“Where are you going?”
“Home.”
“You can’t drive.”
“I’m fine.”
“No, Phil, you’re not.”
“Now?” he shouted, startling her. “Now you’re interested in my well-being?”
He started to sob. In a normal bar, this might have drawn a few curious glances, but what with the blaring televisions and the focus on the games, it barely made a blip.
“What the hell is going on?” she asked.
“Drop this. Do you hear me? I’m telling you this not just for our sake—but yours too.”
“Mine?”
“You’re putting yourself in harm’s way. Your son too.”
She gripped his arm hard. “Phil?”
He tried to stand, but the drinks had weakened him.
“You just sort of threatened my kid.”
“You got it backward,” he said. “You’re putting mine in danger.”
She let go of him. “How?”
He shook his head. “You just need to leave this alone, okay? All of us do. Stop trying to reach Farley and Steve—they won’t talk to you anyway. Leave Kelvin alone. There is nothing to gain here. It’s over. Dan is dead. And if you keep pressing, more people will die.”
CHAPTER 29
SHE TRIED TO PRESS PHIL for more information, but he just shut down. She ended up giving him a ride home. When she arrived back at her house, Pops and Charlie were watching TV.
“Time for bed,” she said.
Pops groaned. “Aww, can’t I just stay up till the end?”
“Funny.”
Pops shrugged. “Not my best work, but it’s late.”
“Charlie?”
He kept his eyes on the screen. “I thought it was pretty funny.”
Great, she thought. A comedy team. “Bed.”
“Do you know what movie this is?”
She looked. “It looks like the wildly inappropriate Harold & Kumar Go to White Castle.”
“Exactly,” Pops said. “And in our family, we don’t stop in the middle of Harold and Kumar. It’s disrespectful.”
He had a point, and she did love this movie. So she sat with them and laughed and for a little while she tried to forget about dead girls and possible pedophiles and Princeton roommates and threats to her son. The last one, selfish as it sounded, would not leave. Phil Turnball did not hit her as an alarmist, yet he had been willing to—again to quote the teenage vernacular—“go there.”
Maybe Phil had a point. Her story had been on Dan Mercer and maybe Haley McWaid. That part of the story was indeed over. She had her job back. She had come out of the whole thing rather well, in fact—the reporter who had exposed not only a pedophile but a murderer. Follow up on that angle maybe. Work with the police to see if there were other victims.
She looked at Charlie lounging on the couch. He laughed at something Neil Patrick Harris playing Neil Patrick Harris said. She loved the sound of his laugh. What parent doesn’t? She stared at him for a few more moments and thought about Ted and Marcia McWaid and how they would never hear Haley laugh again and then her mind made her stop.
When the alarm went off in the morning—seemingly after eight minutes of sleep—Wendy dragged herself out of bed. She called for Charlie. No answer. She called again. Nothing.
She hopped out of bed. “Charlie!”
Still no answer.
Panic gripped her, made it hard to breathe. “Charlie!” She ran down the corridor, her heart beating wildly against her rib cage. She turned the corner, opening the door without knocking.
He was there, of course, still in bed, the covers pulled over his head.
“Charlie!”
He groaned. “Go away.”
“Get up.”
“Can’t I sleep in?”
“I warned you last night. Now get up.”
“First period is health class. Can’t I skip it? Please?”
“Get. Up. Now.”
“Health class,” he said again. “They teach sex stuff to us impressionable youngsters. It makes us more promiscuous. Really, I think for my moral well-being you should let me stay in bed.”
She tried not to smile. “Get. The. F. Up.”
“Five more minutes? Please?”
She sighed. “Okay, five more minutes. No more.”
An hour and a half later, as health class ended, she drove him to school. What the heck. Senior year and he’d already been accepted to college. It was okay to coast a little, she reasoned.
When she got back home, she checked her e-mail. There was a message from Lawrence Cherston, the administrator of the Princeton class Web site. He would be “delighted” to meet with her at her “earliest convenience.” His address: Princeton, New Jersey. She called him back and asked him whether they could meet today at three PM. Lawrence Cherston again said that he’d be “delighted.”
After hanging up, Wendy decided to check her fake Facebook profile, Sharon Hait. Of course, whatever had spooked Phil had nothing to do with the Kirby Sennett side of the case. Then again what did this have to do with anything?
Still, no harm in checking Facebook. She signed in and was pleased to see that Kirby Sennett had friended her. Okay, good. Now what? Kirby had also sent her an invitation to a Red Bull party. She clicked the link. There was a photograph of a smiling Kirby holding up a big can of Red Bull.
There was an address and a time and a brief note from ol’ Kirby. “Hi, Sharon, would love you to come!”
So much for mourning. She wondered what a Red Bull party was. Probably just that—a party that served the “energy drink” Red Bull, though maybe spiked with something stronger—but she would ask Charlie.
So now what? Should she start up a relationship, see if she could get him to open up? No. Too creepy. It was one thing to pretend you’re a young girl to trap a depraved pervert. It was another for the mother of a teenage boy to pretend to be a teenager to get one of his classmates to talk.
So what was the point here?
No idea.
Her phone rang. She checked the caller ID and saw it was coming from the NTC Network office.
“Hello?”
“Ms. Wendy Tynes?” The voice was pinched and female.
“Yes.”
“I’m calling from human resources and legal. We’d like you to come in today at twelve sharp.”
“What’s this regarding?”
“We are located on the sixth floor. Mr. Frederick Montague’s office. Twelve sharp. Please don’t be tardy.”