The Second Girl(36)

I pull to the curb in front of their house, step out, and shoulder my briefcase.

Nice landscaped yard. A lot of fall colors. I walk up the driveway along the edge of their grass to a redbrick walkway lined with mums.

Elizabeth Gregory opens the front door before I even step up to the porch, as if she’s been waiting for me.

“Detective Marr, please come in.”

I still like being called detective even though I’m not one anymore, but I think she knows that and it’s meant as something respectful.

“Good afternoon, Mrs. Gregory.”

I follow her along a short hallway to the living room, where she invites me to sit on one of two matching armchairs across from a sofa and separated by a large wood coffee table. It is a well-ordered living room. I sit down, thinking she might want to talk before taking me to her daughter’s room.

“Would you like a cup of coffee?”

“No thank you.”

It is obvious she is taking some kind of sedative. She is too calm, but her face still gives away all the sleepless nights she’s been having.

She sits on the sofa, picks up a cup, and sips from it.

“Tea,” she informs me. “Chamomile. Would you like tea?”

“No, I’m good, Mrs. Gregory. Is there anything you’d like to talk about?”

“No, no, there isn’t, really. I think we covered everything. There is something, but I know it’s something you can’t answer. You seem like someone who would not have a problem speaking his mind.”

“Yes, that’s true, but then it would also depend on the question.”

“The police here always seem to have such rehearsed lines. I imagine there are only certain things they are allowed to say. I just really want—need—to know what you think, what the possibility is, based on your experience or whatever, that she is still…” She wipes away a tear. “I’m sorry.”

“I’ll be honest with you, Elizabeth. I don’t normally take on missing persons cases.”

She seems surprised.

“Now, it’s something most cops have experience investigating, so I know what to do, but it is not something I take on as a private investigator.”

“Then why my daughter?”

“Because you need me.”

More tears now. She grabs a tissue from the end table and wipes her eyes.

“And the reason cops don’t answer questions like the one you were about to ask is simply because they can’t. Not because they’re not allowed to; it’s just an answer they don’t have. Any answer I might come up with would just be bullshit.”

She smiles kindly.

“Would you mind if I asked you something very personal?”

“You can ask.”

“How is your marriage?”

It takes her a moment. “Are you married, Detective?”

“No, ma’am. I never got around to it.”

“Well, after time, marriage becomes something comfortable. Ours was always comfortable, but then it got shaken up by a terrible storm.”

“So your daughter saw that it was comfortable?”

“Yes, yes, she did,” she says, like she understands why I asked. “We fought like most families fight. Never talk of divorce. My husband has to travel a lot because of the work he does. He can also be emotionally distant at times, and has a hard time showing affection, but he loves Miriam and I know Miriam knows he loves her. So she didn’t run away, if that’s what you’re getting at. I know the police detective here thought that is what happened, but she didn’t. I hope you don’t think that, especially after you were the one to rescue that other girl and the situation is so similar.”

“The similarities between the two are another reason I took on this case, but I still had to ask.”

“I understand.”

“Would you like to show me Miriam’s room?”





Thirty



I’m checking out the room, and it’s what I would imagine a typical teenage girl’s room to be like. Maybe a bit too tidy, like the rest of this house, but I’m sure Mrs. Gregory straightened it up.

There’s a twin bed with several stuffed animals on it. There’s a little nightstand with a single drawer and a bedside lamp. There’s a study desk with three drawers and a laptop, and beside it a dresser with four drawers and a vanity mirror. There’s a sliding door that opens to the closet and to the right of that a small bookcase.

“Would you like me to stay?”

“Only if you want to. It’s not necessary, though. But tell me first, did the police find anything they thought might be useful, like a diary or maybe something on her laptop?”

“She hasn’t had a diary since she was eleven years old and she only uses the laptop for schoolwork. Everything the police have, you have. It’s on the list we gave you. I know it’s not much, but she only had a few close friends.”

“Will I need a password for the laptop?”

“No.”

“Thank you. I shouldn’t be long.”

“I’ll be right downstairs, then.”

“Okay.”

I’m used to looking for drug stashes, sometimes secreted where you’d least expect to find them, so how hard can it be to find a teenage girl’s secret hiding place?