Todd Strasser - Kill You Last

Gabriel glanced at the papers on the floor as if it was nothing unusual, then smiled at me. “Hey.”

My insides turning to Jell-O, I calmly replied, “Hi, what’s up?”

“Big glamour shoot today.”

“Really? Who?”

“General Tso and his friends Moo Shu and Ginger.”

“Hardy-har-har.” I showed him I got the joke, then pointed across the hall at the photo studio door. “Can I go in?”

“Sure. The prawns won’t mind if you see them undressed.”

I went into the photo studio, which, not surprisingly, smelled like a Chinese restaurant. Dad was focusing a camera on a brightly lit plate of chow mein. On a table nearby, a dozen other Asian dishes waited their turn in the spotlight.

“This for a food magazine?” I asked.

“Not exactly.” Dad fired a few shots. Strobes popped and flashed, leaving spots in my eyes.

“Advertising?”

“Sort of.” He repositioned the plate. “A menu. For the Whacky Wok.”

The Whacky Wok was a hole-in-the-wall takeout place on a side street in Soundview. A sign over the counter displayed photos of the various menu items along with corresponding numbers. A wisp of sadness swept over me. In the world of commercial photography, shooting menus was about as low as you could go, especially for a man who’d once done $10,000-a-day fashion shoots. More pops and flashes followed, then Dad replaced the chow mein with what looked like cashew chicken.

“What’s with the detectives and the missing girls?” I asked.

“You got me.” He adjusted a light. “Seems that we did some shots for their books.”

“Books” was model-business slang for the portfolios in which models carried their photos.

“Did they say what they think happened to them?”

“Nah, just asked some questions.” Again strobes popped and flashed. Dad seemed totally unconcerned. I decided to show him the strange e-mail from vengeance13773288@gmail. com.

“Interesting,” Dad said after reading my BlackBerry.

“Any idea what it means?”

He rubbed his hands together, made his eyes bulge, and grinned maniacally. “I could tell you, my dear, but then I’d have to kill you.”

“I’m serious, Dad.”

“Seriously?” His shoulders sagged. “Not a clue. Probably just someone playing with your head, you know?”

Sounded logical, I thought. But who?

Dad picked up his camera. “Gotta get this done before the food starts to look soggy. Feel free to take home anything I’ve finished shooting.”

“You won’t be home for dinner?”

“Looks like I’ll be here pretty late.”

I accepted the news with resignation. Dad always had a reason to stay away from home. And not just for late nights at the studio, but on weekends, too, when he’d go out of town to shoot weddings and anniversaries.

I put my arms around his neck and hugged him. “Why don’t you have dinner with us tonight?”

“Too much to do here,” he said, hugging me back. “But I promise we’ll do something special on Sunday, okay? Just the two of us?”

I kissed him on the cheek, took the chow mein, and went back out to the hall. There was no sign of Gabriel. In the office, Janet was thumbing through a file cabinet, the contents of the dropped files still scattered all over the floor, and the half-finished plate of beef with broccoli on her desk. I thought of saying goodbye but didn’t want to risk startling her again.

As I passed the kitchenette, Gabriel stepped out. I practically wound up in his arms. “Ah!” I laughed nervously and backed away, feeling my face grow hot. “Sorry!”

He smiled calmly, as if women stepped into his arms all the time, which, come to think of it, was probably true. “Nothing to be sorry about. That was nice.” His words had a slightly teasing quality. Meanwhile, those dark eyes burrowed in. “You look pretty.”

“Thanks,” I said, and almost replied, “You look gorgeous.”

“Got a boyfriend?” he asked.

“No one special.”

“That’s surprising.”

“Not if you saw what Soundview High has to offer.” That wasn’t really the case, but I never let the truth get in the way of snappy repartee.

He smiled again. This wasn’t the first time I’d felt attraction vibes emanating from him. But something always seemed to hold him back. I suspected it was because he worked for Dad and was worried that if we started dating and things went sour, it might make for an awkward situation.

Which was too bad.

Maybe I’d have to talk Dad into firing him.

Just kidding.

When I got home, Mom was sitting in the kitchen doing a crossword puzzle while she watched TV. The scent of chicken and sweet potatoes was in the air, and the table was set for three. I immediately felt bad that we were going to have yet another dinner without Dad. When Mom saw the chow mein covered with aluminum foil, she scowled.

“I stopped at the studio,” I explained. “Dad’s doing a Chinese menu. He said he wouldn’t be home for dinner.”

Her forehead creased, and she nodded silently. There didn’t seem to be anything more to say. When I was in grade school, she used to ask how school was, but school was always the same, and even though I was a good student, the best thing about every day was when it was over. So I never wanted to talk about it. Meanwhile, as I grew older, I couldn’t help noticing that my parents’ relationship grew more and more strained, so when I reached the bratty age of twelve, I had the perfect retort. Each time Mom asked how school was, I’d say, “How’re things with Dad?”

It didn’t take long for Mom to stop asking about school.

The ironic thing was, now that I was eighteen, I sometimes wished she would.

“What a weird day,” I said, putting the food in the refrigerator in case I got hungry later.

“Why do you say that?” Mom asked.

I told her about the detectives and the missing girls, and then showed her the anonymous e-mail.

Mom’s eyebrows dipped into a V. “Do you have any idea who it could be from?”

I shook my head. “Could be someone just fooling around.”

Mom’s scowl deepened. “I’d hate to think that this is someone’s idea of a joke.”

“Kind of sick, right?”

She nodded. I could have let it drop, but the truth was, there was something else bothering me. It had been bothering me for a long time, long before the anonymous e-mail appeared on my phone, and I knew it had to bother Mom, too, but we’d never spoken about it. Now I was hoping that she would bring it up so I wouldn’t have to. When she didn’t, I took a deep breath. “Mom, the thing is, you know Dad. Sometimes he can be, well, a little inappropriate.”

She stiffened, and I knew immediately that she understood what I was referring to. Our eyes met, and then she gazed off into the distance. Just when I thought that she had nothing to say on the matter, she asked, “Is there something…you want to tell me?”

I felt relief that she was willing to listen. “Nothing specific. But I just can’t help wondering if that’s what the person who wrote that e-mail meant. I mean, the way Dad sometimes looks at my friends, especially when they’re wearing something low-cut? And the things he says. You know…things that…fathers shouldn’t say.”

Mom was still looking out the window. It had been sunny earlier, but now the day was gray and shadowless. “I don’t know,” she said. “It could mean anything. Or maybe you’re right, and it’s just a prank. There’s no way to know.”

But what she was really saying was, she didn’t want to talk about it.

We ate dinner and watched the news. Mom was all about not rocking the little boat our family sailed through life in. And even though we’d been sailing through stormy waters for years, she seemed reluctant to acknowledge it. To me, Dad was an upsetting contradiction. As a father he could be so much fun, always up for a movie or a game or some crazy spontaneous event in the city, and he was a good sounding board, too, always ready to listen to my problems and help me work through them. But then there was that other man, the one who stared a little too long at my friends, who joked lewdly about women with big chests and short skirts. A lot of men may have thought those things, but leave it to Dad to be the one who verbalized them.