He had to go himself.
His car was in a twenty-four-hour lot on Seventieth Street. The gate was closed. Myron rang the bell. The attendant grudgingly pressed the button and the gate ascended.
Myron was not a big-car guy, and thus he still drove a Ford Taurus, which he dubbed the “Chick Magnet.” A car got him from point A to point B. Period. More important to him than horsepower and V6 was having radio controls on the steering wheel, so he could constantly flip stations.
He pressed Aimee’s number on the cell phone. She answered in a small voice.
“Hello?”
“I’m on my way.”
Aimee did not reply.
“Why don’t you stay on the line?” he said. “Just so I know you’re okay.”
“My battery is almost dead. I want to save the power.”
“I should be there in ten, fifteen minutes tops,” Myron said.
“From Livingston?”
“I was staying in the city.”
“Oh, that’s good. See you soon.”
She disconnected the call. Myron checked the car clock: 2:30 a.m. Aimee’s parents must be worried sick. He hoped that she’d already called Claire and Erik. He was tempted to place the call himself, but no, that wasn’t part of how this worked. When she got in the car, he’d encourage her to do it.
Aimee’s location, he’d been surprised to hear, was midtown Manhattan. She told him that she’d wait on Fifth Avenue by Fifty-fourth. That was pretty much Rockefeller Center. What was strange about that, about an eighteen-year-old girl in the Big Apple imbibing in that area, was that midtown was dead at night. During the week, this place hustled with enterprise. On weekend days, you had the tourist trade. But on a Saturday night, there were few people on the street. New York might be the city that never sleeps, but as he hit Fifth Avenue in the upper Fifties, midtown was taking a serious nap.
He got caught at a traffic light on Fifth Avenue at Fifty-second Street. The door handle jangled, and then Aimee opened the door and slipped into the back.
“Thank you,” she said.
“You okay?”
From behind him a small voice said, “I’m fine.”
“I’m not a chauffeur, Aimee. Sit up front.”
She hesitated, but she did as he asked. When she closed the passenger door, Myron turned to face her. Aimee stared straight out the front window. Like most teens, she’d splattered on too much makeup. The young don’t need makeup, especially that much. Her eyes were red and raccoon-like. She was dressed in something teenage-tight, like a thin wrapping of gauze, the kind of thing that, even if you had the figure, you couldn’t carry past the age of maybe twenty-three.
She looked so much like her mother had at that age.
“The light’s green,” Aimee said.
He started driving. “What happened?”
“Some people were drinking too much. I didn’t want to drive with them.”
“Where?”
“Where what?”
Again Myron knew that midtown was not a young-people hot spot. Most hung out in bars on the Upper East Side or maybe down in the Village. “Where were you drinking?”
“Is that important?”
“I’d like to know.”
Aimee finally turned toward him. Her eyes were wet. “You promised.”
He kept driving.
“You promised you wouldn’t ask any questions, remember?”
“I just want to make sure you’re all right.”
“I am.”
Myron made a right, cutting across town. “I’ll take you home then.”
“No.”
He waited.
“I’m staying with a friend.”
“Where?”
“She lives in Ridgewood.”
He glanced at her, brought his eyes back to the road. “In Bergen County?”
“Yes.”
“I’d rather take you home.”
“My parents know I’m staying at Stacy’s.”
“Maybe you should call them.”
“And say what?”
“That you’re okay.”
“Myron, they think I’m out with my friends. Calling them would only make them worry.”
She had a point, but Myron didn’t like it. His gas light went on. He’d need to fill up. He headed up the West Side Highway and over the George Washington Bridge. He stopped at the first gas station on Route 4. New Jersey was one of only two states that did not allow you to pump your own gas. The attendant, wearing a turban and engrossed in a Nicholas Sparks novel, was not thrilled to see him.
“Ten dollars’ worth,” Myron told him.
He left them alone. Aimee started sniffling.
“You don’t look drunk,” Myron began.
“I didn’t say I was. It was the guy who was driving.”
“But you do look,” he continued, “like you’ve been crying.”
She did that teen thing that might have been a shrug.
“Your friend Stacy. Where is she now?”
“At her house.”
“She didn’t go into the city with you?”
Aimee shook her head and turned away.
“Aimee?”
Her voice was soft. “I thought I could trust you.”
“You can.”
She shook her head again. Then she reached for the door and pulled the handle. She started to get out. Myron reached for her. He grabbed her left wrist a little harder than he meant to.
“Hey,” she said.
“Aimee . . .”
She tried to pull away. Myron kept a grip on the wrist.
“You’re going to call my parents.”
“I just need to know you’re okay.”
She pulled at his fingers, trying to get free. Myron felt her nails on his knuckles.
“Let go of me!”
He did. She jumped out of the car. Myron started after her, but he was still wearing his seat belt. The shoulder harness snapped him back. He unbuckled and got out. Aimee was stumbling up the highway with her arms crossed defiantly.
He jogged up to her. “Please get back in the car.”
“No.”
“I’ll drive you, okay?”
“Just leave me alone.”
She stormed off. Cars whizzed by. Some honked at her. Myron followed.
“Where are you going?”
“I made a mistake. I should have never called you.”
“Aimee, just get back in the car. It’s not safe out here.”
“You’re going to tell my parents.”
“I won’t. I promise.”