The Second Girl(38)



Before the mother can answer I say, “Because I’m new to the case, and it’s better to hear it directly from you than read something on paper.”

The mother nods.

“What was the question again?” Carrie asks.

“When was the last time you talked to Miriam?”

“I don’t know exactly. It was summer vacation, though.”

“She was reported missing on July ninth,” I say. “That would’ve been a Friday.”

“It doesn’t seem like it was that long ago,” Carrie says.

“She told her parents she was going to the community pool here. Did you go there with her sometimes?”

“Yes. It was summer, so we went to the pool a lot.”

“Would you mind writing down the names of friends you guys went to the pool with or met there?”

She looks at her mother again.

“The police have all that information,” the mother says.

“Yes, ma’am, but I don’t. I don’t know why there should be a conflict here, Mrs. Deighton. It’s my job to try to find Miriam Gregory. I need your daughter’s help to do that; there are a lot of pieces to put together and a lot of time has passed. So will you help me try to put those pieces together?”

The mother places her hand on Carrie’s shoulder and nods.

“Thank you.” I tear off a sheet of paper and hand it to her, along with a pen. “Phone numbers, too, if you have them.”

She writes several names, looks up their phone numbers, and writes them down. All girls and all of them on the list I already have.

“Thank you very much, Carrie.”

“You’re welcome.”

“Do you know a girl by the name of Amanda?”

“I’ve heard the name before, but I don’t know her. It’s a big school.”

“What about Edgar?”

“I’ve heard his name, too, but don’t know him either.”

“Who have you heard mention his name before?”

“I don’t know, people at school. Not even friends.” She hesitates, but this time she doesn’t look at her mom for reassurance. Her mother doesn’t seem to pick up on it, though.

“What, he hung with a different crowd?”

“Yes.” This time she looks at her mother with an expression like she’s had enough.

“What, honey?” her mother asks.

“I don’t know those people, Mommy.”

“If she says she doesn’t know them, then she doesn’t know them,” the mother tells me. “Who is this Edgar, anyway?”

“He’s just a kid that goes to her school and is on another list I have. That’s all. I believe she doesn’t know him, but maybe your daughter can tell me if she knows about him?”

After another reassuring tap on the shoulder from the mother, Carrie says, “He just hangs with the loser crowd is all.”

“Kids that don’t study, kids that skip out on school, drink; what do you mean by losers?”

“All of the above.”

“Drugs?”

“I don’t hang out with any of them.”

“We’ve already established that, Carrie.”

“I’ve heard they’re into pot, stuff like that.”

“You’ve seen them smoking at your school?” the mother demands.

“No, Mother. They’re just losers.”

“Did Miriam hang with any of them ever?” I ask.

“I saw her with one of the older boys before.”

“But not Edgar?”

“No. I told you I don’t even know what this Edgar looks like.”

“What about the one you saw her hang out with? What does he look like?”

“I don’t know. He’s just a boy.”

“White kid, African-American? About how old?”

“He’s white and I think he’s a junior.”

“Describe him for me—hair, how tall he is.”

“Brown hair. I don’t know how tall. Average, I guess.”

“Does he drive?”

“I don’t know.”

“And you’re telling the truth, Carrie? You don’t know these boys?” the mother asks with concern.

“No! I don’t hang out with losers, Mom.”

“Did you mention these losers to the police when they interviewed you?”

“I don’t remember.”

“No, she didn’t,” the mother says angrily.

“It’s okay, Carrie,” I try to comfort her. “Sometimes things come back to you later, things you may not have thought were important way back then. And that’s why I like to ask the same questions. So you did good.”

She manages a meager smile, the kind of smile you might give a loser.





Thirty-two



I stop at the Chinese takeout on 11th Street and grab steamed chicken with vegetables and steamed white rice.

I eat it when I get home. I cut up a nice grapefruit for dessert.

I pour myself some Jameson, set up a nice pile of powder with a few lines beside it, and light a cigarette. I sit back on the sofa with Miriam’s yearbook. I go through it page by page, checking out every photograph and reading every inscription made by her friends. I find two boys with the first name Edgar.

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