The doorbell rings. It’s your mom—with Raffa.
Raffa’s eyes are swollen and red. It looks like she and your mom got in a big fight so she could come. Which is strange for Raffa.
Your mom explains, “She wanted to come and help, but I didn’t know if we could get the house ready in time.” Raffa presses her lips together, fiercely, like she’s biting back words, and your mom continues, “Christopher is flying in tonight, you know. He lands in Seattle at six and then he’s getting a rental car.”
For a second, I’m confused by Christopher—she calls you that if she’s mad—but then I remember it’s your dad’s name. Holy crap. He’s on an airplane to come here to find you. You haven’t seen him in person for over a year, since his last visit. Meanwhile, you might be on your way to Brooklyn, chewing pistachios, spitting the shells into a soda bottle.
Your mom leaves and I wrap my arm around Raffa’s bony shoulders. Is it my imagination, or has she lost weight? “Thanks for making your mom bring you, sweetie. We could really use some help with the posters.”
We walk through the house to the backyard. She sits down on the chair next to me, resting her delicate violinist hands on the table. “Put me to work,” she says in her British accent.
I grin at her and answer in my own lame British accent, intentionally messing up. “Oy will, don’t you worry, lassie.”
“It’s not oy,” she corrects me, squinting.
There’s our Raffa. I laugh.
My phone rings from the table. Unknown number. I snatch it up. “Hello?”
“Hi, Jessie. How are you?” It’s the detective. Every single time, I think it might be you. Most people text.
“Jessie, I have a question for you.”
My chest tightens. “What?”
“Has Chris ever tagged anything?” he asks.
Tagged? “You mean with paint?”
“Yes.”
“He’d never tag anything,” I say. “He’s not into doing anything that is remotely against the law. He doesn’t even like being near people who are breaking the law. The one time we went to a party where there were drugs, we had to leave.” I glance at Raffa, think about how careful we always got to be around her, no swearing, nothing “bad.” She’s so protected. You don’t want her to be a Jehovah’s Witness, but you say it’s her choice; it wasn’t an easy choice for you to make. You love your mom and the church has a lot of great people who helped all of you when times were tough. But you believe all religions have some truth and you couldn’t practice any religion that said other people were wrong. I admire that about you.
“He doesn’t drink?” the detective asks skeptically.
“Never,” I say. “He follows most of the Jehovah’s Witness rules still.”
“There was some vandalism on Friday night at the Honda dealership owned by Dave Johnson’s father. Someone spray-painted a bunch of cars. They left a couple beer cans.”
I stare at Josh’s face. There are no words. I look at Raffa. Her eyes are wide open, like a cat that’s just been scared by a loud noise.
“You think he did it because the person used spray paint? Like tagging is the kind of thing he’d do?” I’m raging now. “That’s so racist.”
“Jessie, I’m only asking because someone said they might have seen him there, and he disappeared on Friday night and he had a motive of revenge. It makes sense.”
“He would never do that!” I say. “Never.”
“It would explain a lot of things. Why he’s disappeared. He wouldn’t want to bring his truck. Too easy to trace.”
“It’s impossible.”
He sighs. “Okay, Jessie. Relax. I’m just asking the question.”
“Well, you have your answer. It’s unrelated. Or maybe Johnson did it so that it would look like Chris did it.”
“Okay, thanks,” the detective says, and he hangs up.
Josh is staring at me. “What?”
“You won’t fucking believe it.” I wince, looking at Raffa. “Sorry.”
She lets out an umph. “Don’t worry about it.” She looks a little pissy, like maybe she’s tired of everyone treating her like a little kid.
So I tell them what the detective said.
“He wouldn’t do that,” Raffa says. The English accent is gone.
“I know.”
She bites on the edge of her pinkie finger. Josh can’t stop shaking his head. He types away and finally turns the laptop toward us. “Should we use this picture for the posters?” It’s your yearbook photo with your cap and gown. Remember how they only had a few of the gowns for the photos, and you were worried they didn’t have one big enough? You and Tim were laughing about it.
You look so serious in this picture. The little bit of mustache on your top lip. You asked me if you should shave; you said you liked your stash. I said it was sexy and you kept it. Your mom went off about it later, and I felt kind of bad.
“I like this picture,” I say. “Print it.” Then, I get an idea. “Maybe Raffa, you could check on the printer?” I give Josh a look. “Can you show her where it is?”
He jumps up. “Sure. Come on.” She follows him, and a few seconds later he comes back. “Okay, what?”
I speak in a low voice. “Rosemary doesn’t want us to tell Raffa about this, but you should write on the website about how he was jumped down there,” I tell Josh in a low voice. “You should publish Johnson’s name.”
“Johnson might not have anything to do with this. That’s defamation.”
“Defamation?” I hiss. “He’s defaming Chris’s name! He’s saying Chris could have vandalized his dad’s shop. If Chris doesn’t show up in Brooklyn pretty damn soon, or somewhere pretty damn soon, I’m telling you, Johnson attacked him. I swear to god. Remember how he looked at us?”
Josh frowns. “Yeah, you’re right, Jessie. He’s an asshole, but I don’t want to, like, ruin his life. Not if we don’t know anything.”
You’d say the same thing.
“I’ll just say he was attacked without saying who,” he adds.
“Okay.”
Raffa comes back, holding a stack of your missing-person posters to her chest, like she’s hugging you. She sits down. “I brought the phone numbers of some of his friends in Brooklyn.”
“That’s a great idea.”
When she’s talking to your ex-girlfriend, Latricia, I tell Raffa I want to hear. I press my head against hers to listen in. Latricia says you called her this week. On Wednesday. When we went on the break, you called your ex. Great.
Her voice is soft, musical even. “How’s he been doing lately?”
“Okay,” Raffa says.
“He sounded pretty upbeat. I was just worried, you know, about before?”
Raffa looks at me fast and then pulls back. “I think he’s fine,” she tells Latricia. “But, like, maybe he went to Brooklyn? Can you call us if he shows up?”
Raffa hangs up and I ask her, “What did she mean, like before?”
“I don’t know.” She makes a face.
After the website’s done, we contact all the newspapers, TV, and radio outlets that we can find.
Then, I don’t tell Josh, but I write an email to the organizer of that protest in Portland, Steve. Even though we live near Seattle, he knows you at least and he’s got connections.
I tell him everything we’re telling the media, but then I add: I think Chris could have been the victim of a hate crime. The police aren’t doing anything. There’s a guy named Dave Johnson—he’s from a rich family and he beat Chris up pretty bad a few weeks ago. We need help. Thanks, Jessie.
Is that dramatic of me? I push SEND.