The Second Girl(31)

Mrs. Gregory’s head drops and she begins to cry. I notice him squeeze her hand again.

“What was she wearing when she went to the pool?”

“Shorts and a T-shirt,” he says. “She has a pink pool bag and would always change into her suit in the locker room.”

“Her purple sparkly flip-flops. She was wearing those, too,” Mrs. Gregory adds.

“Did she go there with anybody?”

“No. She walked alone, but she said she was meeting friends there. She didn’t say who,” Ian says, and then as if an afterthought adds, “I don’t know why I didn’t ask.”

“Does she have a cell phone?”

“Yes, she has an iPhone,” he says, then seems to struggle with a thought. “The battery must have, you know—or maybe it somehow broke. We still keep the account active just in case.”

“iPhones have an app to locate the phone if it’s lost. Was your daughter’s set up for that?”

“No, it wasn’t,” he says as if embarrassed.

“How long ago did it stop working?”

“It rang for a week or so after she had disappeared—even went into voicemail, and then a few days later it went out completely.”

“Does she have any brothers, sisters…?”

“Little brother. Lucas. He’s ten.”

“Does Miriam know Amanda?”

“We’ve never heard her name mentioned before. The detective showed us a picture, but we didn’t recognize her. Miriam might have known her from school or through other friends, but she wasn’t a good friend or we would have known.”

“Did the detective share any other information with you?”

“No. He said he’d be in touch if anything new developed. We have a pretty tight community. I was able to locate her family. They only lived a few blocks away. That’s how we found out about you and Ms. Costello and this other detective with a task force here, but he wasn’t very helpful, either.”

“You still have the family’s contact information?”

“Yes, but I assumed you would?”

“No, it didn’t work out like that. I’ll need their contact information.”

“I should have it here,” he says, reaching for his briefcase.

He pulls out a small notepad, flips through pages.

“Here it is,” he says, handing the pad to me.

I write the names Arthur and Louise Meyer in my notes, along with their address and landline, and Arthur Meyer’s cell number.

I look at my notebook and see “Miriam Gregory” written in the top left corner. I realize the mistake I made. It’s like I’ve made it official that I’ll be investigating this. Not only was it my line of questioning, but I pulled out my notebook to take notes. In fact, writing the name first is worst of all. The only thing that minimizes that fact is that I didn’t put a date above the name. I f*cked up.

“I should’ve asked—you want something to drink: soda, water…? They have a nice coffee machine if you’d like coffee.”

“No, thank you,” Ian says.

His wife shakes her head, looks like she wants to leave.

“I really need a soda. Do you mind?”

“Of course not,” Ian says.

I stand and begin to walk, but remember my briefcase. I grab it.

“Be right back,” I say, and exit quickly.

The bathroom is empty. There are two stalls. I take the end stall, against a wall. I close the lid on the toilet seat, examine it briefly to make sure it’s clean, and then sit on it.

“Fuck,” I say to myself. Close my eyes.

Eyes still closed, I pull out my pill container.

I usually have more self-control during the daytime, especially when I’m doing something for Costello. I just need a boost so I can clear my head.

So that’s what I do, but this time I snort three capsules.

After I flush the toilet a second time, I push my nostrils shut one at a time and sniff hard.

It’s like a wide stream rushing in my head converging to a point and then swirling like ripples. Immediate clarity. I believe this is how I’m supposed to feel naturally, how all of us are meant to feel all the time, but that feeling was taken from us.

I walk out of the stall, check my nose in the mirror to make sure it’s clean. A couple more sniffs and I exit.

I walk back into the office and a few steps past the doors to the conference room to a counter that has a coffee machine and a sink and a small built-in refrigerator underneath. I grab a can of soda from the fridge and walk back to the conference room. I take a swig and then enter.

“Didn’t mean to take so long,” I say, and then sit back down.

I look at the notebook again and the lone name at the top of the page. I pick up my pen and write the date above the name.

October 16.





Twenty-five



Ian grabs two five-by-seven photographs of his daughter from his briefcase and stretches his arm over the table to hand them to me.

The first one is a head shot.

“That’s her school photograph,” Mrs. Gregory says.

She’s smiling. Her shoulder-length brown hair is nicely combed and folds over her ears, covering the sides of her neck. Her eyes are light blue in color, like her mother’s.