Todd Strasser - Kill You Last

“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.

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 might 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 vengance13773288@gmail. com: 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.

Mom came into the kitchen in her robe, glanced at the TV as if she already knew what was on it, and poured herself a cup of coffee.

“Where’s Dad?” I asked.

“He left early.”

“Why?”

“Because of all those people outside.”

Oh, right, of course. Now that an actual body had been found, there was probably more media than ever. Having gone straight to the kitchen, I hadn’t yet looked out front that morning.