The Unwilling(87)

“Where the hell have you been? Do you know how I’ve worried? Do you have any idea?”

“I’m sorry, Mom. I’m okay.”

She pulled me into a second embrace so desperate and maternal I could barely stand it.

“I said I’m okay. Okay?”

Thank God for my father.

“Sweetheart, please. He’s home and safe.” He drew her back, and guided her across the room. “Let me talk to him for a bit. You should rest. How about a hot bath and some tea?”

“Don’t patronize me, William.”

“He’s not going anywhere. Gibson, tell her.”

“I won’t go anywhere.”

I made it sincere, but she pulled away from my father, her eyes wide and dark with worry. “Did you have something to do with that girl? They say you’ve been sleeping with her.”

I couldn’t have been more surprised had she drawn a knife and stabbed me.

“Martinez and Smith,” my father explained. “They’ve been here twice, trying to find you. They made some veiled allegations, asked some unpleasant questions. We’ll talk about it in a bit. And you?” He turned my mother into the circle of his arms. “Don’t let them rattle you. You’re a cop’s wife. You know how this works.”

“I just hate it so much! What they said, what they implied…”

She cut her eyes my way, but my father caught her chin with a finger. “He’s home and safe. I won’t let him leave.” He kissed her forehead, and she relaxed against him. “Now, how about that bath?”

They left me alone with my thoughts, which in essence were, What the hell? When my father returned, he put the kettle on to boil, and offered a pinch-lipped, apologetic smile.

“You’re not angry?” I asked.

“I am, but mostly at Martinez. He’s running early and hot, and knows it, too, the uncaring little shit.” He pulled two beers from the fridge, and handed one to me, a first. “As for your mother’s concerns, it didn’t help that you ditched school, skipped dinner, and told Chance you were coming straight home. She has imagined all kinds of horrible scenarios.”

“What did Martinez say that made her so upset?”

“Oh, nothing much.” My father sat across the table. “Only that you’ve been involved with an older woman of dubious morals, and that he found you, once, half-dressed in her home. That said woman is considered missing, possibly abducted. That you know more about Tyra than you’re letting on, and more about Jason, too, that brothers are brothers, and genes will tell.” My father sat across the table. “Martinez doesn’t like me very much.”

I had no idea what to say. I didn’t even try.

“Let’s talk about Sara.” He gave a keen-eyed look I didn’t much like.

“Burklow told you what happened?”

“That you entered Sara’s home illegally? That you’re the one who found her gone? You should have come to me, son. Are you really that angry with me?”

I stayed quiet again. I didn’t want to answer.

“Listen, Martinez and Smith may be ahead of the curve on this, but they’re not on the wrong road. Any cop would look at you sideways right now. That means you need to talk to me. I need to know everything you know. It’s how I stay ahead of this. Son, look at me. Do you understand the stakes involved?”

“I didn’t hurt anybody.”

“That’s childish thinking. Martinez can ruin your life without convicting you, or even charging you. He can hold you, interrogate you, destroy you in the press.” He turned the beer bottle in his heavy fingers. “Chance said you dropped him off at two o’clock. That was seven hours ago. I want to know where you went afterward, who you were with, and what you were doing.”

My time with Becky made an answer to that question impossible. “Ask a different question.”

“Let’s start with Sara, then. Have you been sexually active?”

“Is that your business?”

“Martinez will ask, so I need to know.”

“No,” I replied coldly. “No sex with Sara.”

“But you’ve been in her condominium.”

“Yes.”

“Her bedroom?”

I looked away.

“Son, I need to know what you touched, when you were there, who saw you there. So let’s try this again. Have you been in Sara’s bedroom?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“I was worried. I went upstairs to check on her.”

“What did you touch? What did you see?”

I told him the same story I’d told his partner.

“What about Tyra Norris?” he asked. “Have you been in her bedroom?”

It went like that for ten minutes. An interrogation. Round and round. Backtracking. Checking for inconsistencies. “When you were with Sara, where would you go?”

“Her place. The car. We didn’t spend that much time together.”

“Were you ever alone with Tyra?”

“No.”

“In her room?”

“I’ve already told you.”

“What about her car?”

“No.”

“Chance mentioned a girl named Becky Collins. Is that who you were with today?”