All the Little Liars (15 page)

“So your parents did nothing?” I tried not to sound judgmental, but I fear I failed.

“They called the parents of the kids who were the worst.”

“Did it help?”

“In two cases, yes. In two cases, it became worse.”

“What happened?”

“Time happened. Also, my dad suggested instead of hiding behind a book, I try out for a sport. I liked to read a lot better, but I could see it might help. And thank God, I was okay at basketball.”

“Really? You played basketball?”

“Yep. In junior high and high school.”

“Did that make the bullying go away?”

“Actually, it did help. It never really stopped. But it kind of morphed into heavy-handed locker room teasing. I could handle that.”

“I'm glad you told me,” I said. “I'm really sorry that happened to you. I'm like your dad. I wish I could retroactively beat them up.”

He looked down at me, and one of his wonderful smiles broke out. “I would have liked to see that. But I'm straying from the point.”

“Which is?”

The doorbell rang. I said something unprintable.

Robin went to the door while I began forming the burgers. When Robin returned, he was accompanied by (of all people) Tiffany Andrews, mother of Sienna.

Tiffany was probably five years younger than I, and since she owned a dance studio and taught classes daily, she'd maintained a taut figure. Her face was a bit older than her body. I didn't think much of Tiffany, and I was sure she returned the sentiment, if she ever thought about me at all.

“Let me just turn on the griddle to preheat, Tiffany,” I said. I washed my hands in the kitchen sink. “Please come sit down. Would you like some coffee or tea?”

She looked surprised. “No, thank you.” With some hesitation, she took a seat in an armchair. Robin and I took the couch.

“I guess you're not teaching dance classes during the holidays,” I said, utterly at loss. Why on earth had she come here?

“You should understand that I didn't want … that coming here is really hard for me,” she said abruptly, as if the words had been ripped out of her throat.

“I don't understand at all,” I said. I wasn't giving her a hard time. I meant it.

“Because of Liza,” she said.

I made a “continue” gesture, trying not to look as impatient as I was feeling. Robin took my hand and squeezed it gently. He was telling me to calm down. I took a deep breath, let it out. “You want to talk about the situation between your daughter and Liza? The persecution?”

The word struck her like a slap. But she owned up to it. “Yes,” she said.

“And why are you telling me this? Shouldn't you go to Aubrey and Emily?”

“I know you and Father Scott were … good friends,” Tiffany said. I tried not to look indignant at her bringing up ancient history. “And you go to his church. You'll tell him what I say. I don't think I could face them now.”

That did her credit, but I realized it would sound patronizing to say so. “I understand,” I said.

“I want Aubrey and Emily to know that I've reviewed everything Sienna has done, for the first time. I've read her posts on Facebook and Twitter. I've seen the pictures. I know how far it went, way too far, without any interference from me. I know my daughter was very wrong to be so mean to Liza,” Tiffany said. Her back was stiff and her face, too. She was doing her best not to cry. “I can only say I didn't know it was so … extreme.”

I nodded, since I couldn't think of anything to say. I pitied Tiffany Andrews, which was something I'd never imagined I'd do.

“Sienna isn't a bad girl,” her mother said.

All evidence to the contrary.
But of course I didn't say that out loud. The woman was trying to do the right thing. Tiffany fell silent for such a long time that I was trying to think of how to prompt her. For one thing, I had to finish the supper preparations; but most importantly, this was excruciating to listen to.

“I guess that's all,” Tiffany said. She met my eyes squarely. “Please tell them what I said.”

Profound relief that this conversation was over. “What are you going to do about Sienna?” I asked, before I could stop myself. Sienna's punishment wasn't really my business. “I'm sorry, scratch that.” I mimicked erasing a blackboard with my hand.

“No Facebook. No computer. No cell phone,” she said. “And if she ever sees Liza again, she has to apologize to Liza's face.”

Wouldn't that make Sienna even angrier at Liza? If a child was insensitive enough to torment another one, would she ever understand the damage she had done? But I'd never raised a child, and I figured Tiffany was doing the best she could. And a lot more than I'd ever expected.

“I'll tell them,” I said. “And thank you for coming.”

Tiffany, looking vastly relieved, stood to depart. “I hope you get your brother back,” she said, as an afterthought.

“Me, too,” I said. Exhausted, I heaved myself to my feet and walked her to the door.

I waved as I watched her back out of my driveway, and I pondered anew the fact that people can act directly contrary to your knowledge of their nature. Before I could chicken out, I called the Scotts. To my relief, Aubrey answered. As thoroughly as I could, I related what Tiffany Andrews had told me: her contrition, and her determination that Sienna would not do such a thing again.

Like me, Aubrey was surprised. But he seemed to take heart that Tiffany was stepping up to take responsibility for not stopping Sienna's cruelty sooner. “I didn't expect that,” he said. “I'm really glad about it. And I'll tell Emily. Thanks, Roe, for receiving her apology. That must have been really uncomfortable.”

Yep.

While I was still standing at the window, my phone in my hand, my father returned in Robin's car. My heart fell with a thud. I was ashamed that my father made me so unhappy, but it was a fact.

He didn't soften that resolve any by his nonstop bitching during lunch.

“I don't think the cops are doing
anything,
” he said, loading pickles onto his bun. “They're eating doughnuts at Krispy Kreme instead of looking for my son, and they won't tell me what they're planning to do.”

I knew a lot of the men and women of our local law enforcement contingent, both city and county, and most of them were hardworking and sincere. But I didn't bother to interrupt the rant. He wouldn't listen. I laid my napkin by my plate, my appetite having fled.

Robin interrupted him. “Phil, I understand that you're upset about Phillip, and that you want to blame someone. But your attitude isn't helping us cope, and we'd rather not listen to this.”

I had to stop myself from clapping.

Of course, Dad got offended. “Phillip's my son,” he said angrily. “And he's missing! I'm scared he's dead! Can't I vent to my own family?”

“Aurora is scared of those things, too,” my husband said.

And Dad said, “Are you feeling guilty, Aurora? Because you didn't watch your brother close enough?”

There fell a dreadful silence, while my brain tried to make my father have said
anything
but what he'd said.

“You can have the gall to say that to me? After you made him so upset he hitchhiked across America to find a place to stay rather than remain with you?” I was literally shaking with rage. “You can spend the night here, but in the morning you're gone. I don't care where you stay or how you get around. I am done with you.”

Dad rose from the table and stalked back to the guest bedroom, slamming the door behind him.

I had never been so angry. I had foreseen putting up with him until this situation was resolved, despite everything. Now I didn't have to.

“Roe?” Robin said anxiously. “Honey? How are you?”

“I can't believe I said that,” I told him. I was stunned at my own words. “You wouldn't believe how good it feels. But I can't stop shaking, now.”

He smiled with relief. “You'll relax in a minute. That's my girl. Go get 'em.”

“If you had asked me if I would ever talk to either of my parents like that, I would have called you a numbskull.”

“You were justified.”

“I'm trying to stop a backlash of guilt,” I confessed.

“No guilt necessary,” he assured me, with a smile. “Now, can you please finish your dinner?”

The food tasted better now that my father was not at the table.

Later that afternoon, I told Robin I had to go to Tammy's visitation at the funeral home. He quickly volunteered to plan supper and do all the dishes if he could skip going. I thought he was getting the better part of the deal, but I agreed.

I was right.

And though we waited that night, we never heard anything about Clayton Harrison coming home.

 

Chapter Eleven

At some point during the night, after I got back from the visitation, someone left an anonymous letter under the windshield wiper of my car. Getting an anonymous letter is not a pleasant experience.

My father was gone when Robin and I got up the next morning. Apparently, he'd called a cab and crept out of the house in the early hours of the morning, and that meant he'd left the front door unlocked. At least our nameless visitor had not tried the door handle and visited us in our sleep.

Robin was holding the letter between his thumb and forefinger as though it were a dead mouse when he came back in the house with the newspaper. He'd gone out to move his car into the carport because it was supposed to rain, and also to make sure my father had left it in good order.

“Look,” Robin said. He laid the piece of paper on the kitchen counter. I was still in my fuzzy bathrobe, trying to keep down a piece of toast and some cranberry juice.

I leaned over the sheet of white computer paper. It had crinkled in the damp air and felt moist to the touch. But the typed words were still legible.

They are still alive. Find them.

My first reaction was profane. “Why the hell didn't this person just tell us where they are?” I said. “This is useless!”

“I guess we'd better call the police,” Robin said glumly, and soon he was talking to Detective Trumble. She came over right away; she didn't blink at me being still in my robe and nightgown. She'd brought a plastic sleeve for the paper, which she gently waved in the air with tongs so it would be dry when she inserted it.

“Interesting,” she said. “Either a really nasty person is jerking you around, or someone connected to the disappearance has a big sense of guilt and responsibility.”

“I wish that sense had been a little more helpful and specific,” I said.

“Me, too.” She looked at the message as if she hoped to find invisible writing below the typeface.

“Maybe whoever wrote it will crack under the strain and confess,” Robin said. He was determined to be upbeat.

“That would be wonderful.” I sighed. “But I'm not going to count on it.”

“You'd tell me, wouldn't you?” the detective said. “If you had a good idea who had put this on your car?”

“I sure wasn't looking out my window,” I said. Though I did have a suspicion. But that wasn't solid enough to tell Cathy Trumble.

“Aurora, when did your dad come into town?” Cathy Trumble asked casually.

It felt like forever ago. “Ah … three days ago?” I said.

“Is he still here? I mean, in your house?”

“No. We had some words last night, after which I told him to leave. Why?”

“Did you know that he's in trouble in California?” Trumble said.

Stunned, Robin and I gave each other a wide-eyed look. He shook his head, and I shook mine. Neither of us had heard that. “No,” I said. “Please tell me about this.”

“He lost his job last month,” the detective said. “His employer said it's because he's been gambling. He was getting threatening phone calls at work, and neglecting his duties.”

“He never did that before,” I said, startled, but then I paused. What did I really know about my father's life? I knew my mother had suffered from his infidelities; had he also had a gambling problem when he lived in Lawrenceton? “At least that I know of,” I added, with much less assurance.

“Gambling where?” Robin asked.

“Illegal games,” Detective Trumble said. She looked matter-of-fact. I realized she often had to tell people unpleasant truths. It was not a job I wanted, so I respected her for undertaking it.

“So.…” I waited for the rest of her facts. I knew there was more, or she wouldn't have brought it up.

“So he owes a lot of money,” Trumble said. “He needs cash badly, or he's going to be hip-deep in the worst kind of trouble.”

I said, “Wow.” That was a lot of unpleasantness to absorb. “Like, knee-breaking and stuff?”

Trumble shrugged. “The people he's lost to, they don't like nonpayment of debts.”

“That really happens?” Robin said, giving in to professional curiosity.

“Yep. It's not just in the movies.” From the expression on her face, she would have liked to have told us something different.

“Are you thinking that Phillip could have been snatched to force Dad to pay up?” I was startled by this new scenario, and not a little skeptical.

“We have to consider it,” she said. “On the other hand, what loan shark would abduct a whole bunch of other kids? That just doesn't make sense.”

From the concentration on his face, I knew that Robin was trying to construct a plot in which Phillip's being taken would be feasible. I wanted so badly to tell Cathy Trumble about the missing Clayton and his ransom that it made me almost sick, but when I remembered Karina Harrison's plea, I just couldn't do it, not without warning her. But I was teetering on the edge. I glanced at Robin, but he was still absorbed in his thoughts.