“Well, what are your plans now?” I ask her.
“I don’t know. I want to get out of Florida. My apartment lease is up in three weeks, and I just...I don’t know. I was actually thinking…”
“Come up to New York and move in with me,” I say so she doesn’t have to. She pauses.
“Wait...really?”
“Yes. I got that job, and I need to get out of Tilden. I need to get my butt to Manhattan, and I don’t want to go alone.”
I can almost hear her smile through the phone.
“I don’t have a job yet, but I’m sure my parents would cover my rent for a few months until I found something,” she says. I smile. Her parents have been “covering” her expenses for as long as I’ve known her. And I don’t mean, like, tuition and food. I mean, like, her couple-grand-a-month clothing bill, a new car every year…that kind of thing. But if they are going to pay half my rent, I’m cool with that.
“Good. Call them and get your butt up here. We have an apartment to hunt,” I say. I hear her sniff on the other end of the line. Keely is my tough, strong, head-on-straight, shit-together friend. Ellie is my soft, sensitive, will-hold-you-in-the-middle-of-the-night friend. She’s a little lost because no one has ever pushed her to find herself. But she’s got a good soul.
“Thank you, Mare,” she says. “I need this.”
Ellie called her parents and, within a week, had her bags packed, a flight to NY booked, and was on her way. I picked her up at JFK, and we’ve been crashing at my parents’ in between visits to the city to apartment hunt. So far, everything we’ve seen has been no bigger than a cardboard box, too far from the office for me, or—my mom’s favorite—“not the best neighborhood.” I scroll down in one of my rental apps, and my eyes grow wide.
“What about this one?” I ask, handing Ellie my phone as I take over stirring the brownie batter.
“Whoa,” she says. “How far is this from work?”
“Not,” I say. “Walkable, but I can take the train if it’s nasty out.”
“Call!” she says, thrusting the phone back to me. I dial the number quickly, and we book a tour for tomorrow morning.
That night, as we lie in my double-bed, Ellie rolls over to me.
“Are you ready to see him again?” she asks. I swallow and squeeze my eyes shut.
“No,” I say. “I’m not.” She thinks about it for a moment.
“Well, I’m really proud of you for taking this job,” she says. I look at her. “I’m proud of you for not letting him screw with your life more than he already has. I know this is going to be great for you, Mare.” I squeeze her hand.
“I hope you’re right,” I say, rolling onto my side and trying desperately to bury the fear of seeing Wyatt every day for the foreseeable future.
8
January 2015 - Maryn
Every morning for the last few weeks, I wake up and I feel like I’m in some sort of weird, alternate universe where everything has been flipped on its head. Mom is swamped, doing all the shopping, cooking, and cleaning, basically on her own. Tucker and I try to help outside of school and homework, but I’m afraid we don’t have a whole lot of time to offer.
Dad is basically a ghost of himself. Ever since the cops showed up on our doorstep, nothing in this house has been the same.
They took him to the station that night, and from what Tucker and I overheard him telling Mom from the steps, they essentially interrogated him.
An “eyewitness” placed him at the scene of the crime, speaking to the victim, and that’s all the Tilden police seemed to need. Dad hired a lawyer pretty quickly after, which I heard him tell Mom is going to cost them an arm and a leg. His lawyer instructed him not to reach out to the Mills family, which I think is torturing him on a whole other level. My dad has been an educator for almost 25 years. He cares about his students like any good teacher does. He’s not the “leave when the bell rings” kind of teacher. He’s the “leave when the kids have learned and the job is done” sort of teacher. And now, one of his best students is missing. And he can’t grieve like he wants to, offer support like he needs to, because he’s on the borderline of being accused of having something to do with it.
So far, things have been pretty quiet about Dad’s involvement, but Mom says we’re just waiting for the bubble to burst. I hope she’s wrong. But this is Tilden, population 3,000. Three thousand people that have nothing better to do than to wait for someone else’s scandal to crack so that they can pounce and ignore their own problems.
Dad’s still driving me to school every day, but our rides are a lot quieter. We haven’t stopped for donuts in a while, and he doesn’t play the radio as loud as he used to on our way in. There’s no singing in the car; there’s not as much light.
A few times, Mom has picked me up or told me to drive myself, because my dad has gotten called back down to the station for more “light questioning.” Every single time, it makes me sick to my stomach.
I know where he was that night. He went to the store, and then he came home. I know I was out; I know Mom and Tucker were sleeping. But I know where he was. And it wasn’t with Willa. It wasn’t doing something terrible. He was just being Dad. Sweet, angelic, good ol’ Dad.
I need to know who the eyewitness is. I need a quick word. Or two. But the cops won’t say who it is. They are protecting the person who is single-handedly ruining my dad’s life.
I’m walking to chemistry in a fog when Shelly nudges me.
“Oh, hey, Shell,” I say.
“Hey,” she says. She looks nervous.
“What’s up?”
She pauses for a moment then hands me her phone. I look down at the headline staring back at me.
Tilden Teacher Questioned In Missing Persons Case, reads the cover story of the Tilden Post. My eyes scan the next few sentences before I can’t read any more. I hand the phone back to her.
“Is everything okay?” she asks. I nod, trying like hell to hold the bile back that’s building in my throat. I spin on my heel and head in the direction of the history wing.
“Mare?” Shelly asks. I stick a hand up and wave, but I can’t bring myself to say anything. I know I’m going to be late to chem, and Dad has warned me that he won’t write me tardy passes.
“Get your ass to class, and you won’t need a pass,” was his favorite saying ever when I first started high school. He stood true to his word, too. He’s never, ever given me a pass.
I pop my head into his classroom, but to my surprise, he’s not there. Instead, a short, plump woman with horribly dyed red hair is at the front of the room, trying desperately to get the kids’ attention. My heart is pounding in my throat.
“Yo, where’s Mr. P?” one kid asks. I feel my stomach flip.
“Did you not see the news?” another says, chucking his phone to the first kid. The first kid scans the headline and then chucks the phone back.
“Damn,” he whispers. Suddenly, the whispers grow louder and louder until they are completely deafening.
“Willa’s brother saw him at the grocery store,” says another classmate that I’d like to deck in the fucking face.
Willa’s brother, eh?
The tardy bell rings, and I’m the last one in the hallway. I yank my phone from my backpack.
Where are you?
I wait, but there’s no answer. I text him again.
Dad?
No answer. I enter Mom’s number.
Dad’s not in class. Do you know where he is?
Those three little dots are enough to give me a freaking heart attack.
Why aren’t you in class?
MOM. WHERE IS DAD?
I’m coming to pick you up. Head down to the office.
I wait nervously on the bench outside Principal Pickett’s office. My backpack is so freaking heavy because I carry all of my textbooks that, even sitting down, it’s digging into my shoulders. I’m gnawing on my thumbnail when I see Mom’s car pull up outside. She walks inside, nods at me, and th
en walks into the office to sign me out. As she’s walking out, Principal Pickett is trailing behind her.
“Sorry about this, Ruthie,” he says to Mom. She rolls her eyes and spins around to him.
“If you’re sorry, then why don’t you stick up for the best teacher your school has ever had, rather than let the damn school board have all the control?” she asks him, hand on her hip. She nods at me to follow her out, and I do, unaware of how to acknowledge my principal whom my mom just verbally bitch-slapped.
We get in the car, and I think this is the first time I’m not anxious over missing a class. I couldn’t give two shits about chemistry right now. The swirling storm in my stomach is taking precedence, clouding my judgment, and making everything else in my life non-consequential.
“Where is he?” I ask. Her hands are gripped tight on the steering wheel as she drives. She’s staring straight ahead, not even blinking.
“The county has placed him on administrative leave,” she says, turning to me for a moment, “pending the investigation.”
My throat feels like it’s on fire.
“What? How can they do that when he hasn’t been formally charged with anything?” I ask. Most of my criminal knowledge comes from watching entirely too many episodes of Law and Order: SVU, but it’s taught me a thing or two.
“The school board is separate from the police,” Mom says, “and they feel that because of Dad’s ‘involvement’ in the case, it doesn’t look good to have him still teaching in the school.”
I feel the blood in my body start to boil. I’m seeing red. I want to hurt someone, cause them actual, physical pain. The rest of the school is still reeling over Willa’s disappearance. Search parties have been going out weekly, posters are everywhere, and her face is all over every social media network.
But for me, now, this case isn’t even about Willa. And I’m angry about that, too. I should be able to worry for her safety, join my classmates in solidarity as we post signs that say “Bring Willa Home.” But I can’t. Because now it’s about Dad.
I’m lying on the couch that evening, Mom next to me, flipping through the newspaper, and Tucker on the floor, scrolling through his phone. Dad’s in his study, trying to finish up the sub plans that the stupid county doesn’t deserve from him, but he says he can’t leave his kids hanging.
Lori Decklan, a long-time Long Island news fixture, pops up on the screen.
“We have an interesting development tonight in the Willa Mills case, the fourteen-year-old Tilden resident who went missing just two weeks ago. Authorities say they have no suspects yet, but they do have a person of interest,” Lori says. I like Lori. She’s a staple for me; she means home. But right now, I want to reach through the screen and slap the curl right out of her hair. “Chuck Ford joins us from the Tilden Police Station.”
“Thank you, Lori,” Chuck says. Chuck is new to Long Island news. He’s not even from here. He doesn’t even know what the fuck he’s talking about. Shut up, Chuck. “We’re live in front of the Tilden Police Station, where just moments ago, Detective Eric Robinson announced a person of interest in the case.”
The screen jumps over to the earlier press conference, which, thank God, we missed watching live. I hear the stairs creak as Dad slowly makes his way down into the living room, his eyes wide as he stares at the television.
“We have an eyewitness that has placed a dark-colored SUV speeding off from the scene of the crime,” says Detective Robinson, who I’d also like to nut-punch. Him, along with the mysterious eyewitness, who I know from the non-stop gossipping is likely Wyatt Mills. “We do have a person of interest that drives a similar vehicle and was an acquaintance of Miss Mills. We are not releasing that person’s name at this time; however, citizens are encouraged to contact the crime help line with any information regarding Miss Mills or the SUV spotted in the Migley Market parking lot on the evening of December 22nd.”
The camera switches back to Chuck.
“While authorities are not publicly sharing the name of the person of interest, there is much public speculation regarding a teacher at Tilden High School, David Porter.”
The camera flashes over to an earlier interview with Chuck on school grounds. The woman he’s interviewing is short and stout, and I’ve never seen her a day in my life.
“Do you know her, Dad?” I ask. He shakes his head.
“It’s really unnerving to know that a teacher at my children’s school could be capable of something so terrible. I’m glad the county finally did the right thing and put him on leave.”
This woman doesn’t know my father. Why the fuck are they even interviewing her?
The screen then flashes to a student who I recognize, Craig Chasey.
“Mr. P is a really cool teacher,” he says. Thank you, Craig Chasey. “It’s hard to believe he could be involved with something like this, but you never know, I guess.”
Okay, fuck you, Craig Chasey.
Chuck takes the microphone back.
“Tilden County Public Schools did issue a statement last week when Mr. Porter was officially put on leave, saying that ‘We find it’s in the best interest for the safety of our students and staff to place Mr. Porter on administrative leave until the case is resolved. We are working diligently with the Tilden Police Department to offer any help or insight we may have for the disappearance of Willa Mills.’”
I see tears forming in Mom’s eyes.
“I guess I’ll go call the lawyer,” Dad says, his voice hushed as he walks back up the stairs. Tucker’s staring at me, wide-eyed, waiting for me to say something.
But all I would be able to do right now is scream. I grab my hat and coat off the rack and walk outside. I walk down the street, secretly hoping to run into someone ignorant enough to say something to me so I can have my release. But I don’t see anyone. I just see cold, bleak streets, empty, free of anyone willing to give my family a fucking break. Everything is a shade of red right now for me, and I feel my hands involuntarily balling into fists.
Goddamn you, Wyatt Mills.
You don’t fuck with the Porters and get away with it.
9
Wyatt
I hop up from the floor mat where I just finished doing an ab workout, and I see the same woman staring at me from the mirror. I’m pretty sure she’s been following me the entire time I’ve been working out, and I’ve seen her lift her phone a few times and point it in my direction. I smile and shake my head as I dab myself with my towel and make my way up to the showers.
“Hey, man,” Nate says as I walk into the locker room.
“‘Sup, Nate,” I say as I open up the combination lock. Our office building has a huge gym on the bottom three floors. Nate and I pretty much work out before work every day.
“So, the Landry people are comin’ in today?” he asks, washing his hands at the sink.
“Yep,” I say. I’ve been prepping for the meeting since the day I set my sights on nabbing them as a client. Landry is one of the biggest hotel chains in the world, and their business could be life-changing for Caldell.
“You ready?” he asks. I smile.
“Always, baby,” I say, holding my arms out as I smile. He laughs and shakes his head.
“I saw that chick take your picture today while you were on the rower,” he says. I nod and smile.
“Yeah, I saw her too.”
“Why don’t you get her number?” he asks. I shrug as I walk past him and turn the shower on.
“Still hung up on your little Florida fling?” he asks. My spine goes straight. I told Nate that I had a hot hookup when I went down to Florida. Told him it was some girl at the alumni dinner—which isn’t totally false.
“No,” I say, feeling myself grow more serious. “I’m just busy.”
“Shit,” Nate scoffs. “No one’s too busy for some pussy, bro.” I shake my head and get in the shower. “I’ll see you at the office. That new coordinator starts today, so if you have time between your meetings, pop by and meet her
.”
My jaw locks behind the shower curtain, and I feel my entire body tense up. I put my hands up against the shower wall and drop my head.
Fuck.
The biggest client of my professional career and the best lay of my life in the same damn day. I did this to myself, though.
I shower quickly and get myself dressed. I’m wearing my best suit today, my light-gray one, and the seafoam green tie that Mom says “makes my eyes and skin pop.”
When I woke up this morning, I was ready to rock. I was ready to sweep Landry off their feet, make them swoon, become their number-one guy here at the agency. But now, I’m practically shaking in my dress shoes as the elevator climbs to the seventieth floor, all because of Maryn Porter.
The elevator dings as the doors open into our grand lobby, and I kick myself into gear. I nod at Priscilla at the front desk, say hello to anyone else I pass, and swiftly make my way into my office. I need to collect myself and figure out how to avoid Maryn until after the meeting with Landry.
I’m sitting at my computer, running through my slides and notes for the millionth time, when Nate pops his head in.
“Hey, man, you almost ready?” he asks. I let out a long breath and nod.
“Yeah, man,” I say.
“Cool,” he says. “Before you head down, I want you to meet someone.”
Before I can look up, he’s waving someone in.
Goddammit. It’s her.
She’s dressed in a tight black skirt and a matching blazer with a polka-dot shirt poking out from the collar. She’s wearing black high heels and has her long, blonde hair pulled back into a ponytail. It takes me a second before I realize that I’m scouring her with my eyes and haven’t yet “introduced” myself. I clear my throat and walk around from behind my desk. I hold out my hand.
“This is Maryn Porter, the new coordinator,” Nate says. She’s staring at me, but she doesn’t look surprised. She knew I worked here. Yet, she still took the job. She narrows her eyes a bit then sticks out her hand.
Vote Then Read: Volume II Page 273
