Todd Strasser - Kill You Last

You almost had me. But I get it now. All this is to you is a chance to get a story. Meanwhile, my father’s reputation…my family’s whole life…is on the line. And there hasn’t been a single shred of evidence connecting him to those missing girls except some head shots…God, I can’t believe I even spoke to you. You don’t even go to Sarah Lawrence, do you? This isn’t an indisputably unlikely coincidence, or whatever you called it. You probably followed me this morning and made this whole thing up just to get me to drop my guard. I’m counting to three, and if you’re not off my property, I’m calling nine-one-one.”

“But-” he began.

I got out my BlackBerry. “One…two…”

He raised his hands. “Okay, okay, you win.” He turned and headed back down the driveway. But as I let myself into the house, I heard him call, “I really do go to Sarah Lawrence.”

Still annoyed with myself for coming so close to being suckered, I went inside and locked the door. The kitchen was dark, and I pressed my back to the door, trying to calm down. Then I became aware of voices coming from the living room.

“What exactly did you think was going to happen?” Mom asked, sounding angry and upset.

“I know, I know,” Dad answered, with a subdued, regretful voice. “I didn’t think.”

“No kidding,” Mom practically spat. Her tone caught me by surprise. I wasn’t sure I’d ever heard her be so harsh.

“So what do I do?” Dad asked.

“You tell the truth. Those girls came to you for head shots, and yes, it looks very suspicious now that they’re missing, but you have absolutely no idea what happened to them. That is the truth, isn’t it?”

“Yes.”

“You’re sure?” Mom pressed.

“I said yes, Ruth.” Dad’s answer was more emphatic.

“Then I don’t understand what your problem is,” Mom said.

There was silence for a moment. Then Dad said, “Should I hire a lawyer?”

In the quiet that followed, I wondered why he’d ask that if he was innocent.

As if she’d read my thoughts, Mom said, “If you hire a lawyer, people will instantly begin to wonder why you feel you need one.”

“But if I don’t, I feel totally vulnerable. What if I say the wrong thing? I feel like it’s me against the whole world.”

I felt a pang when I heard that. My parents had been married for twenty years, and now Dad was basically saying that he didn’t feel like he could count on Mom for emotional support. I felt the urge to go down the hall and tell him that he’d always have my support. But I knew better than to get between them. I could tell him later.

I waited for Mom’s answer, hoping that she’d reassure him that he wasn’t all alone, that she’d stand by him. But it was Dad’s voice I heard next. “I guess, at this point, Ruth, saying I’m sorry doesn’t mean very much.”

Again there was silence. What was Dad saying he was sorry for? For the iciness that had grown between them? For choosing to sleep in a separate bedroom? I still didn’t know what had caused all their ill will in the first place. Was that what he was talking about?

I got into bed with my laptop and looked for news, but there’d been no new developments during the day. The police were still “looking into the situation.” I took a look at the Snoop, too, which featured mostly Soundview-centric information about town government, schools, and complaints about leaf-blower noise. But I purposefully stayed off video chat and IMs.

Later I lay in the dark with unanswered questions instead of dreams. If Dad had no connection to the three missing girls, why was he thinking about hiring a lawyer? Who was vengeance13773288@gmail. com, and what did he know about this? And what had Dad apologized to Mom for, knowing ahead of time that she wouldn’t accept his apology?

I woke with a jolt, the alarm like a buzz saw five inches from my ear. I felt like I’d hardly slept at all, but sunlight filtered in through the shades. Fumbling to turn off the alarm, I accidentally knocked it to the floor, where it continued to buzz out of reach. Burying my head under the pillows didn’t work, so finally I dragged my sleep-deprived body out of bed. But even before I hit the shower, I checked the computer. Roman was on. Sometimes I wondered if she ever slept.

“S’up?” I asked with a yawn.

“Have you seen what’s on TV this morning?” she asked.

Despite the cobwebs in my brain, I knew her question meant bad news. “Oh God, now what?”

On the screen, I watched as Roman aimed her webcam at the small TV on her desk. A teenage girl was being interviewed by a news anchor in a studio. In the top right corner of the screen was a small box with a photo. It took a moment for me to realize it was Dad.

“So how did this scam, as you call it, work?” the blonde anchorwoman asked the girl.

“My friends and I were at the mall one day, and this woman came up to me and asked if I’d ever considered modeling,” the girl said.

“And what made you think she was a legitimate modeling agent?” asked the anchorwoman.

“She didn’t ask all of us. Just me. She said I had the right look, and she gave me her business card. It all seemed very professional.”

“What happened next?”

“She said that she was part of a team from New York that was in town for the weekend scouting for talent, and that if I was interested, I should talk to my parents and then come to this hotel for head shots and to sign with the agency.”

“Which you did?”

The girl nodded. “I got my mom to take me later that afternoon. They had a whole suite, and there was all this photography equipment and a stylist and a photographer’s assistant. They had me dress up in different outfits and they took my picture. And then the agent gave me a contract, and my mom read it. She said it sounded okay and I could sign it.”

“What did the contract say?”

“My mom read it, so I don’t really know. All she told me was that if the modeling agency got me any jobs, they would get a percentage of what I earned. Which sounded fair.”

“Only they never got you any jobs?” the anchorwoman said.

The girl shook her head. “None. We waited for a while, and then called the agency a couple of times, and they said that business was slow and they would be in touch as soon as anything came up that they thought I was right for.”

“Did they ever call?”

“No.”

“Okay,” said the anchorwoman. “Let’s go back to the day you were discovered, so to speak. How much did you have to pay for those head shots?”

“About seven hundred dollars.”

“Were there any other fees?”

“Yes. Three hundred and fifty for the stylist to do my hair and makeup. And two hundred dollars for the contract processing fee and my credentials.”

“What did they mean by credentials?”

“Like all the information about me that went on the back of the head shots, and a business card with my photo and contact information and the agency name on it.”

“A business card that it turns out you could have ordered yourself for under twenty-five dollars?” the anchorwoman said.

The girl nodded.

“In fact, you and your mom did some research to figure out what all this would have cost had you done it on your own?”

“Yes,” the girl said. “We figured out that we could have done it all for about four hundred dollars.”

“And yet, you were charged well over a thousand?”

“Uh-huh,” said the girl.

The image on my computer screen swiveled around as Roman aimed her webcam back at herself. “Seen enough?”

I was stunned. A scam? A modeling agent stopping girls in malls? A photographer and his crew from New York taking over a hotel suite?