I always thought Mr. Lessard liked me. Before Beth’s accident, he was all easygoing, friendly. “Call me Charlie,” he’d say, or, “Sit down and take a load off.” He was always offering me food, asking about my games. He used to play football in high school too. Back in the day. I’ve hardly seen him since the divorce. Amy doesn’t want to hang out with him, and she hates his new girlfriend. But now, as I listen to him accuse me of hurting his “little girl,” I realize that he has no idea who I really am. That I would no more hurt Amy than he would. Unless I’m reading him all wrong too.
“I don’t know where she is, Mr. Lessard,” I say for the tenth time. “I don’t know what I can say to make you believe me. I love her.”
He snorts. “You don’t know anything about love,” he says.
“Maybe not,” I say. My phone beeps—incoming call—and I tell Mr. Lessard I have to go. I don’t care who is calling. It can’t be worse than talking to good ol’ Charlie. But it is.
“Eric, this is Detective Rayburn. We’d like you to come down to the police station. Some new information has come to light. We’ve got a few more questions for you.”
“Like what?” Too late, I remember what Mom said about talking to the police.
“We’ll talk when you get here.”
“What if I don’t come?”
“Well, Eric, we can’t force you to help us. But it might be in your best interest.”
“What do you mean?”
Detective Rayburn sighs. “You coming or not, son?”
“I’ll get back to you,” I say. Then I hang up and call my mother on her personal line. I think it’s time to get Mr. Franks on board.
The room we meet in at the police station the next day is surprisingly nice. Cream carpet, dark wood conference table, comfortable chairs. There are six people in the room—and a video recorder. Mr. Franks, my mother and I sit on one side of the table. Detective Rayburn and the two cops who came to my house sit across from us.
Rayburn reaches out to start the recorder, and Mr. Franks says, “Bit soon for that, don’t you think, Mitch? My client isn’t under arrest, is he?”
Rayburn shakes his head and lowers his hand. “Not yet,” he says.
I have been instructed not to speak, but it’s killing me. This is a total waste of time. I need to get out of here and find Shawna. Shawna is the link to Amy. Why don’t they see that? While we’re sitting here with our thumbs up our asses, someone may be hurting Amy. Or worse.
“A witness has come forward,” Rayburn says.
“Ah,” says Mr. Franks. “Do tell.”
Next to me, my mother is the perfect picture of the ditzy, clueless mom, letting the big man do all the talking. I can tell how pissed off she is by the way she clenches her fists in her lap.
“A young woman named Nicki”— Rayburn reads the file in front of him—“Nicki Morrison says she saw Eric and Amy together after the party. She says they were arguing, and Eric hit Amy.” He looks down at the file again. “Apparently Eric has—shall we say—a history of violence.”
I almost laugh. A history of violence. That was an awesome movie. I wonder if Rayburn has seen it. But there’s nothing funny about his accusation. Nicki was my girlfriend back when the whole assault thing went down. We broke up when I met Amy. Nicki wasn’t very happy. Neither was Jason, Amy’s old boyfriend. But it’s ancient history. At least, I thought it was until now.
“The charges were dropped,” Mr. Franks says. “It was a boys’ brawl that got out of hand. You know that as well as I do, Mitch.”
“Ms. Morrison says Eric hit her when they were together.” Rayburn picks up a photo and slides it across the table to us. Nicki with a black eye. A black eye she got when we were playing racquetball. She refused to wear goggles. Said she didn’t need them. She was wrong.
“I—” I don’t even get a second word out before Mr. Franks cuts me off.
“That all you got, Mitch?” he says. “Hardly evidence of a crime.”
“There’s more,” Rayburn says. “Ms. Morrison has a friend named Shawna who says Eric drove away with Amy in an suv that matches the description of his father’s car. We’re getting a warrant to search the car.”
This time I do laugh out loud. Mom grips my arm, but I shake her off.
“You think this is funny, son?” Rayburn says.
“Hilarious,” I say. “Come on, Mom. We’re done.”
We stand up and leave the room. Mr. Franks is close behind.
“I told you not to speak, Eric,” he says. “I can’t help you if you incriminate yourself.”
We all speed-walk to the parking lot. Before Mom and I get in our car, I apologize to Mr. Franks.
“I’m sorry, but they are so full of shit.”
“I’m listening,” he says.
“Amy and Shawna got into a Beemer hybrid that night. I found a witness. A good one. My dad drives a Lexus, and it’s not even a hybrid. Nicki’s just a jealous bitch. And she’s the link to Shawna.”
“You’re sure about this?” Mom asks.
“Positive. And I’m going to prove it.”
Mr. Franks frowns at me. “I’d rather you let me handle it, Eric.” He turns to my mother. “I can put Pete on it right away, Donna. Find this Shawna girl, find Amy.”
Before my mother can speak, I say, “Twenty-four hours, Mr. F. That’s all I ask. If I haven’t found Amy by then, you can call in whoever you like.”
“Donna?” Mr. Franks says.
Mom nods. “Twenty-four hours, Eric. Then it’s out of your hands.”
“For the record, I don’t like it,” Mr. Franks says.
Mom laughs. “You never like anything.”
“I like keeping my clients out of jail,” he says.
I salute him as he drives away.
We drive home in silence. Mom doesn’t ask me what my plans are, and I don’t tell her. She still hasn’t suggested calling Dad. Maybe she thinks this is a good test of my character. If I fail... I can’t fail. Amy is depending on me.