Ramona know?”
“I’m not sure. Julia said Ramona wouldn’t approve.”
“Why wouldn’t Ramona approve?”
“You know that daddy baggage I mentioned? Let’s just say it manifested itself in Julia’s dating preferences. Ramona was always trying to get her to see a therapist about it. I just assumed when she made that comment about Ramona not approving that it was some old guy.”
“How old are we talking about here?”
“Not, like, you know, Hugh Hefner old. But I think one guy last summer was, like, thirty! Ramona kind of lectured her about it, and since then I got the impression Julia decided the less Ramona knew about those things, the better.”
In any other situation, Ellie would bristle at the thought of thirty being “old.” But to have a relationship with a junior in high school? Thirty was ancient.
“What made you think she was keeping Ramona out of the loop?”
“Ramona seemed to buy Julia’s act that she wanted more down time to read and study and stuff. Maybe I’m too suspicious but it seemed to me she was lying. One time she said she’d gone to the rooftop at the Standard with this guy, Marcus, but then later Ramona found out Marcus was at a birthday party for some girl at school the same night. Ramona blew it off, but other times Julia would tell Ramona she fell asleep watching TV, and I could just tell she was lying. When she didn’t show up today, I assumed it was another one of her secret disappearances. I feel awful now.”
“How about her friends? Would you say she was well liked?”
“Seemed like it. They’re both a little more on the wild side, compared to all the matching mean girls at their school, but I think Ramona actually got hassled more than Julia for it. Julia’s dad kind of gave her the cred to be a little off. Compared to the kids at that school, Ramona’s family’s, like, poor or something.”
“And how exactly was Julia off, or I think you said a little wild? A lot of drinking? Drugs?”
“No, nothing more than the usual drinking. Maybe a little weed. It’s hard to explain. Just, you know, more curious about the rest of the world than rich kids usually are.”
“That’s funny. Growing up in Kansas, I always thought wealthy kids in New York were incredibly worldly.”
“I don’t mean living in Paris on your summer vacation. I mean hanging out downtown. Taking the subway.” He lowered his voice. “Being friends with people of a different status. Trying not to be the spoiled brats they’ve been bred to be.”
“And where do you fall on this status spectrum?” Ellie made sure not to look at the light stains near Casey’s shirt collar or the spot on the sleeve where the fabric was wearing thin.
“Pretty damn low.” He looked down at his canvas sneakers. “I’m currently residing—if you can call it that—at Promises. It’s what they call transitional housing for at-risk young adults. It’s what everyone else in the world calls a homeless shelter.”
“Is that where the other kids who went to Julia’s townhouse with you live, too? Brandon and Vonda?”
“Brandon does, but not Vonda. I haven’t seen her in, like, a week.”
“Do you have last names for them?”
According to Casey, Brandon was Brandon Sykes, sixteen years old. Casey had seen him just that day, and he was probably heading back to the shelter that night. Vonda was supposedly nineteen, but he suspected she was younger. He did not know her last name, nor did he know how to contact her.
“And the shelter’s the best address for you?” she asked.
“Until I win the lottery, that’s where I’m at. I guess you need stuff like ages and last names and addresses for police reports.”
She rotated her wrists in front of her. “Like I said, I do an awful lot of typing in this job. And this transitional housing for at-risk young adults is really a better place for you than with your family?” Ellie was no social worker, but she didn’t feel right about leaving this kid in a shelter without at least inquiring.
“My family’s in Iowa, and let’s just say they’re not real interested in being my family these days.”
“Speaking of that report I’ll need to file, I should probably make sure to check your identification.”
“I thought you said I’m not in trouble.”
“You’re not, but I’ve got to make sure we’re not putting false information on a government document.”
Her eyes locked on his was enough to induce an actual tremble.
“I’m sorry, Casey. I’ve got to document every witness. It’s okay. We already know.”
“But—”
“It wasn’t your appearance. I noticed that pause earlier when I asked whether Casey was a nickname.”
There was a full five seconds of silence before Casey sighed and pulled a beaten brown leather wallet from his back pocket.
Iowa driver’s license. Same face. Same stoic expression, masking the softness Ellie had spotted when Casey had first come out of his handstand. All the basic information was there. Five feet, eight inches. DOB March 16, 1992. Green eyes. Full name: Cassandra Jane Heinz.
“Does Ramona know?”
He was looking at his shoes again but nodded. “Yeah. We don’t talk about it, but, yeah.”
She patted him on the shoulder, as she would to reassure any other man. “Thanks. We’ll let you know if we need anything else.”
Casey watched the police detectives talking as they walked back toward Waverly. Even from behind, he could recognize the dynamic. The male cop may have remained silent through the entire exchange, but Casey had seen the guy’s expression at the sight of the driver’s license. She was cool with everything. He wasn’t.
That always seemed to be how things went.
As he watched them drive away in their nondescript blue sedan, he wondered whether he had done the right thing. He had told them what they needed to know about Julia, but he hadn’t told them everything. Not really.
One little lie—not even a lie, just a secret—couldn’t possibly make a difference. And the one little secret, if disclosed, would only hurt Ramona even further. He hadn’t done it to protect himself, he told himself. It had been for Ramona.
He returned to his handstands, trying to set aside the terrible feeling that somehow he had made a mistake.
Bill Whitmire watched his wife, who sat cross-legged on their bed, using the palm of her hand to smooth
