The Quarry Girls(37)

“. . . Heather Cash, and Claude Ziegler,” Father Adolph said, his tone indicating he’d just reached the end of a list of names.

My heart thundered as I looked around, gape-eyed, for clues of what he’d just said. Claude was staring at me, unsmiling.

“. . . the teens invited to my first-ever Labor Day camp at the church cabin. So talk it over with your parents and see if you can make it.”

Dad squeezed my hand. All summer he’d been encouraging me to attend one of the father’s camps. He’d said it’d look good if the daughter of the district attorney went. Him and Sheriff Nillson’s idea in creating the getaways with Father Adolph had been to create a safe place for teenagers to hang during the summer, something that kept them away from drugs and hitchhiking and taught them useless pioneer things like starting fires and tying knots. I think Dad believed I might even talk about Mom if I went, get some support, but I didn’t want to talk about her. I just wanted her to get better.

“Finally, let’s all take a moment to say a prayer for a missing member of our community.”

My eyes pinned to the back of Sheriff Nillson’s neck. If the priest knew Maureen was missing, that meant Nillson wouldn’t be able to cover it up.

But Father Adolph wasn’t talking about Maureen.

“Nobody has seen Elizabeth McCain for six days. Please hold Beth and her family in your prayers.”

I was staring straight at Sheriff Nillson’s neck, so I noticed when his skin jumped.





CHAPTER 21


Mom left the bedroom to join us for supper. Dad acted so happy to see her. He kissed her curled hair, pulled out her chair for her, talked all through the meal of grilled cheese and tomato soup that I’d made, talked so much that I almost didn’t notice how quiet Mom was. She nibbled at the edges of her sandwich.

“Did I overcook it?” I asked. She liked her grilled sandwiches soft, not crusty.

She didn’t seem to hear me. As soon as Dad stood, indicating the meal was over, she dashed back to the bedroom. Dad’s face sagged watching her go, and I suddenly wanted to give him a hug so bad. There wasn’t time, though. He was on his way to the front door, like Mom disappearing had freed him to do the same.

“Thanks for supper, honey. Don’t wait up for me.”

I nodded.

He’d said finding Maureen wasn’t his department, that Sheriff Nillson was probably right that she’d run away, same as Elizabeth McCain, and I shouldn’t worry, but he’d also promised to visit his office tonight after hours and “do some research.” It felt like a balm when he told me that. No way could I tell him about Maureen being in that basement with Nillson, but it’d been eating me up that the man in charge of finding her likely wouldn’t mind if she disappeared for good. With my dad poking around, Nillson would have to fly straight.

“Junie, help me clean up,” I said when the front door closed behind Dad.

“But I want to watch TV. The Hardy Boys are on.”

“Then you better hurry so you don’t miss too much.”

While she washed dishes and I dried and put away, she chattered about how excited she was for tonight’s Hardy Boys episode, and how sad she was the fair was gone but that she couldn’t wait until next year, that she supposed grape lip gloss tasted better than strawberry because strawberries made her nose itch, please could we have spaghetti and meatballs for dinner tomorrow, did I think Dad would let me take her to see The Hills Have Eyes, and who would be stupid enough to get out of their car if it broke down like they showed that family doing in the trailer, it was almost as stupid as hitchhiking.

My breath snagged in my throat.

Almost as stupid as hitchhiking.

“Junie, I need to go out.”

“You’re not going to watch the show with me?”

“I’ll be back in an hour,” I said. “Now go upstairs. I have to quick make a private phone call.”

“Then do it in the basement,” she said, pointing at the stairway off the kitchen. “The cord’s long enough.”

I growled at her.

She smiled and skipped out of the kitchen and onto the living room sofa, well within earshot. The little stinker. My plan was to call Brenda and straight-out ask her if she and Maureen had hitchhiked anywhere other than to the Cities. It didn’t matter that the answer was guaranteed to hurt my feelings. Junie’s The Hills Have Eyes comment had gotten to me. What if a stranger had picked up Maureen and was holding her captive somewhere right now?

I cupped the phone to my ear and was about to dial when I heard someone on the line. I reflexively went to hang up—party line courtesy—before recognizing Ant’s voice.

“. . . picture,” he grumbled. “You said if I got it, I could take a turn.”

My blood iced.

When the person on the other end didn’t respond, Ant continued, his voice reedy with emotion. “Don’t worry about Nillson. I know my way around a basement. She won’t—”

“Private phone call!” Junie screeched, bopping back into the kitchen.

I slammed the handset onto the wall-mounted body. “Junie!”

She laughed.

My heart was hammering a backbeat against my ribcage. No way could Ant know it was me on the other end of the line, not unless he’d recognized Junie’s voice. I pictured the twisting tunnels below my feet. If I raced to Ant’s house and shoved my ear to his door, what else would I hear? What other terrible things was he saying, what awful secrets about basements and Jerome Nillson and a she?