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Tommy’s eyes smoldered. “Yeah, she’s a good girl, all right. If you call sneaking out your window in the middle of the night good, then, sure, Kelsey’s a great girl. If only I could be like her.”
Rachel’s breath caught in her throat. Kelsey was sneaking out of her window? To do what? And. . . with who?
She dropped to the couch. “How do you know this, Tommy?” she asked, nervously fingering her bracelet.
“I’ve seen her. She did it last night, too. She always does it.” Tommy shook his head. “And you think she’s so dang perfect.”
***
AN HOUR LATER, the phone rang. It was Myrna, one of Rachel’s colleagues at the college.
“I just wanted to let you know, Rachel,” Myrna said. “Oh dear. How do I say this?”
Rachel tossed a stack of student essays on the kitchen table. “Say what? Just say it, Myrna.”
“There’s been. . . talk,” Myrna said. She said the word “talk” so softly Rachel could barely hear it. Having known Myrna for years, however, confirmed that that had indeed been the word she used. Rachel could imagine the woman right now, probably sitting in her bedroom, bubbling with anticipation, dying to tell her the juicy, hurtful news.
Rachel swallowed. “Talk?” What about? Tom? About Tom and Tiffany?
“I’m not sure how to say this.”
Rachel headed to the liquor cabinet. “Just say it, Myrna,” she said, desperate to maintain her composure.
“It was about Tom’s. . . his affair.”
Rachel tried not to acknowledge the tears in her eyes as she filled a shot glass with whiskey. She downed it and winced. So Myrna knew about the affair. And if Myrna knew, then—
“And now that the Perron girl has disappeared, people are. . . well, you know how they are. They think that maybe Tom. . .”
Rachel’s heart sank. She wrapped her free arm tightly around her middle and tried to hold herself together. She managed to keep her voice even.
“What are you saying? You think this is something more than just a young girl rebelling and ru
There were footsteps behind her. Then a young voice. “Mom, I’m going to Stephanie’s.” Rachel turned to see her daughter, Kelsey, dressed in a black t-shirt and the black Texas A&M sweats Tom had bought her during a recent conference at the university.
Rachel suddenly wanted to speak to Kelsey. Since it now seemed the rest of Grand Trespass had learned of the affair, she wanted to find out just what her children knew. “Hold on, Myrna,” Rachel said into the phone, her voice just a croak. She covered the mouthpiece with a shaky hand. “No. I don’t want you to leave the house. Not now.”
Kelsey’s jaw dropped. “But Mom!”
“I said no, Kelsey.”
“Dammit, Mom!” the girl shouted, although the two stood only a few feet apart.
“Don’t curse in this house, young lady,” Rachel whispered, concentrating on not dropping the phone. She was sick from the news, the whiskey, the sudden shouting.
Rachel could hear Myrna’s voice, teeny in the phone. “Oh dear. Do you want to call me back?”
“But why? Why can’t I go to Stephanie’s?” Kelsey asked.
“Because you and I need to talk,” Rachel whispered. “When I get off the phone—”
“Oooh! I can’t wait to turn eighteen!” Kelsey shouted even louder. “I hate your stupid rules. Youdon’t understand me. You don’t understand anything!” she exclaimed, then disappeared.
Rachel blinked, listening to the angry footsteps in the hallway, then a door banging shut.
“Myrna? You still there?”
“I’m sorry to have to bring up such a sore subject,” the woman replied.
Sure she was.
“No. No, I appreciate the call,” Rachel said. “I’ll see you tomorrow?”
There was a brief silence, then “Sure. I’ll see you tomorrow, Rachel. Chin up.”
Chin up? Rachel thought, slamming the phone down. What the hell was that supposed to mean? And how long had people known about the affair? Longer then she had? Without hesitating to think, she uprooted the phone and hurled it against the wall.
The house was silent as she poured her next drink. And the next. She’d probably been the laughing stock of the college all this time, and they were still gossiping about her during the summer term. And now this? Thinking Tom could be some sort of suspect in what was just a silly little girl’s rebellious tantrum? Which surely was all what this was. At least the ladies at the diner seemed to think so.
She had the urge to do something awful to Tom, to really hurt him. Maybe put a knife to his throat while he slept. While he slept dreaming of young, beautiful girls.
What had changed? Wasn’t she still attractive? Why did she suddenly not make him happy? The thoughts infuriated her. She could have married many men. But Tom had been the one she loved most. And he seemed to be so taken with her. So loyal.
But now they couldn’t talk. He was distant. Hard, cold. But not to the kids, just her. Is this what happened to men when they entered their mid-forties?
And then there was the conversation about trading in the Pathfinder for a sports car. Some tiny, ridiculous red thing. Had he always been like this? Had she just been oblivious?
She downed another shot of whiskey.
Chapter 16
TUESDAY MORNING, HALEY led Detective Guitreaux to Chris’s small, dusty office in the kitchen trailer behind the diner. She took a seat in the chair that faced the desk. The young detective stood across from her.
He was about Mac’s height, six-foot-one, but much beefier. Olive ski
“I hear you and Tiffany were best friends?” he said softly, his eyes probing hers.
“Not were. Are,” she corrected, politely.
Tiffany had now been missing three nights and Haley had no clue where she could be. If she’d gone somewhere voluntarily, she would have told her.
She needed answers. She needed sleep. Although she’d tried her best to talk with Charles to find out what exactly happened on Saturday night, she hadn’t been successful.
“You were with her on Saturday night at a bar—” he paused and flipped open a notebook encased in a smooth, black leather cover. “Provost’s. You were at Provost’s with her the night she disappeared?”
Disappeared. The word sounded ominous, horrible.
Haley studied the detective’s long, square face, his smooth, olive skin. His Cajun French accent was thick and soft, but his eyes seemed hard. He had a thin nose that flared out slightly at the tip as though he were smiling. But he wasn’t.
“Yes sir. We were together Saturday night at Provost’s.”
His eyes seemed to soften. “Call me Eddie, cher,” he said. “I call my father sir. And the two of us are like motor oil and kitchen matches. Now, can you do me the honor of telling me what transpired that night? The full story, please.”
She fidgeted in her chair, then took a deep breath. “Tiffany picked me up at my house and we left for Provost’s a little before nine o’clock. We were only there a few minutes, maybe fifteen, before Charles, Tiffany’s boyfriend, got there. I didn’t see her for long after that.”
“Why is that?”
“I saw a friend of my daddy’s and went to talk to him.” She felt lightheaded as she again recalled the night’s events.
The detective tapped a large ring against Chris’s desk. Austin, Luke’s main cook, had told her that it was a college championship ring. Supposedly the detective had played football for LSU for a couple of years before a ligament injury cut his career short.