” She picked up the phone and dialed.

Mercy picked up on the second ring.

“You can’t write about Luke’s real dad—I mean, his biological father,” Rachel said as she stared at the picture on her computer monitor. She’d never seen a picture of Bruce Hollander before, but now she saw the resemblance to Luke and something else.

“I think I can,” Mercedes was saying. “You all keep trying to stop me by giving me nothing to go on and I’m scrambling here. But let me tell you, not only have we sold more papers this week than any other this year, but the online subscriptions have skyrocketed. This is the kind of story people love to read about,” she added, sounding pleased while Rachel’s stomach was turning.

“But it’s my family.”

“And it’s newsworthy.”

“Twenty years ago.”

“Maybe, but people love that retro stuff and get off on a bit of a mystery, a little bit of a scandal.”