Meg Cabot - Missing You

Kristin knit her pretty brow. “No, he hasn’t.”

“Yes,” I said. “He has.”

“No,” Kristin said with a smirk, “he hasn’t. And I think I would know. I mean, I’d have noticed a camera in the bedroom.”

“The camera was hidden in the bedroom closet,” I said. “Behind the mirror—which was really two-way glass—over the dresser.”

Kristin blinked her heavily mascaraed eyelashes. Then she said, “Nuh-uh.”

“Uh-huh,” I said. “Kristin. I’ve seen the tapes. You’re wearing a matching red tiger-stripe-bra-and-panty set. You also,” I added, “have a tendency to squeal.”

Kristin went pale beneath her blusher. Her head swiveled towards Randy Junior.

“How would she know that?” she demanded shrilly of her boyfriend. “How does she know that?”

“Because I’ve seen the tapes, Kristin,” I said. “I’ve seenall the tapes. Carly. Jasmine. Beth.”

Quick as lightning, Kristin’s hand whipped out, meeting with Randy Junior’s face with crackling force.

“You told me Jasmine was your sister,”she hissed, tears of fury standing on the ends of her dark eyelashes.

“That’s funny,” I said as Randy Junior tried to shrink into a ball in his chair. “That’s what Jasmine says he told her about you, Kristin.”

Kristin swung an astonished gaze towards me. So did Randy Junior. So, for that matter, did Rob.

“You talked to Jasmine?” Randy Junior breathed.

“Oh,” I said calmly. “I talked to them all this morning, Randy. And you know, I have to say, even though you made sure to select such a wide variety of different girls—blondes, brunettes, redheads, short, skinny, tall—they all had one thing in common. And that was that they didn’t know they were being filmed. And they’re all pretty pissed off about it. Most of them pissed off enough to press charges.”

“Oh, sweet Lord,” Randy Whitehead Senior said, dropping his balding head into his hands.

Randy Junior, meanwhile, had curled into the smallest ball he could. He had to, if he wanted to escape Kristin’s slaps, which she was raining down on him with feminine fury.

“You jerk!” she cried. “You lied to me! You lied! You said you loved me! You said I was the only one! You said you’d always take care of me! Where am I going to go now? Huh? Where?”

“You could go home,” I suggested quietly.

This caught her attention. She stopped slapping Randy long enough to glance my way.

“No, I can’t,” she said with a sniffle. “My dad kicked me out.”

“He’s willing to let you come back,” I said. “At least, he was when I spoke to him this morning.”

“You…you talked to my dad?” Kristin asked as if she didn’t dare believe it.

“If you’re Kristin Pine from Brazil, Indiana,” I said, “then yeah, I did. Your dad was pretty relieved to hear from me, as a matter of fact. He and your mom have been worried about you. Well, who wouldn’t worry,” I added with a glance at Mr. Whitehead Senior, “about their runaway fifteen-year-old?”

“Christ,” Randy Senior said, burying his face more deeply into his hands.

“How…how did you know?” Kristin breathed, staring at me incredulously. “Who my parents were…whoI was?”

“She’s Lightning Girl,” Rob said simply.

I glanced in his direction. I wouldn’t say he’d spoken with extreme bitterness, or anything. But he hadn’t exactly sounded thrilled. He was sitting back in his chair, sort of just taking the drama in as it unfolded in front of him. He seemed almost relaxed. Well, more so than anyone else in the room.

At least until Randy Whitehead Senior said to me in a voice that was deathly quiet, “You’re going to regret this, girlie. I know you did it to get back at my boy for what he did to your friend’s sister. But dragging in all those other girls and the police…you’re going to regret it.”

Now Rob didn’t look relaxed at all. He leaned forward in his chair and said, “Excuse me. But are youthreatening her?”

“Oh, you’re damned straight I’m threatening her,” Randy Senior said. “Her. You. Her parents. This is war, girlie. You crossed the wrong man, this time.”

“I don’t think so,” I said matter-of-factly. “And here’s why. The only person going down here today is your son. If anything happens to me, or to my family or friends, you’re going to be joining your son in the big house. Or, in your case, I guess you’d call it the doghouse.”

Randy Senior blinked at me.

“Just what in the hell,” he said, “are you talking about?”

“Well, as the owner and developer of the Fountain Bleu apartment complex, you are, of course, ultimately responsible for the management of it, including who you employ to run it…. In this case, that would be your son, Randy, who, as we know now, took advantage of his position there to illicitly house underage runaways, then film them in sex acts with himself—” Across from me, Kristin let out a sob. “Sorry,” I said to her apologetically.

“It’s okay,” she said with a sniff.

I went on. “Obviously, this leaves you pretty open to both criminal and civil charges. You’re in a very vulnerable situation right now.”

Mr. Whitehead Senior stared at me. “Just what, exactly, are you saying? Are you trying to offer us some kind of deal?”

The buzzer on the intercom sounded again. “Mr. Whitehead.” Thelma sounded tense. “I don’t know how much longer these police officers are willing to wait on you….”

Randy Senior threw Just For Men and his friend an appealing look. “Go on out there,” he said. “And see if you can stall them.”

Just For Men nodded. “Will do,” he said. And they both left.

Randy Senior looked at me. “Now. Just what kind of deal are we talking about?”

“Oh, no deal for your son,” I said quickly. “Obviously. But for you…well, there’s a piece of property I know you have your eye on—Pine Heights Elementary School?”

Mr. Whitehead’s eyes narrowed at me. “That’s right. You were at the city council meeting last night. That’s where Randy said he met you.”

“Right. Your plan is to convert the building to condos. If, however, you could see your way to abandoning the condo plan and put your support—and a sizable donation—towards establishing an alternative school there, I think I might be able to work out a deal with the offended parties that will keep you out of jail and civil court as well.”

Randy Whitehead Senior stared at me. So did his son. So did Rob. The only person in the room, in fact, who was not staring at me was Kristin, and that’s because she was looking at her reflection in her compact mirror and carefully wiping away the mascara tracks her tears had made down her cheeks.

“Just how much,” Randy Senior wanted to know, “of a donation are we talking about here?”

“Oh, nothing much,” I said. “To a man of your wealth, anyway. And you could write it off as a tax deduction, I’m sure.”

His voice was cold. “How. Much.”

“I think three million dollars would work,” I said.

Down crashed the golf-ball paperweight again. Kristin jumped, with a little hiccup.

“There is no way!” Randy Senior bellowed. “No way! Just who in the hell do you think—I have friends in this town, girlie. I’ll take my chances in court! I’ll pay off whoever I have to! I’ll—”

Rob stood up. He was so tall and broad-shouldered that he seemed to take up an astonishing amount of space in the large office.

“You’ll do,” he said in a deep, quiet voice, “what she tells you to do.”

Randy Whitehead Senior made a mistake then. He looked up into Rob’s face, and he laughed.

“Oh, yeah?” he squawked. “Or what?”