the last seemed to have passed, he peered cautiously into the classroom, where the teacher was wiping clean a whiteboard. As expected, “the douche” was neither young nor hip. In his forties, at a guess, skinny and balding. Nothing about him would stand out. He wore chinos, a plaid sport shirt and brown lace-up shoes that were starting to roll out.
Jack rapped lightly on the door and, when the teacher glanced his way, introduced himself.
The conversation was short and unhelpful despite Mr. Howard’s cooperation. Sabra Lee was a C student in his class, which frustrated him as he felt sure she had the ability to do well. She just wasn’t interested.
Jack asked how many students really were enthusiastic, and saw subtle signs of discouragement. The gung-ho, college-bound kids paid attention because they wanted the grades. Some seemed to enjoy the experiments. But science classes in general weren’t popular.
“Because they can’t skate in my classroom,” the teacher declared.
Had he noticed Sabra huddling with other students? Only Emily. They shared a table and partnered for lab work. Boys? He hadn’t noticed. Any talk among teachers? About her pregnancy, yes, and whether she should have been shuttled to the alternative school the minute she started to show, but otherwise? No.
Jack thanked him and moved on.
ANDREA LEE WORKED at The Beauty Boutique, which along with haircuts and perms offered waxing, sugaring—he didn’t even let himself speculate about that one—and manicures and pedicures. He stepped inside cautiously, seeing only women. Every single head turned. A sharp, chemical smell overwhelmed Jack’s sinuses.
A middle-aged woman who had been folding tiny pieces of aluminum foil into a customer’s hair left her to step behind the small front counter. Lifting her gaze from his badge, she smiled tentatively. “May I help you?”
She seemed a little old to be Sabra’s mother, but he couldn’t be sure. Nobody he saw resembled Sabra, judging from the most recent school photo.
“I’m looking for Andrea Lee,” he said. “I understand she works here.”
“Oh!” She pressed a hand to her bosom. “We’ve all been so terrified, wondering what possibly could have happened to Sabra. Andrea was so brave to come to work today.”
“She’s here, then?” He studied the half-dozen women either cutting hair or working on someone’s fingernails. He was pretty sure every one of them was eavesdropping.
“Yes, let me get her.” His informant went rushing to the back, where a curtain blocked the view of a supply or break room. A moment later, a second woman emerged, short and blonde like Sabra.
Any pretense of a waistline had disappeared, and he could tell by the time she was ten feet away that the blond hair wasn’t natural—or, at least, wasn’t natural anymore. Blue eyes welled with tears, tracking mascara down her cheeks. A whiff of cigarette smoke accompanied her.
“At last!” she cried. “I thought the police were pretending Sabra didn’t have a mother.”
Oh, damn. She’d managed more high drama in one sentence than a dozen teenagers had in the several hours he’d been at the high school. Jack hadn’t gone out for theater in high school or college, and he didn’t like being dragged into a scene staged for the benefit of an enraptured audience.
“Mrs. Lee, can we step outside to talk about your daughter’s disappearance? Or is there somewhere private we can speak?”
“All of my coworkers know about Sabra. I’ve been so shattered.” The woman who had gone back to foiling hair had tears in her eyes now.
Mrs. Lee finally led him through the shop, eight pairs of eyes following them, and behind the curtain to what was, indeed, a cramped break room with a small refrigerator, a microwave and a couple of reasonably comfortable chairs.
Private it wasn’t, but Jack supposed it didn’t matter.
“Emily is such a nice girl,” Mrs. Lee burst out. “I thought her mother was trustworthy.”
Despite his own reservations concerning Ms. Harper, that irritated him. This woman had tossed her own kid out. Meg had taken her in.
He couldn’t resist saying, “I assume you visited the home where your daughter was living, to be sure it was suitable?”
“Well, of course I’ve met Emily’s mother,” she said sharply. “I was grateful when she offered to give us time to cool off, but now she’s lost my daughter.” She snatched up a napkin to pat at her cheeks.
“She didn’t say whether the two of you have been in counseling.”
Sabra’s mother gazed woefully at him. “Oh, what difference does it make now? I would give anything to go back!”
Jack found it interesting that Meg had said something similar.
He asked questions. Mrs. Lee evaded. It wasn’t her fault her precious daughter had gone MIA. Her woe-is-me shit rapidly became tiresome.
By the time he gave up, Jack had reached only two meaningful conclusions. The first was that, contrary to his suspicions, Ms. Harper had told the truth; Mrs. Lee hadn’t so much as spoken to her daughter since the grand fight, and very likely didn’t have any intentions of doing so in the foreseeable future. Second, Mr. Lee—if he existed at all—was also MIA. “He abandoned us!” she cried, but Jack couldn’t pin down when that was. Mrs. Lee claimed to have no idea where he was and insisted he’d never paid child support. Unfortunately, she had another child at home, a girl who was eleven. Bryony—she carefully spelled it for him—had a different father, who did pay child support, although his wife resented it and he hardly ever spent time with Bryony.
Poor kid.
Jack’s head was throbbing by the time he thanked the woman for her time, promised to keep her informed and left the beauty shop.
He sat behind the wheel of his SUV, doing battle with an inexplicable desire to return to the Harpers’ house. If Meg—no, he should stick to Ms. Harper—had learned anything new, she’d have called him. She had his number.
Home, he told himself. A beer, a Mariners game and a frozen pizza added up to the smart choice.
* * *
TUESDAY MORNING, MEG tensed when the doorbell rang. She could not believe that jerk Rivera had called Child Protective Services on her. No discussion with her about his concerns, no warning. He’d just done it.
As mad as she’d been and still was, it was nerve-racking to have a social worker standing on her doorstep, intent on assessing whether Meg had abused or neglected Sabra.
But she made herself take a deep breath and summon her anger. This was insulting. It was also a huge waste of resources. Instead of trying to blame her for some unstated sin, everyone should be looking for Sabra.
Squaring her shoulders, she opened the door. A middle-aged woman who reminded Meg of a favorite art teacher in high school looked back
