Todd Strasser - Kill You Last

I jammed on the brakes, and the tires screeched as we lurched to a stop.

“Sorry,” I said.

“You didn’t tell me you gave this guy an exclusive interview,” Roman said.

“I didn’t know I had.” I explained how Whit had caught me by surprise the night before. And how I’d gotten angry and blown him off once I realized what he was up to.

“Think you owe him an apology?” she asked as I started to drive again.

“No and yes. I mean, I’d like to thank him for what he wrote, but all I knew last night was that he was looking for information for an article. Maybe if he’d told me what he was planning, I would have been a little more understanding.”

“Are journalists supposed to tell you ahead of time what they’re planning to write?” Roman switched off the iPad.

It was a rhetorical question, and neither of us spoke as I drove the rest of the way to school. I wondered if Roman was thinking what I was thinking: Whit had obviously written his article before the story about “the alleged” modeling scam appeared on TV. Given this morning’s revelations, would he still have defended my father? And would Chief Jenkins still have said all that politically correct stuff about being innocent until proven guilty?

But wasn’t I doing exactly what I was so angry at everyone else for doing? Judging Dad based on no real evidence? Just because some girl on TV said he was running a modeling scam, did that mean it was true?

No, not necessarily.

Innocent until proven guilty.

Right?

Usually.

But as soon I stepped through the front doors, it was obvious that at school the verdict was already in.

The stares and whispers were everywhere. As Roman and I walked past the main office, even the secretaries paused in what they were doing. I felt Roman nudge me. Chris Clarke was coming down the hall. I steeled my nerves and decided to do what Roman suggested and say something.

“You go, girl,” she whispered as I headed toward him.

But I didn’t make it. Halfway there, my eyes met his, and he instantly looked away. No smile. No nod.

I felt a chill and rejoined Roman.

“What happened?” she asked in a low voice.

“He’s not interested anymore,” I said, feeling like I wanted to cry.

“What are you talking about? He-”

“Stop.” I cut her short, not wanting to discuss it. “You didn’t see what I saw. He’s not interested, period. End of discussion.”

Roman slid her arm through mine. “I’m sorry, Shels; that really sucks.”

I fought back tears. Yes, I thought. It really does.

By lunchtime I’d called Dad three times, but he hadn’t answered. It was so unlike him that I even tried the studio number, hoping Janet or Mercedes would get him for me. But all I got was voice mail.

“No appetite?” Roman asked in the cafeteria at lunch.

I shook my head. The thought of eating made me ill.

“Talk to your dad?”

I told her about the unanswered calls. “I’m worried that something bad has happened.”

“Why don’t you go over to the studio?”

The idea hadn’t occurred to me. “You mean, right now? Just leave school?”

“I told you this morning I was kind of amazed you wanted to come here in the first place.”

I thought about it and, without realizing what I was doing, let my gaze drift around the cafeteria. For what felt like the first time that day, not one person was staring in my direction. They were all eating and talking with friends. I don’t know why my gaze stopped where it did, at a table filled with girls. Maybe because Ashley Walsh, an old friend of mine, was sitting there. And now I looked at the girls she was currently friendly with: Emily Bryson, Sonja Dean, and Tara Kraus, the girl who’d called Dad a creep the day before.

Just at that moment, Tara looked up. When she realized my eyes were on her, she wrinkled her nose and gave me the most hateful look imaginable. Then she said something to the other girls at the table, and they all stared at me.

I quickly looked away, but my mind was made up. Given the choice between getting hateful stares or going to the studio to see if Dad was okay, I chose the latter.

“I’m out of here.” I got up.

Roman gave me a quick hug. “Let me know what you find out, okay?”

It felt strange to walk out of school in the middle of the day, almost as if I expected one of the principals to come running out to ask where I thought I was going. But no one did.

A few minutes later, as I drove down the street toward the studio, the mob of media people camped outside began to mobilize. Camera strobes flashed, and one guy with a microphone made a cranking motion as if he wanted me to lower my window. I looked for Whit in the crowd but didn’t see him.

In addition to the regular collection of cars, two dark sedans were parked in the lot behind the studio. The police had returned. Maybe that explained why Dad hadn’t answered my calls that morning.

I rang the back-door bell and waited a long time before Mercedes answered. She tried to smile, but you could see the stress in her eyes.

“La policia esta aqui?” I whispered as I stepped inside.

“Yes.”

“?Como estas?” I asked.

She blinked, as if surprised that I’d be concerned about her, considering what was going on with my father, then nodded silently.

“This must be so upsetting for you.”

“More for you than for me,” she replied.

“I don’t have a little boy to support.”

Her gaze quickly dropped. The new allegations didn’t affect just Mom and me. They affected everyone who worked at the studio. “I’ll be okay,” she said.

I wondered how true that was. Mercedes needed this job. She didn’t have a husband to help raise her son and support her. Each day, a rotating cast of men with tattoos and earrings driving low-riding growly cars would drop her off at work. I had no idea whether they were brothers, cousins, or…boyfriends?

Janet came around the corner, looking agitated. She walked toward us with her head down, rummaging through her bag and muttering to herself until she looked up and abruptly stopped with an expression of surprise on her face. It was a strange moment, and I had the distinct feeling that she was apprehensive about what I might do or say.

“Hi,” I said.

A second passed when she seemed to gather herself. “He’s in the office,” she said, then pulled a pack of cigarettes from her bag and went outside.

I walked down the hall toward the studio office, wondering if I’d run into Gabriel next and how he’d react to seeing me. And how I’d react to seeing him after bolting out of his apartment the night before. But I got to the office, and inside, Dad was leaning against a desk with his arms crossed while two men in sports jackets sorted through files. He saw me, said something to the men, then came out.

“Sorry I couldn’t answer your calls, sweetheart,” he said.

“These guys have been here all morning.”

“What’s going on?” I whispered.

Dad nodded across the hall to the photo studio, where we could speak in private. Inside, we stood in a corner beside a small sink, refrigerator, and espresso machine.

“They showed up with a warrant to go through the files again,” he said while putting a pod in the espresso machine.

“But Chief Jenkins said you weren’t a suspect.”

“Just because they’re looking at files doesn’t mean I’m a suspect in a crime. At this point we don’t even know if there’s been a crime. They’re probably just looking for more information about the missing girls. Want a cup?”

He carried two espressos over to a table and we sat.