“I really hurt that girl,” he said.
“You didn’t mean to. All the kids and parents still love you.”
He said nothing.
“She’ll get over it. This is all going to pass, Joe. It’ll be fine.”
His lower lip started quaking. He was falling apart. Much as she loved him, much as she knew that he was a far better teacher and person than she would ever be, Dolly also knew that her husband was not the strongest man. People thought he was. He came from a big family, growing up the youngest of six siblings, but his father had been too domineering. He’d belittled his youngest, gentlest son, and in turn, Joe found an escape in being funny and entertaining. Joe Lewiston was the finest man she had ever known, but he was also weak.
That was okay with her. It was Dolly’s job to be the strong one. It fell to her to hold her husband and her family together.
“I’m sorry I snapped,” Joe said.
“That’s okay.”
“You’re right. This will pass.”
“Exactly.” She kissed his neck and then the spot behind the earlobe. His favorite. She used her tongue and gently swirled. She waited for the small moan. It never came. Dolly whispered, “Maybe you should stop correcting papers for a little while, hmm?”
He pulled away, just a little. “I, uh, really need to finish these.”
Dolly stood and took a step back. Joe Lewiston saw what he’d done, tried to recover.
“Can I take a rain check?” he asked.
That was what she used to say when not in the mood. That was, in fact, the “wife” line in general, wasn’t it? He had always been the aggressor that way—no weakness there—but the last few months, since the slip of the tongue, pardon the wording, he had been different even in that.
“Sure,” she said.
Dolly turned away.
“Where are you going?” he asked.
“I’ll be back,” Dolly said. “I just need to run to the store and then I’ll pick up Allie. You finish correcting your papers.”
Dolly Lewiston dashed upstairs, logged online, looked up Guy Novak’s address, got directions. She also checked her school e-mail address—there was always a complaining parent—but it hadn’t been working for the past two days. Still nothing.
“My e-mail is still on the fritz,” she called down.
“I’ll check on it,” he said.
Dolly printed out the directions to Guy Novak’s house, folded the paper into quarters, and jammed it into her pocket. On the way out, she kissed her husband on the top of his head. He told her that he loved her. She told him that she loved him too.
She grabbed her keys and started after Guy Novak.
TIA could see it in their faces: The police weren’t buying Adam’s disappearance.
“I thought you could do an Amber Alert or something,” Tia said.
There were two cops who looked almost comical together. One was a tiny Latino in uniform named Guttierez. The other was a tall black woman who introduced herself as Detective Clare Schlich.
Schlich was the one who replied to her question: “Your son doesn’t meet the Amber Alert criteria.”
“Why not?”
“There has to be some evidence he was abducted.”
“But he’s sixteen years old and he’s missing.”
“Yes.”
“So what kind of evidence do you need?”
Schlich shrugged. “A witness might be nice.”
“Not every abduction has a witness.”
“That’s correct, ma’am. But you need some evidence of an abduction or threat of physical harm. Do you have any?”
Tia wouldn’t call them rude; “patronizing” would be the better word. They dutifully took down the information. They did not dismiss their concerns, but they weren’t about to drop everything and put all their manpower on this one. Clare Schlich made her position clear with questions and follow-ups on what Mike and Tia told her:
“You monitored your son’s computer?”
“You activated the GPS on his cell?”
“You were concerned enough about his behavior to follow him into the Bronx?”
“He’s run away before?”
Like that. On one level, Tia didn’t blame the two cops, but all she could see was that Adam was missing.
Guttierez had already talked to Mike earlier. He added, “You said you saw Daniel Huff Junior—DJ Huff—on the street? That he might have been out with your son?”
“Yes.”
“I just spoke to his father. He’s a cop, did you know that?”
“I do.”
“He said his son was home all night.”
Tia looked at Mike. She saw something explode behind his eyes. His pupils became pinpricks. She had seen that look before. She put a hand on his arm, but there was no calming him.
“He’s lying,” Mike said.
The cop shrugged his shoulders. Tia watched Mike’s swollen face darken. He looked up at her, then at Mo, and said, “We’re out of here. Now.”
The doctor wanted Mike to stay another day, but that wasn’t going to happen. Tia knew better than to play the concerned wife. She knew that Mike would get over his physical injuries. He was so damn tough. This was his third concussion—the first two he’d suffered in a hockey rink. Mike had lost teeth and had stitches in his face more times than a man should and had broken his nose twice and his jaw once and never, not once, missed a game—in most cases, he had even finished playing in the games where he’d been hurt.
Tia also knew there would be no arguing this point with her hus- band—and she didn’t want to. She wanted him out of bed and looking for their son. Doing nothing, she knew, would hurt far more.
Mo helped Mike sit up. Tia helped him get on his clothes. There were bloodstains on them. Mike didn’t care. He rose. They were almost out the door when Tia felt her cell phone vibrate. She prayed that it was Adam. It wasn’t.
Hester Crimstein did not bother with hello.
“Any word on your son?”
“Nothing. The police are dismissing him as a runaway.”
“Isn’t he?”
That stopped Tia.
“I don’t think so.”
“Brett told me you spy on him,” Hester said.
Brett and his big mouth, she thought. Wonderful. “I monitor his online activity.”
“You say tomato, I say tomahto.”
“Adam wouldn’t run away like this.”
“Gee, no parent has ever said that before.”