We’d hardly begun to speak when Roman arrived and instantly joined us.
“Looking good, Gabriel,” she said, purposefully trying to sound matter-of-fact about it. “I’m Roman. We met at the Sloans’ Christmas party.”
“Oh, right, sure,” Gabriel said, pretending he remembered her.
“So how’s the modeling business?” Roman asked. “Have I seen you in anything lately?”
Gabriel recited the answer: “The Soundview Ford ad, with the young couple looking for their first minivan. The Island Savings and Loan ad for free checking. And I’ve done some online catalog work. JCPenney and Hanes.”
“Underwear?” Roman asked eagerly while she rummaged through her bag and found her iPhone.
“Wait a minute,” I said. “We’re not going to search for pictures of him in his underwear, are we?”
Roman lowered the phone. “Oh, my bad, huh?”
“It’s no biggie,” Gabriel said. “They airbrush out all the, uh, revealing details.”
“Is it weird?” Roman asked. “I mean, standing around in your underwear with all these people looking and taking pictures.”
“You get used to it.” Gabriel tilted his head back and emptied the bottle.
“You don’t feel embarrassed?”
“No. As far as they’re concerned, the only difference between me and a mannequin is that I have a pulse.” He gestured at the empty bottle. “You girls thirsty?”
We went into the kitchen, where Gabriel took a second to check his reflection in the window, then pulled three Bud Lights out of the refrigerator and handed one each to Roman and me.
“I know it’s a little flaky,” he said, twisting the cap off, “but if you want to work, you have to keep the pounds off.”
“You must spend a lot of time in the gym,” Roman said.
“Yeah. Not my favorite place to be, but you do what you have to do.”
“So what is your favorite place to be?” I asked. “I mean, other than at a poker table.”
His grin turned sheepish. “Outside, in the woods. Hiking, mountain biking. That kind of thing.” He paused. “Not what you expected?”
I had to admit it wasn’t. Gabriel didn’t seem like the outdoorsy type at all. But he kept talking about the places where he’d hiked and mountain biked, and the places he still wanted to go.
I couldn’t help noticing that while Roman asked most of the questions, Gabriel directed most of his answers at me. Finally, it must have been obvious that he wanted to speak with me alone, and Roman wandered off. Gabriel and I stayed in the kitchen while others came and went, shooting glances at us while they raided the refrigerator for beers. I asked about his apartment, and he launched into a long story about playing poker online and in casinos, and how he’d learned to read his opponents’ “tells.” I kept waiting to see if he’d bring up the situation with Dad and the missing girls, but he seemed content to make small talk. I couldn’t tell if he was purposefully avoiding the subject or simply not thinking about it. Meanwhile, he’d polished off two more beers.
Finally, after he’d pulled yet another beer from the fridge, and I saw that nobody was around, I decided to bring up the subject myself. “What do you think is going on with those missing girls?”
“The only thing I know is that it’s really hurting my bank account,” Gabriel said as he took a gulp.
That caught me by surprise. Of all the answers I had imagined him giving … how could money be the only thing he was thinking about? Didn’t he care that something bad might have happened to those girls? His lack of empathy creeped me out. At that point I might not have continued talking to him were it not for my hope that if we kept speaking, he might reveal something about his part in the situation … if he’d had a part in it at all.
Unfortunately, Gabriel interpreted my continued interest as something else. To complicate things, no matter where we went in the house, other girls seemed to find an excuse for “bumping” into us so that I would feel obligated to make an introduction. I think even Gabriel grew annoyed with all the attention, because twice he suggested that we go someplace where we wouldn’t be disturbed. After I brushed the suggestion aside for a second time, he started to get a little frustrated.
By then it was getting late, and when I yawned one time too many, he seemed to reach his limit and said, “Guess I’m gonna bail.”
I had mixed feelings about that—part relief, part disappointment that I hadn’t learned anything useful, and even a little guilty that I’d used and misled him, even if he had helped my dad mislead all those girls who’d never had a realistic chance of becoming models. Roman had already left the party, and when I looked around, I found Tara Kraus shooting a contemptuous glance at me from a couch where she was sitting with her posse.
“I think I’ll go, too,” I said, and then, to make sure Gabriel didn’t get the wrong idea, added, “I could use a good night’s sleep.”
“I bet,” he muttered a little sourly.
We left the party together, which probably caused more than a few tongues to wag, but I didn’t care. Gabriel walked with his head bowed uncharacteristically, and I was annoyed with myself for feeling bad about him. We got to the street, and I pointed to the left. “My car’s down that way.”
“Mine’s up there.” He pointed to the right.
An awkward moment followed. I didn’t want to give him the wrong impression, but I also didn’t want to alienate him any more than I already had. After all, what if it turned out that he did know something useful about the missing girls? Dad and I might still need him.
I stepped close. “I’m sorry if I seemed distracted tonight. I’ve just got so much on my mind. I mean, about what’s going on with my dad. It’s hard to stop thinking about it.”
Gabriel gave me an uncertain look, as if he wasn’t sure whether to believe me. Feeling like I had to be more convincing, I stretched up and gave him a quick kiss on the lips. “We’ll talk, okay?”
“Sure.” He smiled.
A moment later I was walking down the street, trying to replay in my head everything I could remember Gabriel saying that evening, searching for any nugget of information I might have missed. But nothing came to light.
My car was parked on the dark side of the street. I was so busy thinking about Gabriel that it didn’t occur to me to consider how late it was, or the darkness, or the fact that there was no one around. I was reaching for the door … when suddenly, I sensed someone behind me.
Chapter 22
I SPUN AROUND just as a large shadowy figure came out of the dark.
I almost screamed.
Then saw that it was Whit.
“You have to stop sneaking up on me like this!” I gasped, pressing my hand against my heaving heart.
“Sorry,” Whit said.
My fright quickly morphed into serious annoyance. “Why do you always do this?”
He pointed back up the street toward the house. “What was I supposed to do? Stand where you could see me and watch while you kissed that guy?”
I glanced at Courtney’s brightly lit house, then back at Whit. “Is that a rhetorical question, or am I actually supposed to have an answer?”
“I don’t know,” he replied with a shrug. “But I admire your taste.”
I wasn’t only annoyed with him for scaring me. I was still angry about that article he’d wanted to write that would have implied that Dad could have been involved in the disappearances. “Thank you. And not only is he gorgeous, but he’s a really sweet, nice guy, and we have a lot of fun together.”
A wry smile appeared on Whit’s lips. “No kidding? So I guess you don’t mind that he works for your dad and probably was complicit with the whole modeling scam? Funny, but I didn’t think that was the kind of guy you’d be attracted to.”
I felt my face grow hot and my eyes narrow with anger, mostly because he’d so easily caught me in my lie. “You …,” I started to say through gritted teeth, even though I wasn’t sure exactly what I wan
ted to say.
“Now, now, be nice,” he cautioned with a grin. “I haven’t agreed to go off the record this time.”
That just made me madder. Hating how he was teasing me, I felt my hands ball into such tight fists that my nails dug into my palms. “Why are you doing this?”
“You know why. You told me yourself. I’m using your father’s misfortunes to catapult myself into the upper echelons of journalism.”
I swung my fist. Not that I actually meant to hurt him. I was really lashing out at all of it—the anger and disappointment and injustice of everything that had happened—and he just happened to be the closest target.
“Whoa!” He caught my wrist. I’d forgotten how big his hands were. My hand in his was like a doll’s. I tried to yank it back, but he held it.
“Let go!” I kept struggling.
“Calm down,” he said.
“Not till you let go!”
“Not till you calm down.”
We’d reached a stalemate. “Then at least … stop grinning!” I shouted.
He let go. I took a step back, rubbing my wrist and breathing hard. He hung his head, the smile gone. “Sorry. I … I shouldn’t have made light of your problems.”
I nodded, even though my emotions were still on spin cycle. “I shouldn’t have gotten so mad. I guess I’m sorry, too.”
“Listen, you’re going through a bad time. I didn’t mean to be so insensitive.”
Now, from out of nowhere, came the urge to cry, but I blinked hard and fought back the tears. I didn’t care how empathetic and insightful he was, he was not going to see me cry.
“You okay?” he asked.
I nodded and felt tiny bits of tears creep out of both eyes. Darn it!
Whit began to pat his pockets.
“Do not offer me anything to wipe my eyes with!” I practically yelled. “I am not crying! I’m just … Oh, I don’t know what I am.” At that moment I felt so frustrated and mixed up and fragile, I just … wanted … to be held. The next thing I knew, I stepped close to him, and he put his arms around me.
And then I started to cry for real. Shoulders shaking and voice quavering, I managed to croak out, “This … isn’t a come-on or anything…. I’m … just really upset.”
“I know.” He held me firmly, but gently, and reassured me that everything was going to be all right. Gradually, the wave of emotion passed, and I backed out of his arms.
I wiped my eyes while he stood and watched silently, which was exactly what I didn’t want him to do. “Actually, would you do me a huge favor?” I asked. “I could really use a beer.”
Whit looked back over his shoulder at Courtney’s house. “Promise you’ll be here when I get back?”
“I promise.”
He left, and I had a chance to fix my makeup under a streetlight. A few moments later he was back with two beers. We sat on the hood of a car under an almost-full moon.
“You know, it’s not really about getting a job in journalism,” he said. “I mean, maybe it started out that way, but now, for me, it’s gone past that. It’s about finding the truth. This is the first time I’ve ever been involved in a story that’s still unfolding. Usually, you get to the event and everything’s already happened, and all you’re doing is reporting on what occurred. But this is so different. Nobody knows what’s really going on, and in the meantime, people’s lives are at stake.” He paused and took a sip, then added, “You understand that I have nothing against your dad, right? I’m just trying to find out what happened.”
I nodded, thinking that wanting to know the truth was a lot better than some of those other journalists who were only looking for the juiciest story they could dig up, even if it might not be entirely true. “I guess we have that in common. I want the truth, too.”
Another silent moment passed. The air was slightly warmer than usual for a late October night, and a few bugs flitted around the nearest streetlight. Then I said, “Off the record?”
“Why not?” Whit replied with a chuckle.
“No, seriously, I mean it.”
“Okay.”
“It wasn’t my father,” I said. “Don’t ask me for proof, because we both know I don’t have it. I just know. He may have said or done inappropriate things.… He may have even taken money from girls who didn’t have a chance of becoming models, but he wouldn’t hurt a fly. There’s no way he did anything bad to those girls.”
Whit nodded slowly.
“You probably think I only feel that way because I’m his daughter,” I continued, “but I’m also the person he’s closest to in the world. And I know he couldn’t have done what people think he’s done.”
“Okay.”
“But I’d have to be stupid not to believe that all three missing girls were involved with Dad’s agency and studio,” I said. “And that means someone at the studio must know something.”
“Including Mr. Kissy Face?”
“His name is Gabriel, and if you have to know what that was about before,” I said, “it was about trying to find out what he knows.”
“Like kiss and tell?” He was teasing again.
“No! Can’t you be serious?”
Whit traced the rim of the beer can with his fingertip. “Okay, seriously? You really think hanging around with him is a good idea? If someone at the studio has done something to those girls, what makes you think he or she won’t do anything to you? And don’t assume you’ve narrowed it down to the people who work there.”
“What do you mean?” I asked.
“It could be someone who knows someone who works there. You mentioned there are two women?”
“Janet and Mercedes,” I said, realizing he was right. Mercedes was always riding with those men. And who knew who Janet hung out with? There could easily be more suspects. People who could have looked through the files, picked girls, and …
“So instead of snooping around yourself, why not let the police take care of it?” Whit asked.
“Because I think I could be in a position to find out things they can’t,” I said.
“Like pillow talk with Mr. Kissy Face?”
“Stop it!” I snapped, but then admitted, “Well, maybe a little, but believe me, not on any pillows.”
“What if he makes it clear it’s going to take more than that to get him to talk?”
“I told you, I’m not that kind of girl.”
“Well, if you’re not that kind of girl, then maybe you’re not the kind of girl who should be involved at all,” Whit said. “Maybe you should be more focused on what’s happening at home.”
Once again he’d caught me by surprise. I gave him an uncertain look. How would he have any idea of what was happening at home?
“Did someone say something?” I asked. “I mean, what exactly are you referring to?”
“No one said anything,” Whit answered. “And you don’t have to look at me like I’m clairvoyant. Now that the rumors are out about your dad hitting on young women, I have to assume that your mom is slightly less than thrilled.”
That would have been true were it not for the fact that Mom had spent so many years in denial. “Listen, Whit,” I said, “it’s really thoughtful of you to be concerned about my family. But even off the record, that’s private.”
“I’m not looking for gossip,” he said. “I’m just saying it would probably be safer for you, and better for all involved, if that was the direction in which you focused your attentions.”
I was impressed by his intelligence, ethics, and empathy. But despite all that, I knew I had to keep trying to prove my father’s innocence.
Meanwhile, Whit gazed at me with a placid, though slightly amused, expression. “You didn’t listen to a thing I just said.”
He was so right.
Chapter 23
I WENT TO bed that night feeling better. No matter what people said about the validity of lie-detector tests, Dad had still passed. That had to count for something. And I’d learned more about Gabriel, too. He mig
ht have been beautiful to look at, but Roman was right—deep down, it appeared that he was pretty shallow. And finally, I felt better thanks to Whit, who was reassuring in his own way, reminding me that there were still people in the world who weren’t just out to further their own career regardless of who they hurt.
I slept well and woke in the morning wondering if I should follow Whit’s advice and spend the day trying to help my family. Maybe some good could still come out of all of this. Surely, Dad had learned a lesson. If I could get him to tell Mom that he was truly sorry for what he’d done and was ready to change his ways, perhaps I could persuade them to at least attempt to patch up their marriage.
And it was Sunday, the perfect day to do it. I stretched and reached over to my night table to check my BlackBerry.
And instantly wished I hadn’t.
There was an e-mail … from
[email protected]: Have fun last nite? What a hunk. But w8 till U C the news this morning. Have a gr8 day!
Shivers burrowed through me. First: whoever was sending me these e-mails had been at the party last night. Second: it may have been Sunday, but there would be no rest from bad news.
Still in my pajamas, I hurried downstairs and turned on the TV. Neither Mom nor Dad was in the kitchen. The channels were all doing the weather or commercials, so I made coffee and waited. Finally, one of the channels went to a reporter wearing a yellow rain slicker and standing in a wooded area blocked by police cars and crime scene tape: “Police here in Scranton, Pennsylvania, are reporting this morning the discovery of a badly decomposed body in a riverbank cave just outside the boundaries of a state park. Scranton chief of police Edward Naughton cautioned that it may take some time to get a positive ID, but he did acknowledge that the body appears to fit the description of Rebecca Parlin, an aspiring young model who disappeared from the area about a month ago.”
I slumped into a chair as the last glimmer of hope that the missing girls were still alive dissolved into the kitchen air. Maybe it had been a foolish hope to begin with, but until now it had felt like a possibility, no matter how slight. And that made it feel silly to cling to the other improbables—that maybe the other two girls were still alive, that maybe the disappearances had nothing to do with Dad or the people at his studio anyway.