“You’re kidding me. Right?”
Elsie clutched the foam coffee cup, trying to frame the correct response to Bree’s question. Her friend was gazing at her like she had a bug squashed on her forehead.
Bree’s eyes flashed. “You think my daughter is up to something I don’t know about.”
“I didn’t say that.” Elsie drank a swallow of the lukewarm coffee, half wishing she’d never broached the topic.
Bree crossed her arms on her chest. “You’re talking about Taylor? My daughter?”
Elsie sighed. “I could be so off base about this,” she said, before Bree cut her off.
“Off base? Hell yeah. My baby doesn’t have time to get into trouble. She’s a straight A student—which you should know, she’s in your mom’s English class at middle school. She’s the star of the girls’ basketball team. They practice every day, play twice a week.”
“I know that. Of course I do.”
“And that’s not all.” Bree leaned in, giving Elsie the eye that defense attorneys in Southwest Missouri had learned to fear. “She’s got a mother watching out for her.”
Under her breath, Elsie hissed, “Jesus fucking Christ, Bree. I’m not the enemy.”
The statement appeared to take Bree back a peg. She broke eye contact with Elsie, and looked out the window, where weak sunlight made shadows between the coffee shop and the county jail.
Elsie chose her words with care. “I’m probably overreacting. All the sex cases we see, and Madeleine talking about that stuff she heard at the conference. About sex trafficking, and kids Taylor’s age.”
Bree’s expression was tight. With a stiff nod, she said, “You’re just overreacting. I get that.”
“But last night, when you told me to shut down your computer, I saw the page Taylor had been looking at.”
Breeon turned to Elsie with a look of alarm. “And?”
“It was a modeling agency.”
She watched Breeon’s face, waiting for the impact. When Breeon broke into a smile and began to laugh, Elsie leaned back in the plastic chair, confounded.
“That’s it? That’s what’s got your panties in a wad? Jesus.” Bree exhaled, turning to pick up the purse beside her chair. “Good Lord, what a relief.”
Elsie studied Breeon, copying her rueful smile. “You’re not worried about that?”
“My baby fantasizing about modeling? No. It’s a thing, something girls dream about. Like having their own reality show.” She stood, looking relaxed. “I’ll talk to her.”
Elsie nodded. “Good.”
Breeon gave her a look. “I bet you put your mama through worse than that back in the day. I’d bet a fortune on it.”
Elsie swallowed. Because she couldn’t deny it.
Her phone hummed; she picked it up. “Who’s calling?” Bree asked.
Elsie looked at the caller information. “Speak of the devil. It’s Marge Arnold.”
Breeon squeezed Elsie’s arm, her good humor restored. “Who’s the devil? Not Marge; your mother is a saint.” With that, she left the table and pushed through the screen door into the courthouse hallway.
Elsie answered the call. “Hey, Mom.”
Her mother’s voice roared into her ear like a megaphone. “Elsie? Hello? Are you there?”
“Yeah, Mom. It’s me. What’s up?”
Elsie walked up to the counter of the coffee shop and handed her empty cup to the proprietor. “I need one to go, Tom,” she said.
Marge’s voice rang; Elsie winced. “I just heard from your uncle Rod. He’s coming for Thanksgiving.”
With the full coffee back in hand, Elsie held the phone between her neck and shoulder as she secured a lid onto the cup. “Well, that’s nice. He always jazzes things up.”
Uncle Rod was a lot of fun at a family gathering. He and Elsie were drinking buddies.
“So I was wondering: will Bob Ashlock be able to join us? I know he trades holidays with his ex-wife. But we’d be so happy to have him. And his son, Burton. The little girls, too.”
Elsie grimaced into the phone, glad her mother couldn’t see it. Negotiating holidays, when your romantic partner was a cop with a crazy ex-wife and three kids, was a trying proposition.
“I’ll ask him. I know he’ll join us if he can.”
“Well, good. Glad to hear that.” Marge sounded only half-satisfied. “You know, your daddy and I would be thrilled if you decided to make Bob Ashlock a member of the family.”
Shutting her eyes, Elsie said, “Seems like you’ve mentioned that a time or two.”
Her mother’s voice dropped to a whisper. “You’re thirty-two, sweetheart. A fine age to have a baby. But you can’t wait forever. Mother Nature won’t let you.”
Ooooohhhh gawd, Elsie thought. “Got to get to work.”
“Yes, baby; I’d best let you go. My phone is about to go dead, I think.”
Elsie shook her head. “Mom, I’ve told you. You need a new phone. Your old dinosaur won’t hold a charge.”
“This phone is perfectly satisfactory.”
“Get an iPhone.”
“I don’t need one. All those apps—I wouldn’t know what to do with them. I need to get off, honey. My homeroom will be coming in any minute.”
Though Elsie was eager to end the call, a thought seized her. “Mom—you’ve got Bree’s daughter in class, right? Taylor Johnson?”
“Yes I do. You know that.”
“How’s she getting along?”
Marge Arnold’s voice grew guarded. “Are you asking me about her grades? Because, Elsie . . .”
“Mother—”
“Elsie, I can’t reveal her grades to you, because of federal law.”
“Jesus Christ.”
“Hush,” Marge whispered. “Don’t you cuss on a school call. It’s FERPA. I cannot reveal that information.”
Elsie frowned into the phone. “Mother, please. I know she’s a stellar student. I just wanted to know—is she okay?”
Marge paused for a beat. “What do you mean?”
Elsie glanced across the counter. She didn’t think anyone was listening, but she moved into the hallway, just to be certain. “Has she changed recently? Her focus, her friends?”
There was a pause. Elsie waited.
Marge whispered, “Friends.”
“Yeah. Her friends. Is anything up with that?”
Elsie heard Marge clear her throat; it meant she was thinking, Elsie knew from experience.
“Taylor always hangs out with the girls on her teams: the athletes.”
“Yeah?”
“But in my class, I put them in alphabetical order. She’s sitting next to Desiree Wickham.”
Marge fell silent. Elsie urged her on.
“Is that a problem?”
Her mother sounded defensive. “Desiree’s sweet. Pretty little thing. Just kind of—I don’t know—flighty.”
Elsie listened, waiting for her mother to render a judgment. Marge Arnold knew middle schoolers inside and out.
“Desiree is sweet, honestly. But her motivation—”
The words were cutoff; Elsie was receiving another call. From the Barton City Police Department.
It was Detective Ashlock.
“Mom, Ashlock’s calling.”
Her mother said, “Be sure to tell him about Thanksgiving.” She hung up.
Elsie pushed the answer spot. Ashlock’s voice warmed her ear.
“What you doing for supper tonight?”
She leaned against the door frame of the coffee shop entrance. “What you got in mind?”
“I’ve got to cook for Burton tonight, after practice. It’s as easy to cook for three as two.”
Tilting her head back against the wooden frame of the door, Elsie hit the metal hinge; she rubbed her scalp to ease the ache. In recent weeks, she was doing her level best to come to terms with Ashlock’s new custody arrangement. But she missed the days when his free time was all hers. These days, their opportunities for sex grew more and more infrequent. And Elsie longed to scratch that itch.
She sighed silently, and then smiled into the phone. “Sounds great.”