Page 14

An interior light came on, sparkling through the etched glass panels in the top of the door. Then the porch light glowed amber. Then the door was opened, and Dr. Carl was standing there in a white undershirt tucked into a pair of white boxers. He blinked behind his glasses.

“Gerald?” Carl sounded surprised. He glanced out into the street. “What happened?”

“Cheyenne Baker and Madison Dalrymple are missing.” Gerald nodded inside the house. “Can we come in?”

“Y-yes.” Carl stepped back, opening the door wider. “What can I do? When did this happen?”

Emmy watched Carl start turning on lamps in the living room. He looked concerned, but not frantic. She told him, “Madison was last seen at the Fourth celebration at the park. Cheyenne was last seen this afternoon at home. We suspect foul play.”

“Jesus.” Carl’s glasses bumped up as he rubbed his eyes. He was still caught somewhere between sleep and wakefulness. “Do you—I mean, dental records would be—”

“That’s not why we’re here,” Emmy said. “Can we talk to Jack?”

“Jack?” Carl asked, but he didn’t push for clarification. He turned back toward the dark hallway. “I thought he was asleep.”

Emmy could see a faint blue light slipping out from under a closed bedroom door. She didn’t wait for an invitation. She walked down the hall with her hand on her holstered Glock.

“Gerald,” Carl said, “what’s going on?”

Behind her, Emmy heard the low register of her father’s deep voice as he answered the question, but all of her attention stayed on the door. She reached out, carefully resting her fingers on the handle. She made herself let out the breath she’d been holding, then she opened the door.

Jack was sitting at his computer, turned away from Emmy.

The large monitor was the only source of light in the room.

He was seated in an office-style rolling chair that was pulled up to a large wooden desk.

Papers and books were piled across the top.

A pair of Beats headphones were attached to his iPhone by a red cord, but the volume was turned up loud enough for Emmy to make out the pounding synth pop of “Poker Face” leaking from around his ears.

An atom bomb could’ve gone off behind him and he would’ve been oblivious.

Emmy stepped carefully into the room. She had to open her mouth to breathe.

The smell hit her hard and fast: sweat and testosterone with a hint of Axe Body Spray and hand lotion.

The bed was unmade, the fitted sheet pulled back to expose the bare mattress.

Clothes were strewn across the floor. Shelves had been built into the open closet.

The posters on the wall were filled with women suggestively caressing vintage sports cars.

Everything was messy, disordered, tossed around.

She looked at the monitor. Jack was staring at a Facebook page for someone named Rex Delilah, which sounded like he’d fallen for that phishing scheme that claimed to generate your porn name but secretly collected the name of your first pet and your childhood street so the thief could break into your passwords.

While Emmy watched, Jack hit refresh on the comments. Dozens of new posts loaded. She squinted at the monitor, which was so large that she could read it from six feet away:

–Can’t stop thinking about the last thing Cheyenne said to me. She wanted to copy my homework but I said no. If I had of let her, maybe she wouldn’t be missing right now.

–I used to have lunch with Cheyenne when she first moved here. People grow apart but I always considered her a friend. I pray to God for her safe return. #CliftonStrong

–She was always a BITCH and so was Madison

–Mad snapped me a pic of her pussy want2 see it?

–I love Madison we were friends in middle school and her mom was so sweet. She made the best cupcakes do y’all remember? I like Mrs. Dalrymple 2 tho she was my teacher.

–Cheyenne told me she’d give me a bj for $50

–Cheyenne we love you and Madison both please come home! #CliftonStrong

–LINK to Mad’s pussy

–We need to pray for both of them to be returned safely. The Lord hears the prayers of children first. Let’s lift up our voices in the school quad tomorrow. #CliftonStrong

–Get on your knees before me and I will give you something to pray about real hard lmfao!!! #CliftonDONG

Emmy heard Jack snort a laugh.

From triumph? From vicarious pleasure?

He reloaded the page again like a junkie seeking a fix.

More posts scrolled up. Emmy checked for her father.

Gerald was standing in the hall. He had a light step for such a large man.

Emmy moved to her left, positioning herself between the twin bed and the window.

Gerald blocked the door, effectively cutting off any chance of escape.

He slid his finger under the light switch.

He waited for Emmy’s nod before flipping it on.

“Dad!” Jack yelled, standing up so quickly that his chair slammed into the bed. His Beats were yanked off his head in the process. “Poker Face” had reached the chorus. The drums sounded tinny when the headphones hit the carpet. “What the—”

Emmy heard the sharp snap of his teeth as his mouth closed. He looked at Emmy, then her father. Instinctively, she knew he was hiding something.

She asked, “Where are Madison and Cheyenne?”

“What?” he asked. “How would I know?”

“You know they’re missing.”

“Yeah, but—”

“You’ve been reading that Facebook page all night.”

“That’s not—”

“What am I going to find when I search your room?”

Jack opened his mouth to answer, then snapped it closed again. His gaze went toward the door. Carl was standing behind Gerald. “Dad, I’m a minor. They’re not allowed to talk to me without your permission.”

Carl asked, “Do you know why they’re here?”

Jack shook his head. “No, sir.”

“Son, you obviously knew the girls were missing.” Carl sounded appalled. “Why didn’t you wake me up? Madison has been my patient since she was a baby. Hannah and Paul must be terrified. You didn’t think I’d want to help look for her?”

Jack’s head tilted down. The motion had a practiced feel. “Sorry, Dad.”

Emmy looked at Gerald. He was taking in the room. The posters. The state of disarray. The vitriolic posts on the Facebook page. He didn’t have to step close to read what was being said. His cataract surgery had given him sharper vision than she’d ever had.

Gerald turned back to Carl. “You mind letting Emmy talk to your boy alone?”

Carl shook his head, but said, “Yes, of course she can. Let’s go back to the living room. I’ve got some scotch, or—”

Emmy blocked out the rest of the conversation as the two men walked away. She kept her focus on Jack, asking, “What am I going to find in your room?”

“Nothing.”

“So if I look under your bed …”

“Shit,” he hissed. “Okay, fine.”

Jack got on his knees and reached between the mattress and box spring.

He tossed an object onto the wrinkled sheets.

She saw a black plastic flashlight, except the part that was supposed to have the light was silicone, and the silicone was formed into the shape of a labia.

As if that wasn’t awful enough, the words POCKET PUSSY were etched onto the side.

“Are you happy?” Jack demanded.

Emmy was not happy. “Put that thing on the floor and sit in the chair with both hands where I can see them.”

Jack grunted, but he complied. “There’s nothing else. I promise.”

Emmy knew what a guilty eleven-year-old boy looked like.

She guessed at sixteen, they weren’t that much better at feigning innocence.

She took a pair of gloves out of her pocket, but she wasn’t going to search blind.

She tilted up the twin mattress onto its side.

She didn’t recognize half the kinky shit Jack had hidden under there, but the kid was definitely at the height of his sexual awakening.

There wasn’t enough money in the world that would compel her to take a black light to this room.

She checked on Jack. He was rocking back and forth in the chair, furious, impotent, ashamed. Emmy was reminded of a line she’d read from a study of school shooters—

They seek to reaffirm their masculinity by attacking students and teachers who they perceive to be thriving within the social entity that they feel has diminished their masculinity.

Emmy let the mattress drop back into place. She checked the bedside table and dresser drawers. Nothing. She searched the shelves in the closet. Nothing. The dirty clothes basket was full. She kicked it onto its side. Nothing.

She kept Jack in her line of sight while she flipped through the paperbacks on the desk.

The Last of the Mohicans , A Room with a View , Beloved .

The spines were cracked. Post-it flags stuck out from the pages.

She assumed he was knocking out his summer reading assignment for AP English.

She used the toe of her shoe to push over his backpack.

More books, including The Complete Stories of Flannery O’Connor.

His desk drawer was filled with index cards and pens.

Nothing alarming or unexpected was in the room if you left out the veritable Red Light District under the mattress.

Jack crossed his arms over his chest. “I told you there wasn’t anything else.”

“You did.” Emmy walked across the room and leaned against the windowsill. “Talk to me about Madison and Cheyenne.”

“I hate them. I hope they’re dead.”

Emmy listened to his tone of voice. He seemed almost matter-of-fact about it. She asked, “Do a lot of people hate them?”

He shrugged, but said, “You mean everybody in the entire school? Sure.”

“Why?”

“They’re bitches. Both of them. If you look at ’em wrong, then your life is over.”

“How?”

“They tell people your dick is tiny. Or that you’re a bad lay. Or that you tried to touch them when you didn’t.”

“Did you have sex with either of them?”

“They’re not my type,” he said, his voice so filled with anger and longing that Emmy could practically feel it on her skin. “I have a girlfriend.”