Page 44
“Speaking of editing,” Mom says. “Your dad and I want to listen to your next episode before you air it.”
“Excuse me, what?” I ask, in a tone that would send Bristal’s yet-to-be-invented BitchWidget flying into the red.
“We think it would be best if we have a say in what you publish,” Mom continues. “Your dad is in a tenuous position right now.”
“I hope you don’t mind if I point out, once again, that this is censorship.”
“Censorship or common sense?” Dad asks, perking up as he senses a good-faith argument brewing. “Don’t bite the hand that feeds you.”
“Or the hand that rocks the cradle,” Mom adds.
“Or I could just admit that ignorance is bliss and make the rest of the episodes about idioms,” I say.
“I would listen to that,” Dad pipes up.
“Of course you would,” I say. “Is the interrogation over? Can I eat something now? Because I’ll have you know that everything that just went on here was in direct violation of the Geneva Conventions.”
“You’re not starving,” Mom chides, but she latches Steven back into his wheels and heads to the kitchen, calling back over her shoulder. “Peanut butter and jelly sound good?”
“Sounds great,” I agree. “Strawberry is better than grape.”
“You heathen,” Dad says, pushing back his chair. “I’m returning to the office, but remember that we want to listen to the next episode. I’m really looking forward to hearing what the Jamison girl and her cousin Larry have to say about roadkill.”
“I bet you are,” I say, not quite able to hide the acid.
“You’re doing good work, kiddo,” Dad says, patting my shoulder as he walks past me.
“I know I am,” I say as I dive into the sandwich Mom puts in front of me. And while I’m sure my parents are relieved to know that Bristal’s episode won’t cover anything more controversial than potholes, I can’t imagine how they’re going to react to the Randall Boggs episode.
If Henley can’t stand talking about a runaway, how are people going to react to an episode dedicated to our one and only murder?
Nineteen
I’ve been to Erin Hendrix’s house plenty of times, for church youth parties, like on New Year’s Eve, when we would drink sparkling grape juice out of plastic toasting glasses that came in two pieces, the bases falling off as we clutched them by the stems and staggered around, pretending to be drunk. Last year Bob Denney had done the best impression, resulting in a well-meaning phone call to his parents inquiring about their own imbibing.
I’m used to being in Erin’s house when there are a lot of people, either for knitting circles, book clubs, or scrapbooking swaps. This house is always full of laughter and talk, the brightly painted walls echoing the women’s voices of Henley, or the lighthearted giggles of the church youth. I’ve never been here when no one else was and had never appreciated the reason why Erin probably packs the rooms full whenever she has the chance.
This is the house in its normal state, quiet, lonely, and more than a little sad.
“I’m sorry, again,” I tell Erin, getting up from the couch to take the tray with lemonade and cookies as she returns from the kitchen.
“No, really.” Erin waves me off as she takes a seat on the couch next to me. “It was a relief. Nobody wants to talk about Denise, ever. When Sherry Horvath called me, it was like I’d been waiting to hear someone else say her name for thirty years.”
“Mmm,” I say, sipping my lemonade and making a mental note of the person who had ratted me out. Sherry Horvath, Lawrence the bus driver’s wife. Big surprise.
“So, what do you want to know about Denise?” Erin asks, leaning back.
“Mostly I’m just curious about how something like this could even happen,” I say, hoping she won’t be disappointed that I’m not here to do a character sketch of her long-lost foster child. “I was told that she disappeared on the eleventh?”
“Yes.” Erin nods, not asking how I know that, which is a blessing. “But we didn’t report it until the thirteenth, because . . .”
“Because Denise was already in some trouble for hitting Sheriff Foxglove,” I supply, hoping that the fact I’m already aware of the girl’s checkered past will put Erin at ease, since she won’t have to speak ill of Denise herself.
“In retrospect, it was stupid,” Erin admits. “We should’ve called right away, maybe she would’ve still been in town, or somebody would have spotted her. After the tornado hit, all bets were off. Everyone had their own problems, and it was a while before everything calmed down and Foxglove even followed up with us.”
“And she’d turned eighteen in the meantime,” I add.
“Exactly. Foxglove said there wasn’t much they could do but . . .” Erin fades away again, clearly not wanting to say anything bad about Henley’s law enforcement.
