They make these rooms uncomfortable on purpose. The hard-backed chairs and bad lighting. The goddamn mirror, I’m like a zoo animal. Worthy of being observed from the outside, but not given the courtesy of explanation.
Pacing helps.
No, it doesn’t.
What’s going on? What’s taking so long? Why am I here? That’s what they want me to think. They want me to confess. Break down and admit to the crime.
I won’t. I repeat it with each step. I won’t confess. I won’t confess. I will not tell a lie.
I’m on the nineteenth lap when I hear a click and the door opens.
“Mr. Scarborough,” she says. “Sorry to keep you waiting.”
“Detective Stone. Do you have any idea what’s going on? I’d appreciate an update. Why am I here? Have you found her? Is she all right?”
“We’re following up on a new lead, Mr. Scarborough. For now, why don’t we take a seat and discuss the matter.”
“Am I under arrest?” I blurt.
She looks at me quizzically. “No. We’re just having a chat.” She sits and motions to the chair across from her. “If you’d be more comfortable with a lawyer present, you’re perfectly within your rights to do so. Up to you.”
“No, I don’t need a lawyer.”
“Okay, well, if you change your mind.”
“Got it.”
“Won’t you join me?”
“I’m good, thanks.” That’s when it all starts going downhill. Next, she’ll ask me if I’m thirsty so she can take my DNA off a cup.
“Suit yourself.” She shrugs and tosses a file onto the table. She wants me to ask what it is. Why else would she put it there?
When I don’t say anything, she places the red notebook with the file. My traitorous feet move forward like a moth to a flame. “Is that Abby’s?”
I’m screwed. Breaking my own rules in under five minutes.
“This,” Stone says, caressing the cover, “made for some interesting reading.”
“I didn’t know she had one.” I pull the chair out and sit. Strike two.
“To be fair, I didn’t tell my dad I had a diary either. The whole point is to keep it a secret. Abby wrote a lot, actually. Lots of behind-the-scenes insight about the blog and your wife. JJ—she loves him, you know. What a great brother.”
“He is. We’re very lucky.”
“Lucky,” she clucks her teeth. “Is that how you’d describe your family? Lucky?”
“Luckier than some. We’ve been fortunate in many ways.”
She retreats a bit, presses her back to the chair. It squeaks, a nails-on-chalkboard shriek that grates my teeth. “Tell me about yourself, Mr. Scarborough. Can I call you Jackson?”
“Jackson, then. Let’s start there. You were born in Syracuse?”
“Yes. I lived there until I graduated from high school.”
She smiles. “Go Orange, right? Love that mascot.”
I nod slowly, not really in the mood to bond over Otto and college football.
“How did you meet Jennifer?”
This is an easy question, one that every couple in the history of monogamy is asked at some point or another. “We met in college. I was playing ultimate Frisbee with my friends on the quad when I saw her coming from the Communications center. A stunner. The most beautiful girl I’d ever seen.” An embellishment, but it always gets me some brownie points. Usually. Emilina remains stoic. “I smiled and waved and completely missed my buddy’s throw. Hit me right here,” I tap the side of my head, “and I fell flat on my face. Not my smoothest move, right?” I chuckle. She doesn’t reciprocate. “But I knew when she smiled back that she was the one I’d spend the rest of my life with.”
“Aw. Cute,” she says, but her tone is flat.
“Yes. A shame we’re not meeting under better circumstances. I’m afraid we’re not our best selves today,” I reply.
“Understandable.” She crosses her arms over her chest. The buttons of her shirt pucker slightly, and I make sure not to get caught noticing it a second time.
“Yes.”
“So,” she says, switching from scrutinizing detective to engaging interviewer. “Jackson Scarborough. Married to the most beautiful woman he’s ever seen. Two kids—beautiful kids, I might add—living in suburbia in this modern-day happily ever after.”
I offer a placating gesture and drop my hands to my lap.
Stone’s eyes float across my face, slightly narrowed and searching. “What do you do for work, Jackson?”
“Uh, marketing. I’m an Associate Director at Ignita. Corporate accounts, but I handle most of the foreign markets, so you probably wouldn’t be familiar with the companies.”
Her eyebrows raise. “Wow, impressive.”
“It has its moments.”
“Did you go to school for marketing?”
“No,” I say, clearing my throat. “Education.”
“A teacher. Noble profession. I could never do it. Too much work and not nearly enough pay. Do you know the average teacher puts over two thousand dollars of her own money back into the classroom every year? They pay for their own materials and don’t even get a tax break. Crazy.”
“Yeah, that is crazy.” Parrot.
“Sounds like you made the right choice getting out when you did. What changed your mind?”
Careful. “Mostly what you said. I realized I’d be paying student loans until I died.”
“Of course.” She taps the notebook and stares at me. “Are you happy, Jackson?”
“Sorry?”
She glances up, an infinite gesture of inclusion. “In life. Would you say you’re a happy person?”
“Normally, yes.”
“But not today.”
“No, today my daughter was kidnapped and you’re more interested in talking about my college years.”
“You know what, you’re right. Let’s talk about the present instead. Tell me about the weeks leading up to Abby’s disappearance. What were they like?”
“Stressful,” I say before I can censor the response. It’s hot in here. My shirt sticks to my neck and under my arms.
“That doesn’t sound particularly happy. What made them stressful?”
“I’m sure you know, otherwise I wouldn’t be here.”
“Humor me,” she says. I don’t like how relaxed she sounds.
My eyes fall to the journal. What could be in there? What did you write, Abby?
“Ah, you know. Normal stuff. We spread ourselves pretty thin. My schedule’s busy this time of year, all those first quarter lags ramping up for the bread-and-butter accounts. JJ’s starting varsity this year, which we’re very proud of, but that means we’re shuttling him to extra practices and pitching clinics. Jen had Abby signed up for these promo test shots with new sponsors.”
“You’re referring to Bow-tastic!?”
“Yeah, that was the biggest, but there were a few others in the works.”
“How did Abby feel about the deal?”
Why does she want to hurt me? “I’d say she had a mixed reaction to it. She’s been down lately.”
“Down.” Stone gives a questioning frown.
“That’s what I said.”
“Elaborate. Please.” She takes out a notepad and writes. The pen scratching against the paper is like wasp wings in my ear.
“Well, after the mall show, which again, I’m sure you’ve seen by now, Abby made it clear to Jen that she needed a break.”
“A break from your wife?”
“The blog, but I guess they go hand in hand.”
“Jackson.” Emphasis on my name, like we’re a couple of buddies arguing over baseball stats. “Let me get this straight. Abby told Jen she didn’t want to be on the blog anymore.”
“No, she just asked for some breathing room. Wanted some time to figure things out for herself.”
“But your wife continued to post about her.”
“I don’t know. That’s Jen’s thing. You’ll have to ask her.”
Stone takes some papers out of the folder. “I mean, where’s the line? Babies don’t have input over whether or not their lives are posted on social media. I can’t remember the last time I scrolled through my time line and my friends weren’t sharing milestones. Birthday parties, Christmases, Disney. That’s the way things are today, right? If it’s not posted, did it even happen?”
“I guess so. I’m not online much.”
“I laughed at that TBT video Jen shared of Abby—excuse me, Chloe—a few weeks back. She had to have been two or three. Painting her face with peanut butter and running naked through the house. Do you remember that?”
I nod, the room blurring under my tears.
Stone pushes the papers across the table. “But Abby’s not a baby anymore. She’s old enough to understand the potential ramifications of having her entire life published on the site. To care about what other people think of her. She’s certainly old enough to be keeping you afloat financially.”
I stare at the information, blinking away the glaze. “You checked our bank statements?”
“Jennifer granted permission to the officers who arrived after the initial 911 call. Standard procedure in suspected kidnappings. We monitor the accounts for suspicious activities. Wireless transfers or ransom demands.”
“I see.”
“I’m no expert, but that red number there,” she says, tapping the negative balance, “might explain some of the stress. It also might explain why Abby’s requests to be removed from the blog fell on deaf ears.”
Stone splays more bills across the table. I scan the numbers, first with disbelief, then with despair. The details pour out like soured honey. We’ve missed bonuses for months. Months. And Jen didn’t say a word. The money we paid Chris. The specialized decorations for the new shoots. She bought personalized goddamn Chloe candies for Abby’s birthday, but we can’t afford a bag of groceries.
“You know, Jen offered a reward for Abby’s return when she hijacked the press conference. Doesn’t seem to me like you have much to leverage, though.”
Two months behind on the mortgage and car. Four credit cards maxed and two more within a hundred dollars of their limits. Even if Bow-tastic! had paid a hefty advance, there’s no way it would’ve covered half of our debt ratio.
“You seem surprised by this,” Stone says, jotting more notes on her little pad.
“Jen’s in charge of the bills,” I say, skimming another page.
“Someone should tell her that.”
I shove the papers away. “Money problems don’t make us guilty.”
“Guilty of what, exactly, Mr. Scarborough?”
“Of whatever it is you’re trying to get us to confess to in this clown show. You should be out there searching for Abby. Going door to door. Have you even considered the registered sex offenders in our area? I checked that website myself this morning, and it’s staggering how many live within a mile of our home. If she gets hurt, it’ll be on your hands.” I struggle to keep my composure. I feel the barriers cracking at the seams.
“We don’t know who took your daughter—or why, for that matter. Let’s look at what we do know, shall we?” Stone shuffles the bank statements and bills into a single pile, a neat stack of betrayal. Next to that, she places the Polaroid she showed us earlier and the journal, opened to Abby’s familiar loopy handwriting.
“You said you’d never seen this picture before.” She picks up the Polaroid and holds it in front of my face. Abby with her messy hair and the blurred form of a boy in the corner. My stomach lurches.
“I’ll ask you again, Jackson. Have you ever seen this picture before?”
“No.”
“And you don’t know who took it?”
“No.”
“Had you ever seen the tree house before today?”
“No.” I sound like a broken record.
“Have you ever been inside the tree house before today?”
“How could I have been inside it if I’ve never seen it before?”
“Good point.” She puts the picture down and turns the journal to face her, running a finger down the paragraphs. Looking for something. “Does the name Chris Mitchell mean anything to you?”
The lurching is replaced by a succession of explosions. I could tell the truth, but if I slip—admit something that Abby didn’t write down—I could be screwing myself. “Can’t say that it does.”
Stone actually laughs. “I don’t give advice very often, Jackson, but I’d recommend you avoid gambling. Your poker face can use some serious attention.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Okay. For argument’s sake, we’ll use hypotheticals. Hypothetically speaking, what if I told you that Abby wrote all about her online relationship with a boy named FortniteChris.” Air quotes. “And then, again, hypothetically speaking, she thought she was going to meet said online boyfriend after a particularly brutal lesson in puberty.”
“Does it say that?” I ask.
“It’s an exceptionally awful moment.”
“Uh huh.” I wish she’d take the photo off the table. I can still hear Abby crying.
“I can’t imagine what it’d be like to find out my mother had paid a boy to like me and my father condoned it.”
Why?
I can’t. “Please, stop.” I push back from the table, the chair screeching with rusty protest.
“Here’s what I really want to know, though.” I start pacing again, but I see Stone point to one of Abby’s entries and glare at me. “Hypothetically speaking,” she says, “what would the father’s ‘idea’ have been?”
I stop. “The idea?”
“You slipped her a note. ‘I think I have an idea.’ Right here, and she mentions it again—about a week later—when she describes how volatile things had been in your house.”
“Well, I can’t speak for this hypothetical father, but if that were me, I’d say it sounds like he was trying to make things right,” I say.
“Maybe he was,” she nods sympathetically. “Or maybe he was trying to save his own ass.”
Coward. She’s calling me a coward. “Am I being charged with something?”
Detective Stone leans back in her chair and removes a container from her pocket, her eyes never leaving my face. She pops a mint into her mouth. “No.”
Good. “I’d like to leave now.”
“You’re free to go any time, Mr. Scarborough, but as a courtesy I’ll tell you it doesn’t look good if you do.”
“I don’t care how it looks, and I don’t need your advice.”
Stone picks up the notebook and clears her throat. “‘I have to make a choice.’ One of the last things she wrote. What did she mean, Jackson? What was your brilliant idea?”
My hand lingers on the knob. I finally look at the mirror and don’t recognize the slovenly apparition staring back at me. Mustard-hued and weak. I choose to focus on my shoes instead, but even they seem to mock me.
“Could I have a cup of coffee?” I ask.
“Sure.” Gathering up all the items save for the picture, she pauses at the door. “I’ll be right back.”
The door clicks shut behind her.
I’m a liar, and I’m alone, neither of which is worse than what I’ve done.