5

Erin Moser had forgotten her gloves, so she drove toward the township police station with her sweater sleeves pulled out from under her jacket, down over the heels of her hands. The wool against the steering wheel gave her no grip and the wheel kept sliding away from her, keeping her on edge, where she’d been since getting the call from Andrea’s dad.

It wasn’t just the call from Andrea’s dad, coming in the dark, an hour after Erin had fallen into a thin, anxious sleep, that had put her on edge. It was that the call hadn’t surprised her.

“Andrea!” she’d said as soon as the call woke her. Even in the fuzzy instant between sleep and consciousness, Erin knew the call was about Andrea. She knew the call was about Andrea because she’d been on the phone with Andrea only hours before, and the way the call ended had been wrong. The way the call ended had left Erin with a knot in her stomach. The way the call ended had left Erin half expecting a call in the middle of the night.

As Erin drove, she replayed every word of the call in her mind.

“So, are you going to tell me what’s going on?”

“Not now, Erin. Not on the phone. Maybe tomorrow. We could drive out to the quarry after school and talk.”

“Andrea! Come on. You’re making me nuts. Is it about you and Mike?”

Andrea made a noise that was almost, but not quite, a laugh. “Not about Mike. Definitely not about Mike.”

Erin pushed. “Okay, if it’s not about Mike, is it about…”

“Don’t say it. Not on the phone.”

“Andrea, I can’t stand this. You’ve got to give me a hint.”

A pause. “Oh, shit. It’s that dumb dick Averill.”

“Ignore him. I heard the Sassers are gonna sue the township over what happened to Kim. Can you believe him pulling her over and doing a pat down?”

“Believe that Averill would do something dumb? How hard is that?”

A voice in the background, then Andrea said, “Thank God. He’s gone—hang on—you know that old Mel Carter song we like, ‘Hold Me, Thrill Me, Kiss Me’?… it’s coming on KZ, I’m gonna turn the sound up.”

“The song you liked,” Erin said to nobody.

“Can you hear it?” Andrea asked when she came back on the line.

“God, you must have maxed the volume, it’s like I’m there.”

Andrea sang along, sounding like she used to sound, happy and full of energy.

“I can’t believe how retro this song is,” Erin said. “I remember when you started liking this song. It never was about Mike, was it?”

Andrea stopped singing.

“You know what else? Just now, while you were singing? It’s the first time you’ve sounded happy, sounded like yourself since…”

“Don’t say it, Erin.”

“You said you were going to give me a hint about what’s going on. Before Averill showed up.”

“You asked me to give you a hint.”

“You can tell me something.”

A long silence, then, “Erin, this is really serious. Anything I tell you, you’ve got to promise—you’ve got to swear—that you’ll never, not ever tell anyone. And if you do, I’ll say you’re lying and I’ll never talk to you again. I mean it, Erin…”

“You don’t even have to ask. You know I’d never say anything…”

“Okay, all I’ll say right now is that I’ve made a big decision. I mean a really big decision. Oh, wait…”

“What?”

“Somebody’s here. I’ve gotta go.”

“A customer? Did Averill come back? I’ll stay on the line until he goes. I hate it, you being out there all by yourself.”

“Not a customer. Not Averill. I wish it was a customer—even Averill. But it’s not. Gotta go. I’ll talk to you tomorrow.”

And then, a dial tone.

And now, hardly three hours later, Erin Moser was on her way to the Redstone Township Police Department, churning in her mind what she should say about Andrea. She knew what she couldn’t say—couldn’t say because Andrea wouldn’t want her to and couldn’t say because … because, in fact, Erin didn’t know anything. Not for sure. Somebody else might have talked about what they thought was going on, what they’d suspected since summer. But Erin wouldn’t do that. She wouldn’t do that because it might not be true. And if it was true, it could be bad for Andrea.

“But what if,” Erin said out loud, “Andrea’s really in trouble?”

Erin’s imagination failed her then. She couldn’t imagine how telling would help Andrea. But she could imagine how telling would hurt—hurt Andrea and a lot of other people, besides.

She couldn’t risk that, not without knowing for sure that telling would help.