Maggie
Maggie stood outside Salt’s apartment building, looking one way, then the other. A crossroads. In one direction, home, rest. In the other, school, her daughter. But it was time to consider that Emma was not there anymore. Someone had taken her, was hiding her. Her hair was gone, her appearance changed. Why? And by whom? Frank had always told Maggie, when she worried about their daughter being out late or traveling in a car, that being forced into prostitution, sold into sexual slavery was a rare occurrence. He’d said it simply didn’t happen to white girls in their zip code. He’d told her to worry about the preppy boys in Emma’s class maybe, but not about a van stealing her off the street. But Maggie knew it happened in the United States. She’d seen the stories, the articles, the shows. Who else would take those scissors to Emma’s hair? Who else would change her appearance? Emma was an eighteen-year-old college virgin who looked years younger. Maggie had to consider this possibility even as she heard Frank’s voice from the grave telling her she was nuts. She knew these trafficked girls often went to truck stops, to houses where they were held, or motels where the owners turned a blind eye. She would research nearby motels. She would go to the truck stops on the turnpike. It was time to get those flyers off campus and out into the world.
She was texting Sarah Franco to see if she could help her with that when the call came in from Kaplan.
“Hope I didn’t wake you.”
“You didn’t, and you know I don’t care if you do.”
“Just keeping you in the loop on something.”
“What’s that?”
“The gentleman in Emma’s phone named Mr. Maserati?”
“Yes,” Maggie said. “She was interviewing him.”
“So they both say.”
“Did he give you any reason to believe that wasn’t true?”
“Not really. He struck me as a nice guy. Straight shooter. Around your age, I would guess.”
“Great. Maybe I’ll date him after all this is over.”
“He gave us a couple leads we’re trying to verify.”
“Such as?”
“That there might be video of her outside London, which is a private supper club where escorts are known to work. We pulled the video from across the street, and she’s on it. So I have to ask—”
“My daughter was not an escort!”
“Well, she’s meeting with an older guy. She’s on camera—”
“She was writing a story.”
“Well, maybe the story went too far, and she—”
“No. That can’t be it.”
“He also said that during their interview, they were followed by someone.”
“Did he describe that someone?”
“Vaguely. Balding, wearing a light jacket. But he gave me plenty of detail on the car. Make, model, color. A new Audi, gray.”
“License plate?”
“Spoken like a cop’s wife.”
“That’s a compliment, I suppose.”
“No license plate, but there was a Semper decal.”
“A student?” Dear God, she thought, are we living in a world where kids bring new Audis to campus?
“Actually, we’re thinking faculty or alumni, based on the description.”
“Alumni could take forever.”
“Yes, but we got a hit in the faculty lot. Two Audis, the attendants say. Both gray. One a couple years older than the other. And the witness was adamant, this was a brand-new car. Car guys, you know?”
“Yes,” Maggie said, although she didn’t know, didn’t know at all. But she thought of Michael, his knowledge, his specificity. So she could imagine.
“Well, this is delicate but—our guy was worried that this was a jealousy situation.”
“What?”
“I know this is truly awkward, but is there any possibility that Emma was involved with one of her teachers? Because the new Audi is reg—”
“No,” she said automatically. “Jesus, Mary, and Joseph, do you have any theories that actually make sense? Anything that doesn’t insult my intelligence and ruin my daughter’s reputation?”
“Video doesn’t lie.”
“Well, video doesn’t explain either!”
“How about her psychology teacher? Someone persuasive, who understands the way the mind wo—”
“No! You have it all wrong. Did you lift any prints off those scissors yet? And check them against faculty? Because I th—”
“With all due respect—”
“You know, whenever anyone says that to a woman, it means the opposite. It means no actual respect. None at all.”
“Maggie, we’re on the same side here.”
“Grady, that’s the psychology prof’s name, right?”
She pictured her daughter’s class schedule in her head, pinned to the bulletin board. She’d put it there so she could envision Emma moving through her day, yawning in an early morning class, enjoying her lunch, going to the library for a free period.
“Actually, the car was registered to his wife.”
“Same last name?”
“Look, we are interviewing him this afternoon. We are on it. You do not need to think any harder about this. I just wanted your perspective on the possibility of the relationship—”
“There is no possibility of a relationship! This has to be connected to the story!”
“Well, the editor says the story was killed. Not enough sources to make it a story.”
“The editor who was fucking one of the girls in the story?”
“I don’t know if she’s in the story.”
“You’re absolutely right. You don’t know a damn thing.”